"Hot and humid."
An unexpected flash of memory, Irma serving him fried apricot pies on a hot, still summer night when he'd refused to go home ever again. Thirteen years old and he'd had enough. He'd ended up walking home in a thunderstorm, bringing his mother one of Irma's pies, because Irma had taught him—had almost made him believe—that kindness was its own reward. His mother had cried, sobbing over her own inadequacies and dashed dreams.
"I have a place on the Cumberland, a couple of dogs." With one ringer, he flicked rainwater off the end of Piper's nose, then skimmed along her cheek to her dripping hair. He kissed her lightly, softly, tasting the cool rain on her, on himself. "You'd better get inside before you get struck by lightning."
"Too late," she said under her breath, and kissed him hard, fiercely, before darting off into her house.
Reeling, Clate climbed back into his car. He could pour water out of his shoes. The air-conditioning gave him a much-needed chill. When he arrived home, the storm had abated, the rain already dying down to sprinkles, bringing out the smell of roses, honeysuckle, mint, wisteria, grass, pine pitch, seawater. The mix of scents swirled around him as he walked out back and stared out at the bay, choking back the sudden sense of isolation, of strangeness. He didn't belong here any more than he belonged anywhere else. With sheer will power and brute force, maybe he could carve out a place for himself, as he had in Nashville, when he'd arrived with nothing but a tent and a determination that nothing, nothing, would stop him.
No, Cape Cod wasn't home. He couldn't squash the urge to head out to the airport, climb in his plane, and get the hell off this elbow of shifting sand and knotted scrub trees and green-eyed, chestnut-haired women who made his blood boil. Put up a For Sale sign on his house and land. Let Hannah Frye conjure up some other poor bastard for her niece to love. Someone who did belong here. Someone who could love her in the way she deserved to be loved, who believed in family and community the way she believed in them.
"Mr. Jackson?"
He started, whipping around at Tuck O'Rourke. "Tuck. I didn't hear you."
"Sorry."
"No, it's okay. I was lost in thought." He got control of himself; he wasn't going anywhere, not today. "And call me Clate, will you?"
"Sure." Tuck scratched the back of his neck. He smelled like dirt and sweat, no problem for Clate, whose first jobs had been working with his hands. He had the scars to prove it—and to prove he'd learned the hard way to control his temper. Tuck cleared his throat. "I worked out here this morning, before the rain. You weren't around. Figured I should stop back and show you what I found."
He led Clate over to Hannah Frye's charming little garden of poisonous and medicinal plants and pointed to an area that looked like every other area. Clate saw no difference.
"That wasn't there last time I was here," Tuck said. "You do it?"
Upon closer inspection, Clate saw that about a dozen of the bushy plants had been cut back, almost to their roots. He glanced at their markers. Monkshood, foxglove, soapwort. The extravagant skull and crossbones on their markers indicated that misused, they could be deadly.
"No," Clate said. "I have no use for any of these plants, but I didn't bother cutting them down."
O'Rourke screwed up his face. "Wasn't animals. Piper?"
"It's possible."
"You know..." He breathed in, then out again, before continuing. "I'm not accusing anybody of anything, but I hope to hell Mrs. Frye didn't cut these plants or put Piper up to doing it."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything. I'd just hate to see somebody end up poisoned."
Clate eased back, distanced himself from images of Hannah and her niece; he needed objectivity. "Be careful of what you're saying, Tuck. Giving a town selectman diarrhea's one thing—"
"I know, I know." Tuck flushed, rubbed his beard awkwardly. "I've got no business saying any of this without proof, and I'm not making any accusations. I hope I'm way off base. But Mrs. Frye's been acting weird lately, you know?"
"No, frankly, I don't. I've only recently met the woman. What is she normally like?"
He shrugged his big, beefy shoulders. "She's always been one to speak her mind, that's for sure. My father worked for Mr. Frye before he and Hannah got married, maybe a few months after. I'd come out with him sometimes, and she'd be out here fussing with the flower gardens. She wasn't in to herbs in those days. She really settled in here. Didn't take long for her to feel at home."
"She'd lived here for a time as a child, didn't she?"
"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. The Fryes were taking care of her when her parents died in that shipwreck. Hell, that must have been awful. Maybe that's why she's getting goofy now, who knows? I mean, all that tragedy so young."