The boat's engine throbbed as Grayson Bennett kept the
Hacker at a low speed and close to the lakeshore. The
antique, thirty-foot craft was his pride and joy, a relic
of the Great Gatsby era of lake life. Made of mahogany and
varnished to a shine so bright it could hurt your eyes,
the Bellitas was indeed a thing of beauty. And she was
wickedly fast. The long, thin design provided three
discreet seating areas, marked by contoured banquettes in
dark green leather. The massive engine, capable of
shooting the boat through the water at speeds of sixty
miles an hour, took up a good six feet of space in the
middle.
He would miss her when he put her up on blocks for the
winter, and the time for her yearly hibernation was coming
fast. He could feel it in the air.
Even though it was the middle of the day, September was
cool in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. To
take the edge off the chill, he was wearing a windbreaker
and his only passenger, aside from a big, very happy
golden retriever, had on a thick sweater.
Naturally, the dog had plenty of insulation.
Gray looked across the seat at the woman who stared at the
cliffs they were passing. Cassandra Cutler's thick red
hair was secured at her neck and her green eyes were
hidden behind sunglasses. The frames covered up the dark
circles of her exhaustion, too.
No doubt she saw little of the rocks and pine trees, he
thought. Life had to be an inconsequential blur for
someone who'd become a widow only six weeks ago.
"How're we doing?" he asked his old, dear friend. She
smiled slightly, a tense expression he knew she worked
at. "I'm glad you pestered me to get out of the city."
"Good."
"I can't imagine I'm enjoyable company, though," Cassandra
said.
"You're not here to perform."
Gray focused on the lake ahead as the silence was filled
with the sound of the boat's deep-throated engine and the
lapping of water against the wooden gunnels. Sunshine
glinted off the mahogany, flashed over the tops of the
gentle waves, brought out the vivid blue of the sky and
the dense green of the mountains. The air was so clear and
clean that when he breathed deep, the inside of his nose
hummed.
It was a perfect fall day. And he was about to shoot the
hell out of his quiet enjoyment.
When they'd left his estate's boathouse, he could have
taken them in any direction. To the south, where they
could have danced around a thicket of small islands.
Across to the west to see some of the other big stretches
of property.
But no, he'd chosen the north where sooner or later the
old Moorehouse mansion would appear. White Caps was a big
white birthday cake of a house, perched on a three-acre
bluff. Once the family's lavish private home, it had been
turned into a bed-and-breakfast by them when their money
had run out.
But he wasn't going to look at the property.
When the bluff appeared in the distance, his eyes
narrowed. The long rolling lawn, which drifted from White
Caps' porches to the shore, was a dazzling green. Oaks and
maples framed the house, already turning colors from the
frosts that came at night.
He couldn't see anyone and he looked harder, even as he
started to turn the boat around.
Cassandra didn't need to get anywhere near the Moorehouse
place. Her husband's sailing partner, who'd survived the
yachting accident, was recovering there with his family.
Gray wasn't sure she knew that or whether she'd want to
see Alex, but he wasn't inclined to take a chance at
giving her another shock. She'd had enough bad surprises
lately.
Cassandra's voice did not break his concentration. "My
husband liked you, Gray."
"I liked Reese," he said, looking over his shoulder at the
house, eyes searching.
"But he thought you were a dangerous man."
"Did he?"
"He said you knew where most of the bodies were buried in
Washington, D.C. Because you'd put a lot of them in the
ground."
He made a noise in the back of his throat and continued to
stare as White Caps grew smaller.
"I've heard it from other people."
"Really."
"They say even the President is wary of you."
He glanced back at the house again. "Loose talk. Just
loose talk."
"Considering the way you're looking at that mansion back
there, I'm not so sure." Cassandra tilted her head to the
side, regarding him with steady curiosity. "Who lives
there? Or more to the point, what do you want that's in
that house?"
When Gray remained silent, Cassandra's dry chuckle floated
over on the breeze. "Well, whatever it is, I feel sorry
for the poor thing. Because you look like you're on the
hunt."
"Hold still or I'm going to stick you," Joy Moorehouse
said to her sister.
"I am holding still."
"Then why is this hem a moving target?" She shifted back
onto her heels and looked up at her work.
The wedding gown hung from her sister Frankie's shoulders
in a graceful fall of white satin. Joy had been careful
with the design. Too many frills and excess fabric
wouldn't pass muster. Frankie thought blue jeans were
formal as long as you wore them with your hair up.
"Do I look like I'm in someone else's dress?" Frankie
asked.
"You look beautiful."
Frankie laughed without bitterness. "That's your
department, not mine. I'm the plain, practical sister,
remember?"
"Ah, but you're the one getting married."
"And ain't it a miracle?"
Joy smiled. "I'm so happy for you."
Everyone was. The whole town of Saranac Lake was thrilled
and they were all coming to festivities that were taking
place in about six weeks.
Frankie lifted the skirting up gingerly, as if she might
hurt it. "I have to admit, this thing feels good."
"It'll fit even better when I finish the alterations. You
can take it off now."
"We're done?"
Joy nodded and got up from the floor. "I've basted all
around the bottom. I'll stitch it up this evening and
we'll do another fitting tomorrow."
"But I thought you were going to help out tonight. We're
catering Mr. Bennett's birthday party, remember?"
Joy almost laughed. She'd have better luck losing track of
her own head than forgetting where she was supposed to be
in another couple of hours. And who she would see.
"Remember?" Frankie prompted. "We're going to need you."
Joy made busywork putting her sewing kit back together.
She had a feeling her excitement was showing on her face
and she didn't want her sister to see it. "I know."
"The party could go late."
"It doesn't matter." Because it wasn't as if she'd be able
to sleep when they got back home.
"I don't want you slaving over this dress."
"And you're getting married in a month and a half, so I
have to get the thing done. Well, unless you fancy
yourself heading down the aisle in your underwear, a sight
I'm pretty sure Nate would prefer to keep for his eyes
only. Besides, you know I love doing this, especially for
you." She turned around. Her sister was staring out the
window, absently stroking the gown. "Frankie? What's
wrong?"
"Last night, I asked Alex to walk me to the altar."
"What did he say?" Joy whispered, even though she knew
getting their brother to the ceremony at all was going to
be tough. "He won't do it. I don't think he wants the
attention to be on him." Frankie shook her head. "I can't
force him to be by my side. But I really wish…hell, I wish
Dad were going to be with me. Mom, as well. I wish they
were both still here."
Joy took her sister's hand. "Me, too."
Frankie looked down at herself, her brown hair falling
forward. She gave a short, awkward laugh that Joy knew
meant she was changing the subject. "I can't believe this."
"What?"
"I don't want to take this thing off. It's so gorgeous."
Joy smiled sadly, thinking that with each stitch she put
into the gown, she was trying to make up for everything
her sister had done for her. God, all those sacrifices
Frankie had made to become a parent too soon. The work on
the dress seemed like a pitiful exchange.
"Here, let me undo the buttons in the back for you." When
Frankie stepped out of the pool of satin, Joy swept the
dress into her arms and carried it over to her worktable.
Her bedroom was small, so between her sewing machine, her
mannequin and the bolts of fabric against the wall, space
was at a premium. Thank God she only had a twin bed.
Over the years she'd patched and repaired countless ball
gowns for their grandmother at her little makeshift sewing
station. Emma Moorehouse, better known as Grand-Em,
suffered from dementia so she was prone to irrational
obsessions. And given that she'd once been a wealthy young
lady of fine breeding and reputation, she felt
uncomfortable if she didn't look her best for the parties
she was certain were just about to start every moment of
the day.
Except there were no parties. There hadn't been for
decades.
With the declining fortunes of the Moorehouse family,
there was no money to replace either the lifestyle or the
luxury their grandmother had once known. But Joy was able
to keep the Golden Era illusion alive by maintaining the
forty-and fifty-year-old ball gowns. In doing so, she
helped Grand-Em to find a measure of calm.
And discovered a passion for clothing design in herself.
"We've got three rooms filled this weekend," Frankie said
as she pulled on khakis. "Which means the leaf peepers are
showing up on schedule."
The White Caps mansion had been built by their ancestors
at the turn of the nineteenth century and back then, it
had been one of many Moorehouse real estate holdings. Now
the ten-bedroom house was all that was left of a once
mighty fortune.
In the eighties, their mother and father had turned the
place into a bed-and-breakfast. Following their deaths a
decade ago, Frankie had struggled to keep the business
going, and it appeared that they'd finally turned a
corner. The B&B was on the upswing, thanks in large part
to Frankie's fiancé, Nate Walker. Nate's fine French
cooking had made White Caps a destination and his timely
investment in the business had pulled them out of a debt
spiral.
"So, about tonight." Frankie shoved her feet into a pair
of beat-up sneakers. "Spike's going to mind the store here
with George on backup. Nate, Tom and I are going to head
over to the Bennett kitchen in another hour or so. Can you
get there about five?"
"No problem."
"Thank God, Alex is willing to watch Grand-Em. Have you
told him what to expect?"
Joy nodded. "I think he'll be okay and Spike's here if she
gets really agitated. Fortunately she's been quieter now
during evenings."
Stewarding Grand-Em through her delusions was usually
Joy's job, but they needed all the hands they could get
for the party.
"I'm so glad Gray gave us this chance," Frankie said,
drawing her hair back. "He's a good man. For a politician."
He's not a politician, Joy wanted to say. He's a political
consultant who specializes in elections.
But the correction might get her sister's attention and
Joy was careful about keeping her obsession with Gray to
herself. Sharing pipe dreams was almost as futile as
having them in the first place.
"You're awful quiet, Joy. Are you sure you want to come
tonight?"
"I'm just distracted." By the fact that she was going to
get to watch Gray for three, maybe four, hours. And that
maybe she'd get a chance to talk with him.
Although the exposure probably wasn't a good thing. After
so many years of pining for the man, lately she'd been
trying to let the unrequited fascination go. She was going
to be twenty-seven soon, for heaven's sake. Living in the
fantasy was getting old. And so was she.