The man she’d overheard in Boston on Friday—Julius Hartley, the private investigator tailing Noah—was standing at the checkout counter, quizzing Greg Hughes, the teenage son of the owners.
Hartley had on a dark blue shirt, light khakis and light canvas shoes, as if he were about to step out onto a golf course.
He set a large coffee-to-go on the scarred wood counter. “Sleepy Hollow here has one bed-and-breakfast,” he said. “I stopped by and guess what? The owners are in Montreal for the week. Doesn’t New England have short summers? How can you run a bed-and-breakfast if you disappear for one whole week in August?”
“It’s kind of a hobby for them,” Greg said from behind the register. He was an avid reader of science fiction and a recent high school graduate, on his way to Bowdoin College in Maine. “They’re professors at UMASS. They go to Montreal this time every year.”
“Got it. I understand a new place has just opened up on some back road.”
“Carriage Hill,” Greg said, taking Hartley’s money. “It’s not really a bed-and-breakfast. It caters to events. Weddings, showers. You know. Anyway, the owner’s out of town right now, too.”
“I see. Well, luckily I’m not staying. I just need directions to Elly O’Dunn’s place. I understand she’s selling some of her goats.”
Phoebe tensed. How did he know about her mother? What did he want with her?
“You’re interested in buying goats?” Greg asked, skeptical.
“Sure, why not? What’s the O’Dunn farm like?”
“Simple. A few acres, a couple of sheds, a house that has plumbing and electricity but not much else.”
“A stove?”
“Yeah, a stove. I guess.”
“You guess?”
“You haven’t met Mrs. O’Dunn yet, have you?”
“No, I have not,” Hartley said. “There are restaurants in town?”
“One right now. Smith’s. You can walk to it from here. There are more within easy driving distance. We have a good range of take-out food here at the store.”
“Good to know,” Hartley said without enthusiasm.
He left with his coffee, and Phoebe darted out of the store, giving Greg a quick wave. When she reached the sidewalk, Noah’s mystery private investigator/stalker had already crossed the street to the common and was making his way into the shade of a trio of sugar maples. He sat on a bench. He didn’t look to be in a hurry.
Remembering that he didn’t know she’d overheard him or even had been in Boston, Phoebe took a breath and slowed down, crossing the street as she would if she had done what she’d planned to do—buy a bottle of wine to go with a quiet dinner at home. No meetings, no family, no friends, no goings-on.
No Noah.
She’d dreamed about him. She didn’t know what that meant but she’d awakened in a sweat and went out to the garden at dawn, calming herself by dead-heading her flowers. Noah Kendrick was off-limits. They’d gotten caught up in the drama of their night together, the thunderstorm, the moment of recognition that their identities were no longer secret.
His life was in San Diego. Hers was in Knights Bridge.
He was a billionaire with a fancy for Hollywood starlets, and she was a small-town librarian who loved her job and was devoted to her family. No Hollywood rakes for her. No men at all, lately.
And Noah was Dylan McCaffrey’s and now Olivia Frost’s friend. Phoebe was, too, and she wasn’t about to complicate their lives by getting involved with him.
Which was getting way ahead of herself but it’d been an intense dream.
She walked across the lawn, past the Civil War monument, her normal route back to the library, but instead of continuing to the opposite street, she paused in front of Julius Hartley. She couldn’t let him drive out to her mother’s place on the pretense of buying goats from her. That wasn’t going to happen, Phoebe thought. It couldn’t happen, and she wasn’t waiting to get Noah out here to take care of it.
“Phoebe O’Dunn,” Hartley said, looking up at her from the bench. He took a sip of his coffee. “Town librarian and survivor of the Titanic. That was quite a dress the other night.” He sat back and grinned at her. “You can breathe, Phoebe. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She gave him what she hoped was a cool look. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been here in Sleepy Hollow for four hours. I know a lot about you and your little town.” He pointed with his coffee. “I even read the plaque on your Union soldier. It’s my job to find out things. I’m good at it.”
Phoebe plucked a maple leaf off a low-hanging branch. He’d said he’d find out who she was, and he had. “Your name’s Julius Hartley. You’re a private investigator from Los Angeles.”
“So you’ve been busy, too. Who told you? Noah Kendrick? Dylan McCaffrey? Loretta Wrentham?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She dropped the leaf into the grass. “I want you to leave my mother alone.”
“I can’t go look at her goats?”