Land's End. Marta Perry
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furniture.”
Did Sarah know Lynette had died on that spot? Pain twisted inside him, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—racing to the cottage when the police called, bursting in the door, heart pounding as if it would explode from the pressure.
Gifford and a couple of his officers had straightened at the sight of him. They’d stepped back, averting their eyes, as if it were indecent to look at him at such a moment.
No. He wouldn’t remember the rest of it. He wouldn’t let that image back into his mind.
The fury surged through him again. This was Sarah’s fault. He was here, remembering, because of Sarah.
He stepped toward her, driven by blind anger. His leg brushed the table next to the sofa, and the small glass vase on it wobbled. His fingers closed on the vase—tight, tighter, until it should snap in his hand.
With a quick, hard movement he threw it. It smashed against the logs that lay ready in the fireplace, the sound a shocking punctuation to his thoughts.
Sarah jerked back, her green eyes darkening like the ocean on a stormy day. “Trent, don’t—”
He couldn’t be here with her any longer without losing control. He grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the door. “You’re going. Now.”
Maybe she recognized the futility of protesting. She let him usher her out the door, across the porch, down the steps. He rushed her down the path toward the dock, brushing through overgrown branches of crepe myrtle and tendrils of Spanish moss, dozens of Low Country scents released by their brusque passing.
He charged onto the dock and came to an abrupt halt. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how Sarah had gotten to the cottage. Now he knew. Jonathan’s four-passenger jet boat bobbed on the swell. Jonathan stared at him, shock and apprehension on his face.
He gave Sarah a final push toward the boat. She slipped on the mossy planks, and Jonathan extended his hand to help her. Without looking back, she stepped lightly onto the rail and down to the deck.
Maybe he’d frightened her. He hoped so.
“Trent, I’m sorry if this has upset you.” Jonathan’s tone was grave.
“Upset?” He was aware of an urge to punch something. Or someone. “Why would it upset me to know that my friend is going against my wishes behind my back?”
“I understand how you feel.”
“Do you?” His eyebrows lifted. “I doubt it.”
Jonathan’s patrician face seldom showed anything so raw as embarrassment, but he seemed to wince. “No, I suppose not. But Sarah has feelings, too. Her loss is as great as yours.”
The impulse to deny that astounded him and gave him pause. He’d been giving lip service to Sarah’s loss, but had he really considered how the tragedy had affected her? She and Miles seemed to have a happy marriage—happier than his and Lynette’s, in any event. And she still believed in Miles.
It didn’t matter, he thought at some level, and was instantly ashamed. Of course Sarah’s grief mattered. But he had his child to protect, and that one fact outweighed everything else.
He had to say something. He looked at them. Jonathan wore a slightly chiding air. Sarah’s eyes were dark with pain, but she stared back at him steadily, as if to say that she wouldn’t give in. That this wasn’t finished between them.
He wouldn’t apologize again. “You’ve seen the cottage. That will have to be enough for you, Sarah. Go back to Boston and get on with your life.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Sarah wouldn’t give up.
That was the first thing he’d learned about her, back when she was nothing more than his new assistant’s slightly inconvenient wife. He’d soon learned she was much more than that. She’d nearly driven him crazy over that clinic idea of hers, and probably the real reason he’d resisted it so long had been because he’d enjoyed butting heads with her.
Jonathan, apparently realizing there was nothing to be gained here, turned the ignition. The sound of the motor sent a brown pelican lifting from the water. The jet boat backed slowly away, the gulf widening between boat and dock.
The gulf between him and Sarah had widened that night at Adriana’s party, when a half-serious, half-laughing quarrel had, as suddenly as summer lightning, sparked into awareness. They’d both recognized it in the same instant, both turned guiltily away.
He watched the figures in the boat grow rapidly smaller as Jonathan accelerated, throwing up an emphatic spray. Determination hardened inside him.
Sarah had to leave St. James.
Sarah turned the car off the main road onto a narrow lane, wincing as overhanging branches slapped the windshield. The rays of the setting sun slanted through the trees, dappling the lane ahead of her with alternating patches of sun and shade.
Jonathan had reluctantly given her the directions to Haller’s Tavern, and he hadn’t offered to go with her. Maybe because he knew she’d refuse, or maybe because he was already tiring of her and her quest.
Jonathan’s attitude toward her had changed after that encounter with Trent the previous day. She could hardly blame him. He was Trent’s friend, unless she’d ruined that with her interference.
That friendship had always surprised her a bit. There didn’t seem much common ground between the idle patrician and the self-made man, and now—
Now, according to Adriana, Trent had turned into a hermit, rejecting all invitations. Sarah seemed to see again the bitter lines in his face as he swung toward her at the cottage.
At the very place where Lynette and Miles had died. She could hardly be surprised that his bitterness had surfaced there. Why had he been there? Did he go often, torturing himself with memories?
There’s so much pain between us, Heavenly Father. I’d help him if I could, but it seems impossible.
She didn’t want to cause Trent more pain, but she had to know the truth.
And what if this truth is all there is, a small voice in the back of her mind inquired.
Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she negotiated a bend in the road, splashing through puddles left by the afternoon’s rain. Well, if all her searching only proved that what people already believed was true, somehow she’d have to learn to live with it. But not until she was sure.
Which led her to Guy O’Hara. He’d been one of the engineers on some project Trent had been pursuing. He’d been as close to a friend as Miles had made on the island in the short time they’d been there. If Miles had confided in anyone, it would have been Guy.
Lights glinted to her left, and the road, apparently giving up its forward momentum, widened into a parking lot. Already several cars and pick-ups dotted the area in front of the low cement block building. No attempt had been made to blend into the surrounding landscape—it looked like a roadhouse, and that’s what it was. Still, the lush growth of the forest made inroads on it, softening the hard blocks with tendrils of green and gray that would inexorably cover it if not cut away.
She parked and turned off the ignition. Guy had rejected her suggestion that he come to the cottage or meet her at the inn. He’d insisted on this place.
Maybe he preferred not to be seen with her where Trent would hear about it. Or maybe he knew something and wanted the security his own turf provided when he talked to her.
She got out, scoffing at her own reluctance to go inside. She’d learned to take care of herself a long time ago. She’d go inside, find Guy and get this conversation over with.
When she pulled the sagging metal door open, a blast of country music and a wave of cigarette smoke enveloped her. Holding her breath, she stepped inside. Faces turned toward her instantly, as if they all swung on the same