She shifted the conversation to Piper's new wardrobe, which she made her go out to the car and fetch to show her. She asked about her plans for fixing her house and gave her advice on what decoctions and infusions she should be adding to her diet while under such stress. "And Clate Jackson," Hannah said as Piper started toward the sliding-glass doors. "He's the one, isn't he?"
Piper imagined his body in hers last night, the night so dark she couldn't even see his face, yet everything about him had seemed so clear, so distinct in her mind. And yet, a part of him remained elusive. "Hannah, I'm just not sure—" She hesitated, searching for the right words, the focus of her thoughts. With a pang of regret, she knew what she needed to say, to hear herself say. "He may be the one, but I'm not sure that Clate and I were meant to find each other. Not in this lifetime." It was the kind of talk her aunt would understand.
Hannah nodded in understanding, if not agreement. "You'll know soon."
"You already know, don't you?"
"Yes."
When Piper arrived back at her house, no one was around. The insurance adjuster, her brothers, her father, concerned friends, and students had all been and gone, and she was alone, if not for long. She'd promised to meet Clate next door and have dinner with him. Andrew and Benjamin would show up later to put plastic over her roof for protection when it rained. So much work had to be done, and meanwhile, her life was in limbo.
Fatigue had worked its way into every muscle of her body, into her brain. The aftereffects of yesterday. The expected low after such an adrenaline surge. Yet it was more. She could feel it somehow.
A father he hadn't seen in eighteen years, a brother and a sister he had never seen.
She didn't understand. She couldn't. If his father was sober now and was trying to make amends, why not at least see him? He hadn't accepted his past. That much was obvious to her. But her parents hadn't been self-destructive, abusive alcoholics. Although she'd lost her mother at two, she'd always been surrounded with love and support. Sometimes she felt confined and claustrophobic, but that was nothing compared to what Clate had endured.
Then there was the business in Tennessee, his high-profile life there, his fancy hotel, his employees, his house on the river with the tall fence and the big dogs. She'd never met his dogs. How could she say she was in love with a man when she'd never met his dogs?
She didn't know him. He was an illusion. She'd gotten caught up in Hannah's fantasy and had fallen in love with the man she'd wanted Clate Jackson to be, not the man he was.
But she had fallen in love with him. Suddenly there was no question of that.
A truck came down the road, and Andrew pulled over, his tires spitting gravel and sand. He rolled down his window. "Pondering your losses, kid?"
She squinted at him. "I guess. It all feels worse today."
"Bound to." His expression was serious; he hadn't switched off his truck engine. "Piper, I don't know if it's my place to tell you this, but I thought about it, and I figured, hell, if it was me, I'd want you to tell me. But I'll give you the option. You want me to talk or you want me to shut up and you go on over and ask Clate yourself?"
"Ask Clate what?"
"About his real plans for his property."
Piper frowned. "You've heard something," she said.
"A letter from a research historian here in town. I found it on my windshield when I finished work." He handed over a neatly folded, heavy sheet of stationery. "Apparently this guy was hired by Clate's company to research the history of the Frye house. The original house was built in the center of town—"
"That's not news."
"It is to Jackson and company. If he knows the Frye house was moved here back in the 1880s, he can use that to justify having it moved again and push forward his plans to develop the land."
"Who left you the letter?"
"I don't know. Could be the research historian, only he didn't want to let it be known he was a snitch. Could also be this guy who's been making the calls, hoping to stir up more trouble. I'm not accusing Jackson of anything, Piper. He could have a loose cannon employee on his hands, or this could be a hoax, part of this scheme to harass you to distraction." He shifted his truck into gear. "Ask him."
"I did ask him, and he said he had no plans to develop his land here."
"He wouldn't lie to you, would he?"
"I don't think so."
"Me, neither."
She tried to smile, but couldn't. "Thanks."
"Jesus, Piper, don't thank me. I already feel like a crawling piece of—well, never mind. You need anything?"
She shook her head, holding the offending letter, still folded, between her thumb and forefinger, as if it might suddenly ignite in her hand.
"Don't stay out here too long by yourself. Tuck won't dare make a move in this direction, but if he's the wrong guy—"
"I'm on my way over to Clate's now."
"I'll be back in an hour or so with Benjamin to see about your roof."