Piper smiled. "Let's just say Sally has very definite likes and dislikes."
Clate slowed as he drove through the village center, where dappled sunlight fell on the town green and flowers glinted in boxes on the porch of the Macintosh Inn. Very pretty. Easy to get caught up in the myth and the fantasy of Cape Cod. He glanced over at Piper. "You don't think Sally was hoping Hannah would change her mind or that she just didn't want to make a scene? You know, alienate townspeople while she and her husband were trying to get an inn up and running."
"Sally's not that labyrinthine in her thinking."
"Well, I'm getting off the track. As I said, I considered that the Fryes might get their noses out of joint. But I didn't consider your family."
She jumped in her seat, spun around at him. "My family?"
"Whoa, there. I'm not making any accusations. Your brothers have made it clear they don't like having such a prime piece of Frye's Cove real estate in the hands of an outsider."
"Only an outsider could afford her price," Piper said. "I think Hannah knew that going in."
"Part of her strategy to lure the man of your dreams here?"
"The man of my destiny." She shot him a dry, amused look. "I'm not sure my dreams had anything to do with it. But do go on."
Clate eased his car down toward the water, the winding, narrow, picturesque roads feeling more familiar to him. He noticed a sailboat out in the bay. If he came up here on a regular basis, he could learn to sail. "I just started wondering if your brothers had anything to gain—"
"You suspect my brothers?"
"I'm not willing to rule anyone out. That's the only point I'm making. I don't actually suspect anyone. Their visit made me realize that we need to maintain a certain amount of neutrality and objectivity—"
"You do," she said curtly. "I don't."
He bit off a sigh. He'd done a hellishly bad job of explaining himself.
"I suppose you haven't ruled me out, either?" she asked coolly. "I could be making the calls up. To get attention, to get revenge for my aunt selling out, to get you onto the hot seat. I could come up with a dozen wild reasons that make about as much sense as suspecting my brothers."
"That wasn't my point." His teeth were clenched. The woman damn well knew that wasn't his point. "I'm just trying to encourage you to keep your eyes open and to withhold judgment."
"Not of my brothers. I refuse."
"All right, then, not of your brothers. Hell. But of everyone else, okay?"
She remained rigid, arms folded across her chest. "I would hate to be so cynical that I couldn't trust anyone."
"Yes," he said, glancing over at her as he turned into her driveway, "you would."
* * *
Chapter 14
All afternoon Clate could feel Piper's presence on the other side of the hedge. He imagined her picking vegetables and herbs, gathering wildflowers, working at her out-of-date computer in her office, snipping fabric in her studio with her ancient pinking shears. Irma Bryar would have liked and understood his Cape Cod neighbor and her simple ways. A good garden, a solid house, good friends. "They're all I need, Clayton. I'm a happy woman."
He remembered his yearning to make his mother happy. The flowers, the chores, the times he'd bring her coffee and toast and offer to do anything, anything, if only she would be happy. All thrown into the abyss. Nothing he could do. Nothing she could do. Happiness, contentment, were beyond her.
Not so with Piper. He thought of her delight at seeing the roseate tern, at picking strawberries in her little garden. Her happiness might mean everything to whoever loved her, but she would never make it their responsibility, their burden.
Tuck stopped over, and together he and Clate reseeded the areas where he and Piper had dug for treasure. Tuck asked for no explanation. Not wanting to lie to a man he intended to entrust with his property while he was in Tennessee, Clate offered none. As far as O'Rourke was concerned, the entire lawn needed reseeding and fertilizing. Never mind that it was lusher and greener than most in Frye's Cove, certainly than Piper's; she was into naturalizing.
"You know," Tuck said, leading up to something. He peeled off his Red Sox cap and scratched his sweaty head. "I've been thinking about those herbs we found cut down, then Hannah turning up sick."
"The doctors didn't find anything wrong with her."
"Yeah, exactly."
Clate narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything. I'm just wondering if she—I don't know, if she got in to something, I guess, and made herself sick. I had a sheep once that nearly died of eating moldy hay."
"You're saying Hannah could have poisoned herself."