More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way
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Jess set her plate down, no longer hungry. “The scar above her eye?”
“Her ex-husband’s handiwork. He was convicted. He’s out of prison now. He was a businessman in Halifax, but he’s relocated to Calgary.” Summers’s expression didn’t change, but Jess could feel his sarcasm. “Apparently he said he needed a fresh start.”
“Not for her sake, I’ll bet.”
“He’s from western Canada originally. His reputation here was in tatters. People didn’t want to believe he was capable of abuse, but the knife cut ended their denial.”
Jess wondered why he was telling her all this. “It looks as if Marianne’s built a new life for herself.”
“She has. It wasn’t easy. She told me she used to worry constantly that he’d come back. On some level, I think she still does.”
“The emotional wounds of abuse can take a long time to heal.”
He looked away. “Sometimes I wonder if they ever do, if someone who’s been through that kind of horror can love and trust someone again—” He broke off, as if he hadn’t meant to go that far, adding sharply, “Marianne has put all she has—her time, her money, her energy, her love—into getting this place up and running, into her life here. She has friends, she volunteers at a local shelter.”
Something about his manner struck Jess as antagonistic, even accusatory. “Mr. Summers, we’re not here to upset anyone—”
“What happened to your friend Detective O’Malley? He’s had a recent brush with violence, hasn’t he?”
“You’re very perceptive. It wasn’t a major incident, fortunately.”
“But it wasn’t the first. Men like him—” Summers paused, seeming to debate the wisdom of what he wanted to say. “They’re magnets for violence.”
“Not O’Malley,” Jess said, although she didn’t know why she felt the need to defend him.
Summers looked past her. “I’ve been her only guest on and off since I arrived, especially during the week. Weekends she’s usually full.” But he had a distant look in his eye, as if he wouldn’t necessarily trust himself—or maybe Jess was reading something into his manner that wasn’t there because of O’Malley’s instant suspicion of him. Summers drifted off a moment, then smiled abruptly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You’re not the one who was rude.”
He almost laughed. “Well, I suppose we want a homicide detective to be of a suspicious nature. Does he give everyone the third-degree like that?”
“Actually, no. I think he’s just on edge.”
“It’s taken a lot of courage and effort for Marianne to build a life for herself that’s free of violence. See to it he keeps himself in check, okay?”
“Mr. Summers, Brendan has never lost control—”
“I’m sure he hasn’t.” He made a face, rubbing the back of his neck as he heaved a sigh. “And I’m sure Marianne would have a fit if she thought I was protecting her. She can take care of herself. She has a great group of friends. She’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever met.”
Jess smiled at him. “Smitten, are you, Mr. Summers?”
His cheeks reddened slightly. “I guess there’s no point in hiding it.”
“She’s not interested?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t—” He frowned suddenly. “You must be a hell of a prosecutor, Ms. Stewart. I didn’t mean to tell you any of this.”
“Call me Jess,” she said. “And, yes, I do okay in my work.”
She joined O’Malley in the English-style garden, filled with pink foxglove, purple Jacob’s ladder, pale pink astilbe, painted daisies, sweet William, lady’s mantle and a range of annuals. He looked as if he could stomp them all into the dirt. Jess inhaled deeply. “I could get into gardening.”
“The guy’s lying about something.”
“Oh, come on. You don’t know that.”
He mock-glared at her. “Your gut’s telling you the same thing.”
“Maybe, but not all untruths are nefarious untruths. What set you off?”
“He’s been here a month, shows up looking like he could scale the Himalayas. This isn’t your ‘outdoors guy’ kind of place.”
Jess smiled, amused. “Because of the pink towels?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“No, I don’t. You’re here—”
“That’s karma or something. I can’t explain it.” He grimaced, as if the thought of trying to explain how he’d ended up at the Wild Raspberry made him miserable. “Whatever Summers is hiding, it’s more than a social lie.”
“Like telling me you’re staying home in bed when you’re actually packing for Nova Scotia?”
“That was a strategic lie. I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone otherwise.” He had a sexy glint in his eyes that he seemed able to produce at will. “You didn’t, anyway.”
“You can be alone after you’re over the shooting.”
“I was over the shooting once I knew the bullet missed.”
Jess didn’t argue with him and instead related her conversation with their fellow guest. O’Malley looked disgusted. “I hate wife-beaters. I knew a guy my first year on the force who beat up his wife and kids. He was a good cop. No one wanted to believe it, but it was true.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went through anger management—after his wife packed up herself and the kids and got out of there before he could do more damage. He lost his job. He screwed up a lot of lives, including his own, before he figured out he was the one who had to change. Most guys don’t ever figure that out. It was an eye-opener for the rest of us, seeing that a guy we respected was capable of beating up on his wife and kids.”
Jess glanced back at the porch. “If Summers has a thing for Marianne and has lied—”
“She’s not going to like it.”
“He seems to admire her a great deal.”
“Maybe.” O’Malley tilted his head back and smiled. “The sun and sea agree with you, Stewart. You’re looking good this afternoon.”
“I wish I could say the same for you.”
“I don’t look so good?”
“No. You look like you had a bullet whiz past your head a couple of days ago.”
He shrugged. “You still think I’m sexy.”
“Where did you get the idea—”
“Uh-uh. You can’t take it back. I heard you whisper it when we were in the sack—”
“Not so loud!”
He grinned broadly. “Shy?”
“I just don’t need to be reminded. You’re the lone-wolf type, O’Malley. Two seconds with you, and people know it.”
“Lone-wolf type? What the hell’s that? I like women.”
“My point, exactly. Women. Plural.”
He stared at her as if she’d just turned chartreuse.
“I don’t want to fall for a guy like that,” she told him.
“Hey. Lone-wolf. A guy like that. I think I’m being categorized here. You’re not the only one who did some talking that night—”
“Yours was just of the moment. You were pretending to be what I wanted you to be.”
He stared at her. “Stewart, where are you getting this stuff?”
But after his recent brush with death, Jess didn’t want to get into an intimate, emotional talk with him. She didn’t regret their night together, but she’d made the mistake of letting him know that she was attracted to him on a level that just wasn’t smart. He’d responded in kind, but she knew better than to take what he’d said to heart.
No wonder he’d run off to Nova Scotia.
She squared her shoulders. “I followed you up here as a concerned colleague, nothing more.”
“Uh-uh.” He sounded totally disbelieving. “You didn’t kiss me like a concerned colleague—”
“Well, you’d been shot at. I thought I could indulge you that once.”
“It was a charity kiss?”
“Something like that.”
He grinned at her. “Then I’ll have to figure out a way to get another.”
CHAPTER THREE
O’Malley dragged Jess out for dinner and a scenic drive through beautiful Lunenburg with its restored historic houses, narrow streets and picturesque waterfront, then on along the coast, past lighthouses and coves and cliffs. When they arrived back at the Wild Raspberry, Jess found a book in the library and settled on the front porch. She looked content, not so worried about him. O’Malley felt less jumpy, less as if he could—and should—run clear across Canada and not come up for air until he got to Vancouver.
Not that the dark-eyed Boston prosecutor on the front porch had a calming effect on him.
Suddenly agitated, he stormed down the steps and walked across the road to the water. The tide was going out, seagulls wheeling overhead, a cool breeze bringing with it the smell of the ocean. The sun had dipped low on the other side of the island, and dusk was coming slowly.
He spotted Marianne Wells sitting on a large boulder, her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms around her shins as she stared out at the Atlantic. Not wanting to disturb her solitude, he veered off in the other direction, heading down to a shallow tide pool forming amidst the wave-smoothed rocks as the water receded.
“Detective O’Malley?” Marianne jumped up off her boulder and trotted down to him, her agility on the rocky shore impressive. He paused, waiting for her to catch up to him. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
She didn’t jump right in with what was on her mind, but nodded at the tide pool. “It’s amazing—it never changes. I’ve come out here every day since I got here. I had the house, friends—hope. I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“I understand you’re a survivor of domestic abuse.”
“My husband started out by isolating me from my family and friends. He worked on my self-esteem, belittling me, telling me I was ugly, stupid, going into rages when I made even the tiniest mistake—” She took a breath, but didn’t look away from him. “He didn’t hit me at first. That came later.”
“How long were you with him?”
“We met a year before we married. We were married for seven years.”
“No children?”
She shook her head. “That helped when it came to making a clean break with my abuser. Visitation access often becomes another way for abusers to continue to control women. And children…what they see, their own lack of control…”
“It’s a vicious cycle,” O’Malley said.
“I gave up a lot when I decided to do something about my situation. There’s no denying that I didn’t. It’s not just challenging the violence that takes courage, but deciding to give up the status quo and embrace an uncertain future.”
“I’ve been to too many domestic-abuse crime scenes. Are you worried this guy’ll come back?”
“A tiny bit less with each day he doesn’t. I’m prepared for that fear to go on. I’ve found ways to live with it. I have a lot of support.”
“You’ve done a good job with your place here.”
She smiled, but without looking at him. “I didn’t think I could do it. I thought I’d fail. A part of me believed he was right about me. But I got up each morning, and I did what I could. Then I got up the next morning, and I did a little more. Bit by bit, it came together.”
“You deserve a lot of credit.”
“Taking that first step was so scary and difficult. I was in the local library—I thought if I could go online and find some information, maybe it’d help.” She crossed her arms on her chest, against the breeze. “I found the Shelternet Web site. It has a clickable map of Canada with links to local shelters, detailed information on how to make a safety plan, stories of other abused women. I sat there and read every word.”
“How long before you went to a shelter?”
“A month. Abuse—it does things to your head.”
“But you did it,” O’Malley said.
She ran the toe of her sandal over a hunk of slimy seaweed. “My life was as big a wreck as this place was when I bought it. But I was living a violent-free life. That gave me such hope, such energy. It still does. I’m taking care of myself for the first time in a very long time. That matters.”
“It matters a lot.”
“I’d always dreamed of opening a bed-and-breakfast on the coast. I love it out here. I live in the guest house—it’s perfect for me—and have the house for guests. That might change one day, or it might not. I’m just enjoying the moment. And I’ve done exactly what I want with the place.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “I decided—I like pink. Raspberry, watermelon, orange-pink, petal pink. I didn’t have to explain it to anyone or excuse it or pretend I liked chartreuse or rust when I like pink.”
O’Malley smiled at her. “I’m not as big on pink as you are.”
She laughed. “I appreciate your honesty. Anyway, I don’t mean to bore you—”
“You’re not boring me,” he said sincerely.
She angled a look at him. “That’s why you do police work, isn’t it? Because you like people, you like to figure them out?”
“My father was a cop. I knew the work suited me.”
“Jessica? She says she was a police officer, too.”
“For a few years.”
“Her father—”
“Investment banker. Very white bread. Her mother is a volunteer for a bunch of different charities. They almost had a heart attack when she got accepted to the police academy.”
“But they supported her decision? They didn’t try to stop her?”
“They were the proudest parents at her graduation.”
“Good for them.”
O’Malley knew Marianne hadn’t joined him at the tide pool to chitchat. “Look—”
“I think someone’s snooping on me,” she blurted.
“What do you mean, snooping? Spying? Stalking you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that overt. There’ve been these odd incidents.” She took a breath, not going on.
“Like what?” he prodded.
She squatted down, dipping a hand into the cold water, her back to him. “I don’t imagine things. I don’t make things out to be worse than they are. The fears I have—they’re real fears.”
“You think your ex-husband is in the area?”
“Let’s say I fear it.”
But she didn’t go on, seemed unable to. O’Malley walked around to the other side of the tide pool and squatted down, noticing that she had grabbed something from the bottom of the pool. “What do you have?”
“Starfish,” she said, and smiled as she lifted it out of the water and showed it to him. “I used to love to collect things from tide pools when I was a little girl. I’d put everything back, of course. Once—once I forgot, and I was mortified for days.”
A sensitive soul. “I understand.”
Her eyes met his, just for an instant, and she replaced the starfish back in the water. “When I got up this morning, before you and Jessica arrived, I was positive someone had been through the Saratoga trunk in the living room during the night. It’s an antique, from my great-grandmother.”
“The living room’s open to guests?”
She nodded. “But no one—it was just John Summers here last night. And he wouldn’t be interested in the contents of an old trunk. He’s a hiker. He goes out every day for hours. He pays me extra to load up his daypack with lunch and snacks.”
“What’s in the trunk?”
“Nothing of any value to anyone but me. Family photo albums and scrapbooks of my life before I married.” She spoke clearly, directly, without any hint of trying to hide something. “Some old books and diaries.”
“Your diaries?”
“Oh, no. My great-grandmother’s. She and my great-grandfather came to Nova Scotia from Scotland.”
“Have you read her diary?”
“Bits and pieces. It feels like prying, frankly.”
O’Malley shrugged. “That’s half of what I do for a living. What made you think someone had been in the trunk? Was the latch open, something like that?”
“It was moved and—” She thought a moment as she got to her feet. “I’d draped a throw over it last night. It was on the couch this morning.”
“Maybe Summers couldn’t sleep and came downstairs to read for a while, get a change of scenery, and used the throw to keep his feet warm.”
“It’s possible.” She smiled. “I like that theory.”
“Any other incidents?”
“A few more like that.”
“All with personal items?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing that’d tempt you to call the police?”
“No, not yet. I just feel—I don’t know how to describe it. Like somebody’s looking for something, prying into my life, or if not my life, my family’s past. It’s a very strange feeling.”
“Anything exciting about your family’s past?”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Was one of your ancestors secretly married to the Prince of Wales or something?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.”
“But like something else?”
“Well—” She shook her head, laughing a little. “My great-grandmother lived in this area during a famous, tragic incident when a Halifax heiress ran off with a no-account foreign sailor. Irish, I think. Their boat went down in a storm just beyond the cove here.”
“They were killed?”
“Drowned.”
“Bodies recovered?”
Marianne nodded sadly. “There are rumors the heiress had taken gold coins and jewels with her, as a nest egg for her new life.”
O’Malley watched her expression and, from long experience, knew there was more to the story. “No sign of them?”
“It depends on whom you believe.”
Vague answer, but he didn’t push.
“None of this is like my ex-husband. He’s more the type to take a baseball bat to the kitchen because I left a coffee filter in the sink. But I haven’t seen him in two years. I don’t know—” She left it at that, then said abruptly, “I’ll walk back to the house with you. Would you and Jessica care for some blueberry wine? It’s made by a local winery. It’s quite good.”
O’Malley winked at her. “So long as it’s not raspberry wine.”
She laughed again, seeming more relaxed now that she’d told someone about her snooper. He wanted to know what she was holding back, but he doubted he’d get it out of her tonight. Marianne Wells was a direct, strong, self-contained woman, comfortable in her own skin. He wondered how much of that had been there before her husband went to work on her, and how much she’d had to get back, rediscover and build after she got him and his violence out of her life.
When they crossed the road, she paused at the base of the porch steps, then turned abruptly to him. “It’s all too easy, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“To hide yourself from the truth. I pretended for such a long time that I wasn’t living the life I was living.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.”
“Oh, stop. Oh—oh, that is so lame!” She called up to the porch. “Jessica, your friend here is just awful.”
Jess slid off her swing and stood at the top of the steps, the evening light catching the lighter streaks in her hair. O’Malley had tried to pretend she wasn’t as beautiful as she was. Talk about hiding from the truth. She grinned at him and Marianne. “Is he telling you stupid jokes?”
“Close. Very lame pearls of wisdom.”
Jess winced, still grinning. “That’s our Detective O’Malley. He’s got a saying for every occasion. His brothers are the same. They can reduce complicated issues and emotions to soundbites.”
“Well,” Marianne said cheerfully, “I guess it’s a gift.”
She trotted up the steps, a lightness in her gait that hadn’t been there before, and went inside to fetch the blueberry wine.
O’Malley joined Jess on the porch. “Where’s Summers?”
“He turned in early. What were you and Marianne talking about?”
“Violent men, snoops and treasure lost at sea.”
“I hate the idea of violent men. Snoops can go either way. Treasure lost at sea—now, that could be fun.”
“I’ll tell you all about it. Speaking of snoops, how’d you like my apartment yesterday?”
“No vermin. That’s something.”
“No interior decorator, either.” He moved in closer to her, smelling the scented soap she’d used in the shower. “It’s a shame we’re paying for two rooms.”
“O’Malley—” She blew at a stray lock of hair that had dropped onto her forehead. “Damn.”
“Hot all of a sudden, huh?”
“It’s too late not to pay for both rooms…”
“We could do Marianne a big favor and pay for both rooms, but only actually use one. Save her on cleaning, anyway.”
“You’re just looking for distractions.”
“It was your idea to come up here and become one.”
But before she could respond, their hostess arrived on the porch with three glasses and an open bottle of blueberry wine.
Jess woke up very early and wandered outside to catch the sunrise, thinking of the rest of the continent still shrouded in darkness as the first morning rays skimmed the horizon and glowed orange on the ocean. Fishing boats puttered across the mirror like water, leaving a gentle wake, the quiet and stillness disturbed only by a few seagulls.
She’d never been anywhere more beautiful, and yet she couldn’t relax.
It was O’Malley, of course. She’d dreamed about him.
Not good. An intelligent woman had no business dreaming about a Boston homicide detective with a penchant for getting himself shot at. Never mind all the other reasons. The tight-knit family where she would always be a stranger, the lone-wolf apartment that showed no sign of needing anyone to share it, the dedication to the job that bordered on obsession.
Then again, those could be the same reasons he was avoiding getting more involved with her. She thought of her own family, her own apartment, her own dedication to her job.
But she’d never been shot at, even during her five years on the police force.
She’d also never been more comfortable with anyone than she was with Brendan O’Malley.
Taking a deep breath, Jess pushed all thought of him out of her mind and focused on the sunrise as she walked down to the water’s edge. It was just before low tide, which only added to the stillness, the sense of solitude and isolation.
When she returned to the Wild Raspberry, Marianne was up, humming as she worked in the kitchen. Jess called good morning, startling her. Marianne jumped, clutching her heart as she turned, recognized her guest, and collapsed against the counter. “I didn’t realize you were up. Everything’s all right? I’m fixing breakfast—”
“Everything’s fine,” Jess said. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
“It’s no problem.”
But Marianne’s skin was pale—paler than it should have been. She must be used to guests getting up at different hours. Jess found herself lingering in the kitchen doorway. “Marianne? Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
John Summers appeared behind Jess in the hall. “What’s going on?” he asked, immediately attuned to Marianne’s tension.
“Nothing, I hope,” Jess said. “I was out for a walk and startled Marianne when I came in.”
Marianne turned quickly. “It happens sometimes,” she mumbled, dismissing the subject as she busied herself pulling pots and frying pans out of a low cupboard.
Summers started to say something, then changed his mind and stalked out to the dining room. He sat at the smallest of three tables, snatched up a Halifax newspaper and held it up, a none-too-subtle way to cut off conversation. Jess didn’t know if she’d annoyed him or he just wasn’t a morning person.
She helped herself to a bowl of cut fruit—including raspberries—that Marianne had already put out on a sideboard. The breakfast room was as quirky and cheerful as the rest of the house, done in yellows and blues with raspberry accents. Summers’s grumpiness was out of place.
Sitting at the farthest table from him, Jess decided to confront him. “Mr. Summers—”
He sighed audibly, folded his newspaper and set it on the table. “Something’s wrong with Marianne. She’s on edge. She wasn’t like that when I first arrived.”
Given Marianne’s personal background and her talk of snoops and treasure with O’Malley, Jess was especially interested in Summers’s observation. “How long has she been on edge?”
“A week or so.” He eyed Jess a moment, as if she were responsible for their hostess’s mood, then sighed again. “I’m sorry. I wanted to blame you and your cop friend, but she’s been jumpy since before you two arrived.”