Chapter Twelve
At twelve fifteen, Greta packed up the same battered picnic basket they’d used the night before with basically the same meal—sandwiches, chips, cherry tomatoes, a couple of peaches, and two sodas. Instead of rose geranium cake (the rest of which had completely disappeared by the time they got back to Casa Dubrovnik), she included a couple of peanut butter cookies she’d baked that morning.
Alice raised an eyebrow, Nadia gave her a smile, and Hyacinth avoided her gaze just as she had ever since the Carolina incident. Greta really hoped she could get the child to talk about the whole turtle problem, but she wasn’t ready to try it now. She made sure the Dubrovniks had enough soup and sandwiches for their own lunch and headed for her car.
She hadn’t really spoken to Hank since they’d parted the night before. He’d asked her to come to his room for a beer, and part of her had really wanted to do just that. But the more sane part reminded her that she had to get up early to make the muffins and coffee for the general store. Plus, of course, she felt a little weird about going into his room cold-bloodedly as it were. It was one thing to be overcome with passion on the shore of a lake in the moonlight. It was quite another thing to decide to go to Hank’s room because the sex had been really good and she wanted to try for a rematch.
Although, of course, that had been absolutely true.
Now she drove carefully down the bumpy gravel road to the field where Hank’s truck was parked under a maple. There was another car there too for once, an ancient Toyota with a rusted fender and bald tires. Greta wondered if it had actually been parked there deliberately or if the driver had simply abandoned it where it had finally reached the end of its lifetime.
She hoisted the picnic basket out of the backseat and headed up the path with the Danger signs. At least now she knew they didn’t apply to her.
She stepped into the clearing and stopped abruptly. A strange man was climbing up the ladder out of the excavation, carrying a sack of rocks over his shoulder.
For one insane moment, she thought he might be some kind of criminal. A serial killer. A rock thief. A tomb robber, although that made no sense at all since Hank’s hole wasn’t a tomb, or at least she didn’t think it was.
He looked to be about medium height, although it was hard to tell since he was still partly in the hole. He wore a tank top and jeans, with a blue bandanna wrapped around his head. After a moment he turned and saw her, his forehead furrowing. “Hello?”
“Where’s Professor Mitchell?” she blurted.
The man stepped out of the hole and lowered the rocks to the ground. Once she got a good look at him, she revised her estimate downward—more like a boy than a man. Long, stringy blond hair hung below the edge of the bandanna, and he had a sprinkling of acne across the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Mitchell?” he called. “Somebody here to see you.”
Hank’s head popped up at the end of the excavation. Fortunately for her ego, he broke into a grin as soon as he saw her. “Hey, Greta. What’s up?”
“I brought you some lunch.” She lifted the picnic basket.
“Great. Hang on a minute.” He disappeared into the excavation again, then climbed up the ladder much more quickly than the boy had. But then he didn’t have a sack of rocks on his shoulder.
The boy stared longingly at the basket. “Lunch break?”
Hank glanced at him. “Give it another twenty minutes.”
“Oh.” The boy’s expression turned tragic.
Hank rolled his eyes. “Meet my missing intern, Marty Petersen. Marty, this is Greta Brewster. And no, the lunch she has in that basket isn’t for you.”
Marty looked even more tragic. “Figures.”
“Marty here apparently landed in the college infirmary without bothering to tell anyone. He just got out yesterday, right, Marty?”
The boy nodded morosely. “Flu. Flat on my back for a week. Still don’t have all my strength back.” He cast another longing look toward the picnic basket.
“You’ll have to remember to bring your lunch with you tomorrow, then,” Hank said crisply. “Bring up the rest of those rocks and then you can take a break.”
Marty headed back down the ladder with considerably more energy.
“You’re mean,” Greta murmured, hiding her grin.
Hank made a sound that was remarkably close to a growl. “He deserves it. Little jerk didn’t tell his adviser where he was and he didn’t even try to send me a message. Says he was too sick. I’m thinking he was enjoying being waited on hand and foot by the infirmary staff. He’s got a lot of digging to do to make up for it.”
He headed toward the battered table at the end of the clearing, pushing aside enough rocks to make room for the picnic basket. “What have we got here?”
“Pretty much the same thing we had last night, unfortunately.”
“What we had last night was great.” He glanced her way, smiling, and she suddenly had a quick vision of just what last night had been like. Her cheeks promptly heated to something that was probably close to brick red.
“Sit down.” He waved toward the camp chairs at the side. “Let me clean up a little bit, and then we can eat.” He poured water from the cooler on his hands, rubbing them on a bar of soap and scrubbing with a rag from the table.
“When did you find out you still had an intern?”
“When he showed up this morning.” He opened the basket, handing her a sandwich, then grabbing one for himself before he sat down on a camp chair. “If I didn’t need him so badly, I’d tell him to forget it. But I need somebody for scut work if I’m going to get anything done by the end of the summer.”
He smiled up at her again, the sunlight through the leaves still catching glints of gold in his hair, his teeth white against his tanned skin. “How are you? I missed seeing you this morning.”
She felt suddenly shy, staring down at her sandwich. “You were gone before I got up, and I got up really early.”
He shrugged. “Should have joined me for a nightcap. I might have stayed in bed all morning.” His teeth flashed again.
She could feel her cheeks flaming. “At least I didn’t keep you from meeting Marty.”
His smile turned wry. “Yeah. That would have been a tragedy. What are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight?” She frowned. “Cooking dinner. I haven’t thought much beyond that.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“You mean tonight?” Which was an incredibly dumb thing to say, of course. When else could he be thinking of?
Apparently, he thought so too. The grin was back. “Yes, tonight.”
“Like I said, I have to cook dinner.”
“So? Make dinner for the Dubrovniks and then let’s go out.”
She did a quick mental review of what she’d planned—Asian shrimp salad with spring rolls. All of which could be made in advance and left in the refrigerator, along with the gratin from last night if they wanted something hot. “Okay. Where shall we go?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s an inn in Promise Harbor.”
“No,” she blurted, then shrugged when he narrowed his eyes in surprise. “The food’s not very good.” Plus the last time she’d been there she’d been wearing a hoopskirt and carrying a bridal bouquet. Not exactly a moment to revisit.
“Okay, well, there’s a place on the edge of town. Seafood, I guess. Would that be all right?”
“Barney’s Chowder House?” She shrugged again. “Yeah, sure. They’ve got good diner food.”
“Okay then.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “I’ll see if I can get Marty moving enough to finish up around five or so.”
Greta glanced down at her T-shirt and shorts. There might be time to go into Merton and buy something more suitable. Somehow she didn’t think the braless look would go over big at Barney’s. Although now that she thought about it, Hank probably wouldn’t mind.
He finished the last bite of his sandwich and smiled again, licking mustard from his fingers. “Very nice. Delicious, in fact. Thank you. I guess I’ll give my peanut butter and jelly to Marty, assuming I don’t want to starve him.”
“Dr. Mitchell?” Marty called from the hole. “I think you need to see this.”
Hank rolled his eyes again. “He’s been doing that all morning. So far, he hasn’t shown me a damn thing I haven’t seen twenty times already.”
“Maybe I’ll get going,” Greta said quickly. “I’ve got a few things to take care of before we go out. Do you want me to leave the basket?”
“What’s in it?”
“Chips, soda, cherry tomatoes, and cookies.”
“Cookies?” His eyes grew wide. “Homemade? What kind?”
“Of course homemade. Peanut butter.”
He gave her a slow grin. “Leave the basket, sweetheart. I can always use a cookie to bribe Marty into getting something done. Assuming there’s enough for me too.”
“There’s enough. I packed extra. I thought you might like an afternoon snack.”
Hank’s eyes took on a faint gleam. “Woman, you are worth your weight in whatever cooks regard as most valuable—saffron? Anyway, whatever it is, you deserve it.” He leaned over quickly and brushed his lips across hers. “Thanks.”
Her heart rate kicked up a notch. “You’re welcome. Now I’ve got to go. Give Marty a cookie for me.”
“Right,” he muttered. “Only if he doesn’t piss me off too much. Of course, I’ve always got tonight to improve my mood.” He gave her a last grin before he headed back toward the excavation.
She took a quick breath. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Oh yes, definitely time to go to Merton for some new clothes.
Normally, the drawbacks of the showers at Casa Dubrovik didn’t bother Hank too much. All he really asked was that the water be clean enough to rinse off dirt and sweat, of which he usually had quite a bit. Now he found himself simmering with exasperation at the low flow trickling from the showerhead and the distinct lack of heat. He had a feeling his hair was going to be standing on end, particularly since he had no way to dry it except with one of Alice’s limp towels.
But, of course, those towels had never bothered him before. Greta Brewster was having one hell of an effect on his routine and his general satisfaction with life. Not that he minded all that much.
He checked his closet, settling on a clean pair of jeans and one of the Hawaiian shirts he wore when he wanted something besides a T-shirt. This one had some kind of vaguely tropical white flowers against a turquoise background. Spiffy.
It was a little weird going out with somebody who lived in a room across the hall. He wasn’t sure whether he should knock on her door or wait for her at the foot of the stairs. He’d peeked across the hall once before he’d changed his clothes, but it looked like she wasn’t there. Well, that eliminated option one anyway. He headed downstairs.
Alice stood waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs with her perpetual sardonic smile. “Going out?”
He nodded. “Taking Greta to Promise Harbor.”
“Don’t bring her back too late. She’s got muffins to bake for the store tomorrow.”
Yes, Mom. “She’ll know when she needs to be back so that she can get up in time.”
“Maybe.” Alice shrugged. “You know this is all Nadia’s idea, right?”
Hank gritted his teeth. “Believe it or not, Alice, Nadia’s plans have very little effect on my social life.”
“You just keep telling yourself that.” She gave him another grim smile.
The door to the kitchen swished open behind them, and Hank turned to see Greta wiping her hands on a towel as she turned toward Alice. “Your dinner’s in the refrigerator—it’s salad and spring rolls. No heating required. But there’s a potato gratin in there too if you want something hot. In that case, put it in the oven at three seventy-five for forty-five minutes or so. Then just set the table and serve.” She paused when Alice narrowed her eyes. “Or have Nadia put it in the oven while Hyacinth sets the table. What I’m trying to say is you’re all ready to go here.”
Hank worked on controlling his slightly elevated pulse rate. Greta was wearing a short-sleeved, emerald-green sweater along with slacks in a lighter shade. The color somehow made her brownish hair glow red, while the slacks hugged her hips and thighs in a way that gave him a very vivid flashback to the blanket they’d shared under the full moon. He wasn’t sure about the bra situation yet, but right now it looked like she’d gone without again.
He wondered if it was too late to suggest another picnic.
Greta flashed him a quick smile, turning to toss the towel on the desk. “Ready?”
Oh my god, yes! “Sure.” He reached for her hand, ignoring the annoying way Alice’s lips had quirked up. On closer inspection, Greta was wearing a bra, but at least it looked easier to dispose of than the one she’d had on last night.
The drive to Promise Harbor was surprisingly quiet. He had the feeling Greta was thinking about something else. “You’re from Promise Harbor, right?”
She gave him a quick smile. “Right.”
“Does your family still live here?”
She nodded. “My mom and brother do.” She paused for a moment, seeming to consider something. “Want to see the house where I grew up?”
“Sure.”
She directed him through a series of neighborhoods—nice midsized houses, lots of elm trees. “There it is,” she said, leaning forward quickly.
The white clapboard house sat on a large lot with its own set of spreading elms. “Nice. Your mother still lives there?”
She nodded, squinting. “I don’t see her car. Looks like nobody’s home.”
He gave her level look. “Would you have gone inside if she had been here?”
Greta shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“You’re not ready to talk yet?”
“My week’s not over yet,” she said flatly.
He nodded slowly. “So what happens when it is over? You come back here to Promise Harbor?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.” She shrugged again. “I’m not making any decisions at the moment. I’ll figure it out when the time comes. Meanwhile, why don’t we head over to Barney’s for some chowder?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Ten minutes later, he pulled in to the parking lot next to what looked like a classic silver-sided diner with a red brick addition at the far end. Judging from the number of cars in the lot, the addition was justified. “Popular place.”
“Yeah. There’s not a whole lot going on in the harbor in terms of entertainment. Barney’s sort of fills the gap.” She gave him a quick smile. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
He took her hand, leading her toward the building. “Do you know people who work here?”
“Maybe.” She sighed. “I’m not exactly looking for old acquaintances right now. I’ll probably keep my head down.”
He paused, glancing at her tight smile. “We don’t have to do this, you know. We could go back on the highway and see if we can find an Applebee’s or something.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s a good place to eat. And I’m a big girl.”
His lips spread in an involuntary grin. “Yeah. Thank the good lord.” He drew her to the door while she was still laughing.
Inside, the place was packed. The harried hostess grabbed a couple of menus and led them down a narrow aisle to a booth tucked beside one of the windows. “This okay?”
“Great.” He slid in one side, watching Greta slide in opposite him. Given his choice he’d have preferred to have her sit alongside him, but he’d take what he could get.
“What’s good here?” He picked up the vinyl-covered menu.
She shrugged. “Clam chowder and fried clams are the two big things. The lobster roll’s respectable. My brother likes the hickory burger.”
“Are we likely to run into him?” Hank worked on keeping his voice neutral. In reality, he was beginning to be very curious about her family. The family she was apparently trying to avoid at the moment.
She shrugged again. “Not likely. He took off after the wedding that didn’t happen. I’m not sure where he is right now.”
He nodded. “Because your phone is dying and you’re keeping it turned off.”
“That’s right.” She narrowed her eyes.
“You know, I’ve got a universal charger. I’d be glad to lend it to you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks a bunch. That would really simplify my life.”
A waitress stepped to the their table. For a moment she frowned at Greta, as if she were trying to remember her. Then she seemed to shrug it off. “What’ll you folks have tonight?”
“Fried clams,” Hank said. “And the largest, coldest beer you’ve got.”
Greta gave him a tight smile. “That sounds great to me.”
He deliberately moved away from the topic of Greta and her hometown during dinner. He wanted her real smile back, if only until he finished his order of fried clams.
“Good,” he muttered through a mouthful. “Tasty.”
She frowned, moving a fried clam with her index finger. “Not bad. A little greasy. Either the oil needs to be hotter or the clams need to be warmer when they cook. My guess is they dump them in straight from the freezer. Which, of course, is the way most people cook them. I mean, it’s not like Barney’s is doing anything wrong. And when I was a teenager I ate a ton of these with no complaints at all.”
“Right.” He took a swallow of beer. Very good, very cold. There was even frost on the glass. “Can you enjoy eating in a restaurant anymore, or do you always find yourself doing a critique?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. Yeah, I can turn this kind of thing off sometimes. And for the record, I really do like Barney’s clams. It’s just that they’re better in my memory than they are on the plate.”
“That’s the way with a lot of food, I guess. Hot dogs were a hell of a lot better when I was a kid.”
“And we liked it that way,” she said in a little old man voice. “Where are you from, Doc?”
“Omaha. Haven’t been back in a while, though. My folks moved to Texas when the winters started getting to them.”
“How did you end up here?”
“I got a job. In archaeology, you don’t worry much about where the job is. You know you won’t spend much time there, unless it’s in someplace like New Mexico.”
“But now you’re digging here in New England.”
“I lucked out. Most of the big digs in the area are in historic sites, and the guys who have the grants aren’t interested in sharing.” He gave her a slightly sour grin, shoveling in a few more clams.
“Well…” she began.
“Greta?”
The voice came from a few feet away. Hank turned to see a rather plump blonde working her way down the narrow aisle toward their table.
Greta sighed. “Oh, swell.”
“Greta. It is you.” The blonde gave her a triumphant smile, as if she’d just proved her case.
Greta’s smile was more like a twitch of the lips. “Hi, Bernice. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m just fine.” The blonde turned her gaze on Hank, skewering him with a suspiciously bright-eyed glance. “Who’s this?”
Greta looked like she was gritting her teeth. “This is my friend Hank Mitchell. Hank, this is Bernice Cabot.” He noticed she didn’t describe Bernice as her friend, but maybe that wasn’t significant.
Hank nodded in Bernice’s direction. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Her greenish-hazel eyes looked both avid and slightly suspicious, like she wanted to see his ID. If so, she was destined for disappointment. “Are you from Boston?”
Hank shook his head. “Nope.”
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
Bernice turned back to Greta. “Where did you go after the wedding? Your mother was looking for you. Have you heard anything from Josh? Did he go after Allie? What about Gavin?”
“I haven’t heard anything from Josh or Allie,” Greta said quietly. “I don’t know what they’re doing. I took off for a few days.”
If she was hoping that statement would bring the conversation to a close, she’d underestimated Bernice’s persistence. “So are you home now?”
Greta’s smile looked transparently annoyed. “I’m around.”
“Well good, because once Josh and Allie come back, there’s going to be fireworks. Your mom’s going to need your help. Unless you need to get back to your husband in Boston?” That bright-eyed look was back again.
“Mom can handle stuff like this better than I can.” Greta shrugged, her smile sliding into something that looked more like a grimace.
Bernice’s own smile suddenly seemed annoyingly self-righteous. “Even so, you should be there to help. It’s your responsibility, Greta.”
Greta gave her a steely-eyed look but said nothing.
Bernice’s ample bulk had effectively blocked the passage, making it almost impossible for the waitresses to get by. “Bernice,” one of them snapped. “Move. You’re in the way.”
Bernice snugged herself more tightly against the table, which only moved her rear end into a more prominent position. “You can scrunch by.”
The waitress narrowed her eyes, giving Bernice a death-ray stare. “Only if I lose fifty pounds. I’m serious, Bernice. You have to move.”
“Well, there goes her tip,” Bernice muttered. But she turned back toward the front of the restaurant. “I guess I’ll see you later. Call me.”
“Sure.” Greta gave her another tight smile. “In about a hundred years,” she murmured as Bernice moved away.
“Friend?” Hank asked.
“Acquaintance.”
“Want to get out of here before you meet anybody else?”
Greta gave him a thin smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He followed her toward the cash register at the end of the counter. She seemed to be keeping her gaze fixed on the door deliberately, as if she really didn’t want to see anybody else she knew. Fortunately, no one else seemed interested in them. He paused at the cashier to pay the check, making one last survey of the restaurant. Bernice was tucked back in her table at the side, casting furtive glances in his and Greta’s direction while she muttered to her dinner companions. He glanced back toward Greta.
Only to have his gaze caught by a guy sitting by himself at the far end of the counter. Dark hair. Medium height. Clothes that looked expensive, although Hank had no way of knowing, really. He bought his own stuff off the rack with as little thought as he could manage. Judging by his expression, the guy had developed an instant hatred for him, although Hank wasn’t sure why. Maybe he objected to Hank’s choice of shirt.
Oh well. He pushed his money toward the cashier, turning to follow Greta out the door. But he felt as if someone’s gaze was burning into the middle of his back until they climbed into the truck.