Cider Brook. Carla Neggers
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After her cake and tea, Samantha changed into her flannel pajamas—which didn’t smell that smoky—and sat cross-legged on her bed under the comforter, her back against an array of fluffy pillows.
She breathed deeply, listening to an owl outside her window.
It was such a tranquil spot.
She knew how to settle in to new places. A ship sailing the Caribbean Sea, a friend’s apartment in Paris, her aunt and uncle’s house in the Cotswolds, her grandfather’s house in Boston and apartment in London. She had no home base of her own, but she’d always liked being able to pick up and leave a place without a lot of fuss. Her grandfather had enough possessions to keep her mind off anything she might want to buy for herself. She couldn’t figure out what he’d wanted even with a tenth of what she’d sorted through so far.
The owl went quiet. She couldn’t hear anything now, not a passing car, not even a breeze. She couldn’t see Duncan ever making his home in Knights Bridge. He’d seemed more suited to Los Angeles, where she’d first met him—after she’d heard about his interest in Knights Bridge and she’d ventured out here.
She lifted her documents pouch off the bedside table and opened it, pulling out the copy of the tri-folded, yellowed handwritten pages she’d found in her grandfather’s office closet. The original was still safe at his Boston house. As painstaking and tedious as it could be at times, Samantha had to admit that going through his cluttered house and apartment had brought her closer to him. She knew him better in some ways now than she ever had in his long life.
She smiled at the feminine cursive handwriting.
The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth
She had no idea how the captivating tale had ended up in her grandfather’s possession, or what it could possibly have to do with the real Benjamin Farraday or a painting of a nineteenth-century New England cider mill.
She put the pages aside and pulled out a 1903 map of the Swift River Valley, then an idyllic setting of picturesque towns and villages. She carefully unfolded the worn, yellowed sheet onto the comforter. The towns of Prescott, Enfield, Dana and Greenwich lay before her. By most accounts, they had been blissful places, but as early as the late-nineteenth century, engineers and politicians had eyed the valley as a potential site for a massive reservoir, given its abundance of streams, rivers and lakes. Less than a hundred miles from Boston, the valley’s upland location meant a reservoir there could deliver water through an elaborate aqueduct by gravity alone, eliminating the need for artificial filtration. The planners had been right. Damming Beaver Brook and the three branches of the Swift River that wound through the valley had solved Boston’s water problem for the foreseeable future. It had also dislocated thousands of people.
Samantha ran her fingertips over lakes, roads and landmarks that were long gone from the landscape. So few were left who remembered life in the lost towns. She touched hills where children once sledded that were now uninhabited islands surrounded by the beautiful waters of the reservoir. She traced the twists and turns of the middle branch of the Swift River, long before it had been allowed to overflow its banks and flood the surrounding valley.
She located the faded line that was Cider Brook.
What if she’d simply told Duncan McCaffrey the truth?
But she hadn’t, and not without reason.
Seven
Loretta Wrentham paced in her La Jolla living room. She didn’t want to fly back East to Knights Bridge. She’d been there recently, and it was a pleasant town and the people were nice—but she didn’t want to go again this soon. She would be flying out there for Dylan and Olivia’s Christmas wedding, and she had things to do at home.
Such as figure out what to do about this Hollywood private investigator.
Damn him.
His name was Julius Hartley, and he was a smart, sardonic, all-too-good-looking, all-too-knowing divorced father of two grown daughters. He was sitting on her butter-colored leather couch with one arm across the back and one leg thrown over the other as he watched her pace. He had on golf clothes and looked as if he’d just stepped out of an expensive country club. Loretta hated golf.
He was also a private investigator for a law firm in Los Angeles. She swore he knew where every skeleton in Southern California was buried, locked or cremated.
One of those skeletons had brought him to her attention in August and then led to her traveling with him to Knights Bridge.
It was all crazy, confusing, complicated and more fun than either of them had had in a long time.
Without pausing, Loretta threaded her fingers through her short gray hair. She’d stopped dyeing it when she’d turned fifty. Instead of thinking she was older because of the gray, people thought she was younger. Hell if she could figure out that one, but she was good with it.
Julius uncrossed his legs and put both feet flat on her floor. “What do you know about Samantha Bennett?”
Loretta stopped dead in her tracks. “Samantha Bennett? Why do you ask?”
He shrugged, all innocence. “I overheard you on the phone with Dylan.”
Of course. That made sense. Julius might not even have been eavesdropping, although she wouldn’t put it past him. But she’d shrieked. Samantha Bennett was the last name she’d expected to hear Dylan utter. She hadn’t uttered it herself in the two years since his father’s death.
“You have to fire her, Duncan. You have no choice.”
“I know, I know.”
Loretta composed herself. She hadn’t told Dylan all or even a lot of what she knew about Samantha. She needed time to get her bearings. She’d promised to call him later tonight or in the morning. He’d been intrigued but patient, obviously sensing that he’d stepped into another emotional minefield that involved his late father.
Samantha Bennett.
Of all the people from Duncan’s past to turn up, why her?
“You can tell me what’s going on,” Julius said. “I won’t tell Dylan.”
“I’m not keeping secrets. I’m just...” She reined in her irritation. She wasn’t one to be at a loss for words. “I need to think.”
“She’s a treasure hunter? This Samantha Bennett?”
Loretta gave a reluctant nod. “She specializes in pirates and privateers who roamed the East Coast and Caribbean in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”
“Jack Sparrow.”
“Real pirates, Julius. Blackbeard, William Kidd, ‘Black Sam’ Bellamy. That ilk.”
“Cool.”
“It’s not cool. Samantha lied to Duncan about herself, and he fired her.”
“She lied? About what? And what does this have to do with you?”
Although Loretta hadn’t known Julius that long and had told him little about her past with the McCaffreys, he was adept at picking up on clues. “I wasn’t Duncan’s attorney if that’s what you’re asking. I work for Dylan. I never worked for Duncan.”
“I get that. Did you tell Duncan this Samantha lied and suggest he fire her?”
“I didn’t give him legal advice of any kind.”
“Not what I’m asking, Loretta.”
She knew it wasn’t. “Duncan discovered Samantha had sneaked into Knights Bridge between his visits. She didn’t tell him. Then she showed up in his office in Los Angeles. He hired her on the spot to work on his Portugal project. Once he found out she’d neglected to tell him some important details about herself, he couldn’t take the chance that she was spying on him.”