A Secret to Tell You
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Dust flew everywhere as April Trent’s circular saw bit into the lath and plaster wall of the sixty-year-old Shenandoah Valley farmhouse she was remodeling. Seeing a flash of red and white in what should be empty space, she shut off her saw and set it down on the floor. Then she carefully pulled free a ragged chunk of wall. April shoved her safety glasses into her hair so she could clearly see the item wedged between two-by-four-inch studs.

Since being awarded her contractor’s license at twenty-four, this was the sixth Virginia home between Harrisburg and Staunton that she’d purchased and renovated. She always lived in the houses she was renovating; and had managed to accumulate a tidy nest egg. At thirty-one, she was a woman of independent means. Her first project she’d bought with a trust fund left by her paternal grandmother, Dixie. Early on, she’d struggled to be taken seriously in a largely male-dominated field. Now things were going well. No thanks, though, to her prominent family who, outside of her grandmother, saw her interest as merely an aberrant whim that would pass. Rather than being happy for her and wishing her well, they considered her an embarrassment. Especially her Dad and her brothers….

April plucked out a dusty, rectangular package wrapped in red-and-white checked oilcloth. Bits of fabric, brittle with age, broke off, even though she took care lifting it out. Her pulse beat faster. Generally all she found was crumbling grout, cobwebs or the skeletal remains of long-dead mice.

Coleman Trent, her lawyer daddy, might not be so quick to denigrate her profession if she found a cache of stolen money.

Excited, April carried her treasure around the plastic sheeting that cordoned off the kitchen, one of the rooms she’d completed. A corner nook near the window offered better lighting, and she identified the wrapping as oilcloth of a type used to line kitchen cupboards at the time this home was built. Twine holding the covering in place snapped easily.

Darn! Not money. Letters, bound together with a red satin ribbon. Letters addressed in precise script to a woman named Norma Marsh, at an address in France.

On a self-imposed timetable to complete the house but tempted nevertheless, April couldn’t resist tugging open the bow. She eased the top letter out of its envelope. The ink was faded and the handwriting looked like that of a man. Yes, it was signed Erge ben, Heinz. April was disappointed when she realized none of the letters were in English. No, they’d been written in German. She’d taken a smattering of college French and high school German, and from the little she could translate, it appeared Heinz was devoted to Norma.

April couldn’t help a poignant sigh as she refolded the letter. She’d love to pour a cup of coffee and take a break, try to decipher what—judging by the salutation—were obviously old love letters. But she needed to get that wall down and cleaned up, since she had carpet-layers scheduled the following week. Although she did most of the work alone, a few tasks she subcontracted out on an as-needed basis.

Leaving the letters, she returned to the dirty job at hand. By one o’clock she was exhausted. But the wall was down. Only the promise of coffee and a closer inspection of the letters gave her the final burst of energy she needed to dispose of debris and sweep up.

She was pleased with her morning’s work. Ripping out the wall had resulted in a lovely, large open room with a brick fireplace at one end. Homes built in the thirties and forties tended to have small, dark rooms. April liked open and airy.

Filthy, she should head straight for the spanking new shower she’d already added to the refitted bathroom. But coffee enticed, as did those letters.

April filled a mug with the coffee she’d brewed at breakfast and reheated it in the microwave. She’d learned to take her coffee black and strong. She carried it impatiently to the nook and removed the oilcloth around the letters. When she did, a passport fell out and so did a couple of grainy black-and-white snapshots and a pressed flower, a rose. Hesitantly April opened the old passport. A beautiful young woman with long blond hair styled in a manner reminiscent of 1940s movies, stared out. The well-traveled document had been stamped numerous times with dates ranging from the early- to mid-forties. London. Rome. Paris and other cities in France. April sipped the bitter coffee, and let her mind wander. Norma Marsh must have been a debutante. April was familiar with that lavish lifestyle, since her mother, Bonnie, was from a wealthy local family who still believed the best schools were abroad.

Feeling too much like a voyeur, April tucked the photographs into the passport without examining them and put back the fragile rose. These love letters belonged to a stranger. But she had to wonder how they’d come to be stuck between the walls. Was it accidental, or were they hidden on purpose? Who was Norma Marsh? Born in 1925, she’d be eighty-two now. Was she even alive? And if she was, would she want the letters back? So many possibilities ran through April’s mind.

Her doorbell chimed unexpectedly, startling her. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the mysterious letters made her feel oddly vulnerable. Wiping nervous palms down her jeans, she tiptoed quietly to the arch. Through her large front window, she saw Eric Lathrop huddled on her front stoop. His topcoat sparkled silver from a light August rain that had begun to fall in the last half hour.

Eric was an eager-beaver reporter who wrote about politics for the local Turner County newspaper. His long-term sights were set on moving out of Virginia into the big-time D.C. political arena. Her family’s law firm, Trent and Trent, dabbled in local politics, which was how Eric had gained the attention of April’s parents and brothers.

Apolitical though she tried to be, she sporadically dated Eric to keep her parents from coming up with worse prospects. In truth, she had zero time for a real relationship. And Eric was pleasant enough. He was at least capable of interesting conversation, although at times April found him overbearing.

She gave a passing thought to dashing back to hide her recent discovery, even if it meant leaving Eric standing in the rain. His brashness meant he didn’t have much interest in what he called sentimentality—anything to do with emotion, in other words—and April felt oddly protective of these letters. Another part of her, though, longed to share her find with someone—anyone. That impulse won, and she crossed the room and threw open the door.

“What took you so long?” Eric stomped in, shaking raindrops from his buzz-cut sandy red hair. He left muddy footprints behind him.

His surly greeting killed whatever enthusiasm April had mustered for sharing her news. “I’m working,” she said, waving a hand toward the enlarged living space.

“So I see.” He grimaced at her dusty work boots and smudged safety goggles pushed back in April’s short, dark hair.

“To what do I owe this unscheduled visit?” she asked in an affected Southern drawl. She could count on sweet sarcasm annoying the hell out of Eric.

Today, however, he apparently had other things on his mind. “I ran into your brother Miles in town. Had lunch with him. Don’t ask me how, but he cadged two invitations to a black-tie fund-raiser. A ball being held by Quinn Santini a week from next Saturday.”

“Santini. The name’s familiar.”

“Good grief, I should hope so! Quinn’s running for the U.S. Senate. My paper opposes him, and his picture’s been splashed all over the front page for months. You’ve probably heard your family talking about him, as well. They’re against his election, too.”

Eric pulled two gilt-edged tickets from his inner pocket and fanned them under April’s nose. “I came here straightaway. If you don’t own a suitable dress, something long and slinky, you’ll need to buy one. This is a big, big deal, and could be important for me.”

“Why would I spend a fortune on a dress I’d wear once, Eric? You know I hate getting even semi-dressed up for the parties my folks throw.”

“Yes, but think of the connections you could make at an event like this. You said that in your trade you need social contacts to get your name out through word of mouth.”

“It helps,” she agreed grudgingly, shutting the door as Eric returned the tickets to his pocket.

“Is that coffee I smell? I could do with a warm-up.” Skirting April, he shrugged out of his topcoat and headed for her kitchen. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked, weaving around the plastic to drop his coat over a chair next to the stack of letters.

“Something I found in the wall I removed today. Letters, but they’re written in German.” She hastily poured a mug of coffee and heated it in the microwave.

Before she could place the mug in Eric’s hands, he was pawing through the letters. A couple of papers tucked between the last two envelopes floated to the floor. Setting his mug down with a thump, April bent and retrieved the pages. “Well, these make no sense. They’re lists of words that aren’t really words in English or German, as far as I can tell. More like scrambled groups of letters.”

Eric tasted the coffee, made a face, then leaned over her shoulder. “Huh? Two words are spelled out—they’re bird names. See, it says Oriole at the top and Kestrel at the bottom.”

“Yes. The second page has Kestrel at the top and Oriole at the bottom.” Refolding them, April shoved those sheets into the top envelope. “Maybe they’re anagrams.”

“Or coded messages.” Squinting at the envelopes, Eric grew more animated. “April, who had this farmhouse built?”

“I bought it from the heirs of Dr. David Shuman.”

“Yes,” he snapped. “But after you researched the deed, I distinctly remember you saying this house originally belonged to Anthony Santini. No wonder the name’s familiar! Tony’s grandson is Quinn, who’s the senatorial candidate. April, what rock have you been under?” Eric demanded when she casually retied the ribbon around the letters and tucked the flattened rose underneath it. He tried to take the bundle, but she yanked it away and walked out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going? April, let me read them.” His voice rose. “Have you asked yourself why a bunch of old letters would be hidden in a wall? What if old man Santini was carrying on some tawdry affair? With some German, yet—during the war?” Eric set down his mug and followed April. “Listen, if I don’t find anything juicy, I’ll give the damned letters back to you. But if I link Grandpa Santini to something sordid, this could be my lucky break. My ticket to the beltway.”

She continued down the hall, but called over her shoulder, “Eric, honestly, you’re always seeing the next big story in everything you do. These are private letters. I didn’t see the name Santini anywhere. And if they were my love letters, I wouldn’t want them made public. I’m putting them in my bedroom. Then I’m going in to shower. Please let yourself out.”

Eric’s forward momentum was stopped when April shut her bedroom door. He rattled the knob, found the door locked and pounded with a fist. Then he resorted to cajoling. “You could be holding dynamite, sweetheart. Tony Santini built this farm, but he spent a lot of time in Europe before and after World War Two. I’ve even read stories that hint he could’ve been a spy. April? Dammit, are you listening?”

She didn’t respond, and thankfully, after a few minutes of shouting, Eric gave up. She heard him say, “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back when you’ve had time to think this through.”

What did he mean? She had thought it through. But Eric was blind to everything except his career. And he had a temper. She was glad he’d gone with so little fuss.

She didn’t dally over cleaning up. She’d observed Eric on the trail of a story. He was like a bulldog. He’d try to get his hands on the letters.

After toweling her hair dry, April grabbed the letters and dashed through the drizzle to her pickup. Someone as astute about the political scene as Eric, but who April trusted more, was her old college roommate, decorator Robyn Parker. Unlike April, Robyn enjoyed the local social scene. She traveled in prominent circles from Virginia to Maryland to D.C. And had the lowdown on everyone of importance. She also could keep a secret.

Twenty minutes later, April burst into Robyn’s fabric-cluttered shop, relieved to find her friend alone in her office.

“Did we have an appointment? If so, I doubled up,” Robyn said. “I’m on my way to see Mrs. Mason Hightower.” The pretty redhead fumbled for her Blackberry and punched up her date calendar.

“I only need a minute, Robyn. I made this discovery out at the farm.” Talking as fast as she could, April filled her in on what Eric said.

“Wow! Much as I hate to agree with that know-it-all Eric Lathrop on anything, the Norma Marsh in those letters must be Quinn Santini’s grandmother. She’s pretty much a recluse and has been for years. Her hubby, Anthony, was some kind of government diplomat who put them on the social register. He died quite a while ago. I sure wasn’t aware he’d once owned your farmhouse. That’ll be a boon when it comes to selling it. Especially if Quinn wins the election.”

“I’d forgotten Santini was the original owner until Eric reminded me. He remembered the name from when I researched the deed. It’s true that the history of a house in this area does add to its salability,” she added slowly.

“You’ve also got the family tragedy,” Robyn said as she tossed fabric in a briefcase.

“Tragedy?” April glanced up.

“Yes. Anthony’s son, Brett, Brett’s wife and Quinn’s wife all died in a small plane accident four years ago. Brett was the pilot. It was headline news, and it’s surfaced again with Quinn’s campaign. If you ever got your head out of the sawdust bin, you’d know these things, April. I’ve heard that his grandmother babysits Quinn’s daughter. They live on adjoining estates.” Robyn rattled off the name of the most exclusive development in their county. “Now, he’s a man to drool over, my friend. But you probably don’t realize that Quinn’s considered Turner County’s most eligible bachelor. A host of women we know would love to become the second Mrs. Quinn Santini.”

April shrugged. “Let them. I’m not interested in his type, Robyn.”

“Well, I am. Quinn Santini’s so ho…ot,” she drawled, fanning herself with one hand. “He creates tons of talk around the watering holes. Mostly because he’s not photographed with models and bimbos. Ask your dad or brothers about Quinn. He’s a lawyer-turned-politician. If I recall, last year he beat your dad’s firm on some big case. River pollution or something.”

“Eric said Dad’s firm is backing Santini’s opponent, and that would explain why. Dad hates to lose. Anyway, I doubt that these letters are political. They look like love letters to me. If Mrs. Santini loved some guy before she married Anthony, that shouldn’t be exploited.” April’s brow furrowed. “It’s—the letters aren’t in English. I wish I had time to translate a few of them properly. Then I could decide if I should go see the woman and ask if she wants them back, or would she rather I tossed them in the trash?”

Robyn checked her watch. “Yikes, gotta run, sweetie. You’re welcome to stay and pore over them here. I’ll leave my safe open so you can lock them up until you decide. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Santini’s name is Norma. And if her husband built the house, well…it does suggest they could belong to Quinn’s grandmother.”

April rose on tiptoes to hug her taller friend. “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I’m going to do with the letters. I can’t waste a lot of time on them, though. I want to finish the farmhouse and get it on the market before Thanksgiving. I’ve had good luck selling houses over various holidays, thanks to your terrific decorating ideas.”

“Yeah, well, all this hoopla over the senate race will blow over.”

“Hmm. I may just cast my vote for Santini just to spite my family and Eric. But, honestly, isn’t one politician as corrupt as the next?”

“Quinn gets my vote because he’s yummy. Matter of fact, if you get cozy with his grandmother, I wouldn’t turn down a face-to-face introduction to him.” April laughed as Robyn grinned, hefting her case of samples, and sprinted for the door.

But her laughter died when she opened a letter and tried to read it. Her German was rusty. The words she was able to translate left gaping holes and sentences that made no sense.

Her frustration mounted once she determined all the letters were in German. She finally resorted to studying the photos stuck in the back of the passport. There was no doubt that the young woman cuddled up to the handsome man in the first snapshot was the Norma who owned the passport. Oooh—but the uniform her friend wore wasn’t that of an American soldier. German. An officer, no less.

Biting her lip, April flipped to the second picture. Norma Marsh appeared distressed. Possibly crying. A set of blunt-tipped fingers seemed to hold her back from the man—the German officer—in the previous picture. This time he was in civilian garb. All but the second man’s hand had been cropped. The handsome man who faced Norma looked…stunned, perhaps?

Her curiosity more than aroused, April flipped the snapshots over. The photo of the couple in happier circumstances said Heinz, my love. Colmar, France, 1944. The other said nothing.

Restoring the letters to the order in which she’d found them, April tucked them, plus the passport and flower, in a plastic bag and placed it in Robyn’s safe. She twirled the lock, feeling inexplicably unsettled and sad.

On the spur of the moment, she decided to dig into this now. Using her friend’s computer, April went through the archives of the social register and came up with a current address for Mrs. Anthony Santini. If the letters were hers, April reasoned she’d get this over and done with, and could stop worrying about what ifs.

In spite of rain and the late-afternoon snarl of traffic, April never tired of driving though the green hillsides in this part of Virginia. The Santinis lived in a community of older estates called Rolling Hills, all twenty or more acres apiece. Horse properties. Most were fenced and hooked up to surveillance systems.

She’d never had occasion to visit anyone here but she wasn’t surprised by the ornate wrought iron fencing that seemed to go on for miles. What did surprise her was finding the Santinis’ gate wide open. To give herself a chance to organize what she’d say, or maybe to insure that she could leave on her own terms, April parked outside the gate and walked up the winding drive. The house was spectacular, with columns, mullioned windows, dormers, all architectural features that attracted her. Stables off to the right were predictable. So was the four-car garage on the left, with a garret above, probably for staff. One bay of the garage was open and empty. Someone was gone, or else it housed the silver Lexus parked in the circular drive.

April glimpsed a second, slightly smaller residence set back behind the main house. She recalled Robyn’s saying Quinn and his grandmother shared the premises. She hesitated, wondering if she ought to veer off to the smaller abode. Wouldn’t a man of Quinn’s stature—a single father, at that—need the larger of the two quarters? Still, someone was home in the main dwelling; she might as well find out who.

Bringing up very private love letters with the woman to whom they might belong would be difficult enough, but April couldn’t picture herself explaining them to a man. A grandson, and a lawyer no less. She knew how lawyers’ minds worked. After all, she had two in her family. In the Trent household everything got hashed over, rehashed and talked to death.

She heard voices, so she mounted the steps. And since the Lexus sat in front, probably awaiting someone about to leave, she pressed the doorbell before she could change her mind.

April expected a butler or housekeeper. She was unprepared when a man in his midthirties—tall, blond, handsome and wearing, of all things, a designer tuxedo—yanked open the door.

For a moment they did nothing but stare at each other. In her old jeans, work boots and jean jacket, clean though they were, April knew she fell way short in the eyes of this man. Those blue eyes were so clear, so sharp, she imagined he not only found her wanting, but as she stammered out her name and asked for Norma Marsh, April sensed that he disapproved of everything about her.

“Trent?” The clipped question came with a scowl. “How did you get inside the gate? What’s your reason for barging in on us? This is private property.”

A woman materialized behind the man in the doorway. Her carriage was upright and her figure slender in spite of the fact that her hair was pure white and her face lined. Just as quickly, a sweet-faced child, a girl of five or six, slipped between the two adults. She gaped at April, as if seeing strangers at her door was an unusual occurrence. Which, considering April’s dubious welcome, it probably was. She threw back her shoulders and raised her chin. “I’m a contractor who bought an old farmhouse across town—in Heritage Acres. The original owner of record was Anthony Santini. I’m renovating and upgrading the home’s interior. Today I tore out a wall and discovered a packet of letters, uh, and a passport. They all bear the name Norma Marsh. A friend of mine said Norma’s the first name of the Mrs. Santini who lives here. So I came to find out if the letters—love letters, I believe—belong to her.”

The man let go of the door and walked outside. His presence forced April to take a step down toward the car. Rain spattered in her eyes, making her blink.

“Save your breath,” he said icily. “Tell Daniel Mattingly it’s a good try, but I won’t be bribed, nor will I cave in to any attempts at blackmail.”

“Who’s Daniel Mattingly?” April held up a hand to the rain. “All the letters are signed by a man named Heinz von Weisenbach.”

“Come on, Ms. Trent. It won’t fly, so give it a rest.” His beautiful lips curled and he advanced, forcing April down two more steps before the white-haired woman moved into the doorway and said in a low voice, “Quinn, stop. Invite her in. I need, ah, would like to hear more of what she has to say.”

The man came to a halt. “Gram?” He glanced from the woman below him to the one behind him.

The older woman’s fingers clutched the shoulders of the little girl. But her hazel eyes reflected a mix of shock and concern. As Mrs. Santini released one hand, her fingers shook noticeably as she crushed the throat of her wool dress. “Hayley,” she said, obviously speaking to the child, “would you go upstairs and play? Your father and I need a private word with…Ms. Trent, is it?”

April nodded. The too-handsome man she now knew was Quinn Santini glared at her, then pushed back his sleeve and transferred his glare to a gold watch. “I’m already late for an important gathering, Gram. Can’t this wait?”

Mrs. Santini bit her lower lip and shook her head.

Seeing an advantage, April took it. She swept past Quinn and approached the stiff-backed yet elegant woman. “So the letters are yours? Yes, now that I see you in the light, there’s a resemblance to the woman in the passport photograph.”

April felt Quinn Santini’s breath on the back of her neck, above the rain-wet collar. It was all she could do not to shudder and spin to face him. Instead, she kept her eyes on his grandmother.

The little girl danced around on her toes. “Daddy, do I have to go upstairs? You said Gram and I could watch a DVD.”

“Please, Quinn, come in out of the rain. You’re both getting soaked.” Norma Santini beckoned her grandson and April into the house. “Ms. Trent may hold the key to a mystery that’s haunted me for years. And I…would…really like a glass of sherry while we speak.”

The man muttered, half to himself, “I don’t want dealings of any kind with anyone named Trent. If Coleman or Miles Trent sent her, she’s as likely as not to be a sneaky reporter, if not worse.”

April tossed her head. “I’m not! A reporter, that is. Cole is my father, and Miles and Roger are my brothers. I promise none of them have any inkling I found letters at my farmhouse. Well, n-not unless Eric blabbed.” It was April’s turn to stutter breathlessly as the possibility of Eric doing just that occurred to her. “Uh, that w-would be Eric Lathrop.”

“Lathrop?” Quinn hustled April none too gently inside and slammed the door. “I’m tired of being hounded by reporters. If you’re mixed up with Lathrop, I believe I’ll call the cops and have you charged with harassment.”

“Quinn! Enough!” His grandmother stood in front of a crackling blaze behind a fireplace screen. In the flickering light, she appeared pale and quite fragile. So much so, April wished she hadn’t come here at all.

“Mrs. Santini, I swear,” April said, “if the letters are yours, I want nothing—”

“Be quiet,” Quinn bellowed. “It doesn’t matter what you want. Hayley, please do as Gram asked,” he said, softening his tone as he addressed his daughter. “Go up and play with your dolls for a little bit, okay, hon? I’ll come and get you when we’re finished here and you can spend the rest of the evening with Gram.”

As the pretty blond child flounced across the room and stomped petulantly up the curved white staircase, April almost smiled. Quinn’s impatience was very evident in his daughter.

However, it was a noticeably less aggressive man who led his grandmother to a chair flanking the fireplace. He left her and crossed to a bar, pulling out a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream and pouring a glass, which he carried over to his grandmother. He neither offered April a seat, nor a glass of the sherry.

After a bracing sip, Norma recovered sufficiently to display a steelier persona. “Quinn, perhaps you ought to cancel your meeting. Young woman,” she said, leveling April with a haughty stare, “I’m prepared to negotiate a fair price. Why don’t you start by stating how much you want? Whatever I pay will include return of the letters, and I’ll expect your complete silence regarding their contents.”

“Grandmother, we’re not paying one red cent! Will you please tell me what the hell’s going on?” Quinn stepped between the two women, his stance fully protective of his grandmother and combative toward April.

That’s it! She’d had it with this family. Regardless of how much she’d like to hear the ice queen’s answer to her grandson’s question, April resented the implication that she’d come here to shake anyone down. She felt she had every right to the indignation that propelled her out the hand-carved door. And it was definitely satisfying to slam that door hard enough to hear the leaded-glass window rattle.

It was now dark, and the trees around her were deeply shadowed. She ran down the wet, winding drive, holding her breath until she made it through the open gate and climbed into the safety of her battered pickup. She wrenched the key in the ignition, her fingers unsteady. The whole ordeal had shaken her.

Let the letters rot in Robyn’s safe for all she cared. Likewise, her friend was more than welcome to Turner County’s most eligible bachelor—the jerk.

April forgot to turn on her windshield wipers until she reached the end of Santini’s street and realized the world outside her window was one big blur.

All she could think of at the moment was that no way in hell would Quinn Santini get her vote in the November election.

Chapter 2

“Quinn, don’t let her leave. Please catch her.” His grandmother half rose from her chair. Her glass wobbled, and some of the sherry splashed over the edge, onto the long sleeve of her dress.

“Let her go, and good riddance. If I leave now, I can probably still get to Representative Hoerner’s cocktail party. I’ll bring Hayley downstairs first. We did shuffle her off without much explanation.” Quinn headed for the staircase, but his grandmother called him back.

“I really need you to go after that young woman, Quinn.” When he scrutinized her intensely, Norma averted her gaze. Her lips trembled. “The letters she mentioned…It’s important…well, suffice it to say I’d like to have them in my possession.”

“Securing the letters is more important than meeting Sam Hoerner’s handpicked supporters? I’ve got a narrow lead in today’s poll.”

“Politics.” She pursed her lips. “I begged you not to get involved, Quinn.”

“I’ve also heard your views on Dan Mattingly.” A smile altered Quinn Santini’s narrow face and stern features, displaying instead the charm gossip columnists loved to write about.

“This is personal, Quinn.” His grandmother gestured with the glass, but her clearly worried gaze focused on the dark, rain-flecked window, as if by staring she could bring April Trent back.

“I know you were never at the farm, Quinn. I loved it so much, and I hated to leave it. But your grandfather decided he needed better freeway access. Tony bought this place and moved us here, right before Brett started elementary school.” She sighed. “I’m sure by now Ms. Trent is well on her way home. Quinn, dear, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding the farm. It’s the only house at the end of Oak Grove Road. The tracts of land adjoin federally reserved forest, which is why there are so few homes on that road.”

He expelled a breath. “I might be more inclined to rush out after that woman if you’d explain why a few old letters are so vital. And a passport? It can’t be yours. I’ve seen your passport, Gram. It might be decades out of date, but it’s locked in a drawer at the office.”

Norma drained her dainty glass and carried it to the sideboard near the compact bar. “Your grandfather filed to replace my lost passport probably a year after we moved to this house. I saw no need. I never planned to travel out of the country. But he insisted and even filled out the paperwork to request a new one in my married name. The passport in Ms. Trent’s possession is in my maiden name—Marsh. It should be destroyed, Quinn.”

“I shouldn’t think that it’s urgent. Unless you’re worried about some unsavory person getting hold of it and using it to try and steal your identity. Someone even more unsavory than April Trent.”

“Quinn, it’s unlike you to be this unpleasant to anyone. Especially to an attractive young woman.”

“Attractive? It must be time for your yearly eye exam.”

“Are you talking about the lady who was just here?” Hayley Santini sat cross-legged on the upper landing and took that moment to enter the conversation. Her little face peered down at the adults through ornate banister spindles. “I wish I had curly hair like hers. If my hair curled, I wouldn’t have to sit for hours ev’ry time Ethel or Gram say I need my hair to look nice for pictures and stuff.” Ethel was Quinn and Norma’s shared housekeeper. Ethel Langford had been a middle daughter in a family of eight children, but she’d never had kids of her own. Hence the housekeeper tended to dote on six-year-old Hayley.

“Exactly how many times a year would that be, Hayley? Easter and Christmas?” Quinn asked jokingly.

“Attractive means I consider Ms. Trent very pretty, Hayley,” Norma Santini said. “Your father disagrees.”

“She is pretty, Daddy.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing with your dolls?”

“It’s boring up here, and ’sides, Daddy, you guys were yelling.”

Instantly contrite, Quinn hurried up the stairs and hoisted his daughter into his arms for a hug. Hayley had been barely a year old when Brett Santini’s small plane had been struck by lightning and crashed in a rugged part of the Allegheny Mountains, killing Quinn’s father, mother and wife. At the time, Hayley’s pediatrician said he thought Hayley was young enough not to be affected by the accident that had nearly devastated Quinn. Actually, neither one had been quick to recover.

Two women Quinn had tried dating three years after the accident, accused him of overcompensating for his losses by spoiling Hayley. His daughter was bright and sensitive and his spoiling just meant he wanted her with him when he had free time. So his response to both women had simply been to stop dating them—or anyone. Dating simply cut into his role as dad.

Since Hayley had entered kindergarten, though, she’d started to notice and exclaim over women she thought were pretty or nice. Last week she’d picked out a clerk in a store, and later during that same outing, a waitress. In a voice the women had to have heard, Hayley declared them very pretty and asked if her dad thought either one was married.

But April Trent? She wore boots like a lumberjack.

Quinn tickled Hayley’s ribs as he carried her down to the main floor, and deposited her in a chair by the fire. “Listen, hon, Gram thinks your dad was too hard on Ms. Trent. I guess I’d better go see what I can do to smooth her ruff led feathers. I’ll change my clothes and make a few phone calls before I head out. You can pop in one of the DVDs we brought over.”

“Is ‘smooth ruff led feathers’ like saying you’re sorry for yelling at her?”

Adjusting the knife creases in his tux pants, Quinn straightened fully and began to rub the back of his neck. His troubled eyes sought his grandmother’s.

“Apology might be a bit much, since she showed up here uninvited. But Gram wants me to, uh, discuss something with Ms. Trent.” Crossing to where Norma sat, he crouched to speak softly. “I know you said you’d pay her for the return of the letters,” Quinn said, “but I won’t…can’t do that. Gram, think how that could be misconstrued?”

Norma lowered her voice. “Maybe you should listen to Hayley’s suggestion. You were rude to Ms. Trent. A simple apology might achieve our goal.”

“If I knew the goal,” he muttered, and left her with a look that said plainly it was against his inclinations to go after April Trent.

On the way to his house out back, Quinn spent more time mulling over what excuse he’d give Hoerner for skipping out on his generous cocktail party. After changing clothes, Quinn called the kindly state representative and explained that his grandmother urgently required his help.

Not until Quinn drove out the gate did he realize it stood wide open. Only then did he feel less hostile toward the woman who’d disrupted his evening. Yesterday, Joseph Langford, Gram’s driver, had reported to Quinn that he’d had trouble closing the electronic gate. So April Trent hadn’t scaled the fence as Quinn had all but accused her of doing. She’d strolled right through.

Now he’d probably have to apologize. And tomorrow get onto the perimeter-fence firm to fix the system. The company should have phoned him when they detected a breach. Quinn paid dearly for a firm to monitor the gate’s daily operation—one more nuisance to add to a growing list, at a time when election meet-and-greets, donor balls, et cetera, were exploding into high gear.

And now this…this letter debacle of his grandmother’s. The Trent person had referred to them as love letters. What kind of nonsense was that? Although his grandmother hadn’t rushed to deny that claim, or anything else April Trent had said.

Quinn’s head pounded as he considered even the hint of a skeleton popping out of his family closet this close to the end of a bitter campaign. His opponent was the king of muckrakers.

Or was he dodging shadows where none existed? After all, they were talking about Grandmother Santini. As far back as Quinn could remember, she’d epitomized grace and dignity. As well, she’d been happily married to the grandfather he’d never met for—what—more than two decades? He’d heard his dad brag that Anthony had rubbed elbows with Presidents Roosevelt, Truman and Eisenhower. Quinn was probably worrying about nothing. Besides, trying to throw dirt on an eighty-two-year-old woman was bound to backfire.

God, those letters must be ancient. Quinn’s grandfather had died before Quinn was even born. 1968, he thought. Gram had always lived alone in the big house, but her only son had lived close by. Quinn grew up running in and out of both places. Until he went off to college. Right out of law school, he’d married Amy, and they’d moved to Richmond, where he took a job as a state prosecuting attorney. He’d been twenty-four. No, twenty-five. Lordy, where had those ten years gone? He was thirty-five now, and tonight he felt every minute of it.

Jeez, it was dark in this neck of the woods. The lack of street lights didn’t help; neither did the squall that had sprung up.

Straining to see through the hypnotic swish of wiper blades, Quinn suddenly slammed his foot on the brake and felt the rear of the car fishtail before he managed to stop—there was a doe elk standing in the center of the road. Seconds later, a big bull elk bounded out of the darkness. The two magnificent animals cantered across the asphalt and melted into a thicket of underbrush to Quinn’s left. Rain hammered on the sunroof of the Lexus, reminding him to get underway. He turned on the radio to a favorite classical station before starting off at a much slower pace. Who knew what kind of wildlife might live out here?

Even though he drove slowly, he passed Oak Grove Road and was forced to make a U-turn. Quinn wondered what had possessed a young woman to buy a home so remote from any neighbors. How old was April Trent, anyway? Her brother Miles, was roughly Quinn’s age. Roger had to be a few years Miles’s junior, as he’d only recently finished an orthopedic residency in Bethesda. Quinn had also heard that Roger had just bought a practice, located near the Trents’ law firm, from a newly retired surgeon. Which didn’t tell Quinn a thing about April’s age. He considered himself a reasonable judge of age, since he’d spent several years representing men and women from their teens to their midnineties in court. One learned to gauge people quickly and accurately.

Quinn would be willing to bet April Trent was staring down the barrel of thirty. He couldn’t imagine why he’d even noticed, but she hadn’t worn a wedding ring. Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t living out here in the sticks with a significant other. He decided she probably was. Otherwise, he would’ve run across her in the parade of twenty-to-thirtyish singles who stalked the favorite cocktail bars of the area’s upwardly mobile.

He grimaced, recalling how many of the town’s unattached women had gone out of their way to meet him. It had become embarrassing, if not annoying. When he griped to friends, they pointed out that was a normal part of being in the public eye. Married pals were quick to add that if Quinn would pick one of the many available women and settle down, it’d be broadcast far and wide and he’d be out of the market. He would—if he ever found someone who shared his commitment to the environment and to family—someone who wasn’t just interested in his money and so-called good looks.

The road narrowed and branches draped low over what had become a series of potholes. There! Lights straight ahead. Hadn’t Gram said the farmhouse sat at the road’s end?

He could only picture how muddy his car must be as he eased down a drive that resembled one giant mud puddle. Quinn sat surveying the house for a moment after he shut off the car’s motor. The building was long, low-slung, with a new shake roof, but with walls solidly built of red brick. Quinn saw the potential in the whole package. People paid well for privacy, and this place certainly offered that.

He opened the door and climbed out slowly. He vaguely wondered if April Trent had a dog she’d trained to take an intruder’s leg off.

Except for the patter of rain and the sizzle when raindrops struck the hot hood of his car, he was engulfed in silence. Quinn liked solitude. So did his grandmother. He was beginning to see why she’d hated to leave this farmhouse.

April, who’d taken a break from sanding original cove molding she wanted to reuse for its authenticity, heard a car enter her drive. Was it Eric coming back again—to see if he could wheedle the letters out of her?

She jammed the cork into the bottle of white wine from which she’d just poured herself a glass. She glanced at the rows of crystal stemware hanging upside down under a cupboard wine rack she’d added in her full kitchen remodel. If she poured Eric a glass of wine, it might encourage him to think he held a special place in her life, which wasn’t true. She opened her fridge and set the bottle and her full glass on a shelf.

She closed the fridge and waited for the chime of her doorbell. Nothing. An icy feeling slithered up her spine. Reaching for her portable phone, she turned off the kitchen lights, then slipped between the thick plastic sheeting and around the corner.

It was odd, but until she’d found those letters, and Eric and then the Santinis had gotten so snippy with her, April had never experienced a moment of unease about living in unfinished homes in desolate places. Now she wished she had curtains on the two huge picture windows that flanked her front door. Only one dim outdoor light shed any glimmer through the darkness.

Dropping to her knees, she crawled under the window and crept to the door. The sudden shrill ringing of the doorbell made her yelp and fall backward. “Who’s there?” she called shakily, not liking the fright she could hear in her own voice.

“It’s Quinn Santini.”

Bolting upright, April peaked around the window frame, and sure enough, there he stood on her porch, broad shoulders hunched forward to ward off the slanting rain.

“What do you want?” A fast examination of the man on her porch told April he no longer wore his made-to-order tuxedo. But, damn, in the feeble, diffused light shining from the single porch bulb, Santini looked even more gorgeous in faded blue jeans and well-worn sweatshirt than he had in that tux. His sun-streaked blond hair, appealingly tousled, curled around his ears from the rain.

In the silence, he announced loudly, “My grandmother wants the letters you found.”

“Is she with you?”

“No. Listen, let me in so we can talk terms. I know I said I wouldn’t pay…but I brought my checkbook.”

April sucked in a narrow stream of air. “Please go. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

“I didn’t drive all the way to hell and gone just to leave again without those damned letters, Ms. Trent.”

“Well, you’re not getting them,” she shouted.

“I want them.” Clearly frustrated, he slapped a flat palm against the door.

“I’m holding my phone, Mr. Santini. If you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to call the police and tell them you’re harassing me.” She didn’t add “turn about is fair play,” but she wanted to throw his own threat back in his face.

“Don’t do that!” Quinn paced over to the window and cupped his hands around his eyes, attempting to see inside.

When she saw what he was doing, April stepped right in front of his face, misshapen by the rain on glass. She snapped on an interior light and shook the phone in a menacing manner, making sure he got her message. Then she punched out the 9 and the first 1 in 911. Where he could see.

“Stop,” he bellowed, and raised hands in a placating gestures. “I’ll go,” he mouthed. “I am going.” He backed up. “But we aren’t finished,” he yelled again. “You haven’t heard the last about this.” With that final word he stomped down the remaining steps and moved out of sight.

With her finger still hovering over the last number, April stood there until she knew he’d crawled into his expensive vehicle, started the motor and backed up her long muddy drive. When his lights had disappeared and all was dark again, she collapsed against the door. More than ever she needed that glass of wine.

It wasn’t until she’d calmed down enough to retrieve her wine that she paused to reflect on the recent scene and wished she’d let Santini know she didn’t even have the letters here.

Her phone rang. April snatched it up, somehow expecting it to be Santini. Instead, Eric Lathrop’s voice floated across the line. After saying hello, he gave April the same song and dance Quinn Santini had about wanting the letters. “April, my editor authorized me to pay you a thousand dollars cash for the bundle you pulled out of the wall today.”

“Why would he do that?” she gasped. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Because old man Santini, Anthony, did major traveling in Europe for the government before and after the Second World War. The fact that letters written in German were apparently preserved and hidden in a sealed wall in a home he built may implicate Tony in something more unsavory than an affair. What was that guy’s name, the guy who signed the letters? Maybe he was trying to blackmail Santini—or his wife. Let me do some digging on the Internet. If I don’t find anything, you’ll still be a thousand bucks richer.”

“I’m hanging up, Eric. I’m not giving you the letters, so forget it. I have them in a safe place.” She slammed down the phone and didn’t pick up again although it continued to ring. After it finally went silent, she called Robyn, but got her friend’s answering machine.

“Hey, Robyn, it’s April. I left those old letters in your safe. I’ll come by in the next day or so to get them, okay? Meanwhile, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention them to anyone. Not even friends. Above all, don’t let Eric, or anyone from his paper, know you’ve got them. If you have questions, I’m here working on the house.”

Quinn had to get out in the rain and fiddle with the gate to make it lock. That only added to his frustration over having his mission thwarted. He hated coming home empty-handed. Especially since he was no closer to knowing what was going on with his grandmother and those letters than when he’d first learned of their existence.

It was after eight-thirty when he took off his muddy shoes and used his key to enter the big house. His grandmother had wanted to move into the smaller of the two homes after her son’s plane crashed. She’d begged Quinn to sell his and Amy’s modest house in the suburb and move into the mansion. The so-called cottage out back was where his folks had lived. His mom babysat Hayley while Quinn’s wife, Amy, worked for the family firm. Even at Hayley’s young age, Quinn had decided she’d feel less traumatized in more familiar quarters, so he’d moved them into the smaller house.

Two things had saved all six of them from going down on that plane. Hayley had come down with chicken pox, and the court had moved up a murder trial Quinn had been handling.

He rarely let himself think about the events that had led up to the accident. It had rained that night, too. He hadn’t wanted to go on the trip, and felt guilty ever since, which might be why he felt driven to go after the senate seat his dad had dreamed of one day winning.

Norma rose from the flowered couch where she sat next to Quinn’s sleeping daughter. That, too, reminded him of that long-ago evening. Did his grandmother share his twinges of guilt? After all, she’d volunteered to stay behind with the itchy, irritable toddler so Amy wouldn’t have to give up relaxing at the condo on Hilton Head.

Tonight, unlike the night her mother and grandparents were killed, Hayley had fallen into an easy sleep watching TV. Norma had thrown one of the many afghans she’d knit over Hayley.

If Quinn had planned for a late night, Norma would’ve tucked Hayley into the bedroom upstairs that he’d furnished with a canopy bed exactly like the one in her room at home. With his job as attorney and now as a serious U.S. Senate candidate, it seemed that she slept here more than at home. Quinn suffered plenty of guilt over that.

“Mercy, Quinn, you’re soaked. And where are your shoes?”

“I left them on the porch. It was muddy out at the farm. Also, when I got home, the front gate acted up. I had to climb around the ditch and jiggle the electronic eye. I’m not sure if it’s the same problem Joseph mentioned. I’ll call the company tomorrow, and have them check the entire security system. It’s because the gate was open that April Trent was able to march right up to the house.”

“That irritating system was something your grandfather insisted on before we moved to this house. It was the beginning of his paranoia.”

“Paranoia? Aren’t you exaggerating a bit?”

“No, Quinn. I thought you knew he started drinking heavily when your dad was Hayley’s age. That’s when he hired Joseph to drive me to town, and Brett to school, among other eccentric whims.”

“Dad mentioned that Granddad had an alcohol problem. On the other hand, he worked for the government. Maybe he couldn’t be too careful. Since I’ve become a candidate for the senate, I worry about crazies. The world is full of them. Come to think of it, we don’t know whether April Trent’s one or not.”

“I hate to be impatient, Quinn, but…where are the letters?”

“I didn’t get them.”

She looked panicked. “Why not?”

“Because April Trent is cagier than I gave her credit for.”

“Goodness, is she holding out for more than you’re willing to pay? I’ll pay anything within reason.”

He shrugged. “She wouldn’t discuss how much she wants. When I asked to sit down and talk, she threatened to phone the cops. She wasn’t bluffing, either. I was afraid her reporter pal, Eric Lathrop, was waiting to pop out of the bushes with a camera. Wouldn’t that have been a great photo to see on the front page tomorrow? Along with headlines accusing Quinn Santini, U.S. Senate candidate, of harassing the daughter of a rival lawyer.”

“Quinn, I really don’t think this has anything to do with you being a candidate.”

“Really? Then what reason would she have for flatly refusing to name her top figure—or even a bottom line? And she had me at a disadvantage, after all. I have no idea what the letters are worth. Which brings me back to the question I asked you right after she flew out of here in the first place. What the hell are we dickering over anyway, Gram? Suppose I get a cup of coffee and dry off by the fire while you fill me in.”

“I apologize for sending you out in a storm tonight, and for making you miss an opportunity to meet possible contributors to your campaign,” she said formally. “Thank you for putting yourself out. It was wrong of me to foist this matter off on you, busy as you are. I’m sorry if my desire to take a trip down memory lane caused you added anxiety. You have enough on your plate. Take Hayley home, and fix yourself a hot toddy. Try and relax.”

He rubbed his forefinger and thumb down each side of his nose and over his lips, before sending his grandmother a long, contemplative look. “Earlier, when April Trent barged in with her ridiculous story, I had the feeling you believed it.”

Norma twirled a well-kept hand that didn’t reflect her advanced years. “It’s just an old woman’s silliness. Off you go, Quinn. We won’t talk about this again.”

More relieved than he was willing to admit, Quinn shook his head and bent to pick up his sleeping child, blanket and all. “I have to say it’s been one of my more interesting evenings. Probably more interesting than if I’d gone to Sam Hoerner’s bash.” He smiled wryly. “If you’ve been to one political cocktail party…”

Norma aimed an equally wry smile in her grandson’s direction while preceding him to the door. “You wouldn’t listen to me. It’s the life you’ve let yourself in for.”

Biting his tongue until she opened the door, Quinn ducked out, pulling on his mud-spattered shoes. “I certainly hope a senator’s job offers more excitement than sipping watered-down martinis and pretending to be interested in the cocktail chatter of bored suburban housewives who happen to have rich husbands.”

“You’d better hope times have changed, Quinn. In my day, debutantes and wives of the wealthiest entrepreneurs were privy to high-level state secrets and they brought down many a powerful skeptic.”

Quinn glanced back and flashed her a broad grin. “Spies, you mean? Like the rumors that floated around about Marlene Dietrich and Julia Child? Gram, if you believe that nonsense, you’re spending too much time watching late-night TV.”

She rubbed her arms to ward off the chill and listened to his laughter fade as he disappeared into the rain. Going inside, she locked the door, then picked up the phone that connected her to the loft rooms above the garage. “Joseph, it’s Norma. I’d like to ride along tomorrow when you take Hayley to day camp. There’s a little side trip I want to make….” When he asked where, she said, “I learned that a young woman’s renovating the farmhouse where Tony and I lived when we were first married. I’m interested in seeing what kind of changes she’s made to the old place. Nine? I’ll be ready. But I see no reason to mention our plans to Quinn. He’ll think I’m a nostalgic old fool.” She paused as Joseph commented on Quinn’s schedule. “That’s right. One day he’ll slow down. Still, I can’t fathom my grandson getting misty-eyed over relics from his past, let alone mine.” Norma chatted a bit longer before saying goodbye to her driver.

She felt she’d put her dilemma in perspective, but Joseph had underscored another issue. Young men weren’t sentimental. She should never have sent Quinn after her old love letters.

Shutting off the lights around the house, Norma went upstairs to get ready for bed. She’d thought the letters were long gone—thought Tony had found them and thrown them away She wondered why he hadn’t done that, then decided he must have wanted to make sure noone could dig them out of the trash. He’d become more and more paranoid, she recalled sadly, more fearful and suspicious.

Still, her heart felt lighter than it had in…oh, years.

As she washed her face and gazed at her image in the bathroom mirror, Norma Santini imagined herself the pretty girl of nineteen, the girl she’d been when Heinz had written her those letters. Her heart beat a little faster. Heinz—her first love. It was true what the romantics claimed; A woman never forgot her first love.

Chapter 3

Unable to settle down after Quinn Santini left, April spent a good hour mulling over why the man and his grandmother would even consider paying for property that belonged to them. Or at least, belonged to Norma.

As April had been the one to approach them about the letters, she would’ve thought Quinn was more likely to threaten to sue her for their return than pay her.

Eric’s boss—April understood his willingness to shell out the bucks. Knowing Eric as well as she did, she figured he’d probably built the letters into a promised scandal. The lengths to which Eric’s editor was willing to go was further proof that politics was a messy business. She’d checked the newspaper online and read back issues. There were editorials against Quinn’s platform and twice as many supporting his opponent.

So much for unbiased reporting.

But it was Quinn and Norma’s reaction that April found bizarre. It bothered her so much, she let it disrupt her plan to catch up on paperwork tonight.

Of the two Santinis, Quinn had been the one most visibly upset at the existence of the letters. Thinking back to when she’d blurted out the reason for her visit to their home, April recalled Mrs. Santini’s face. Unless her memory was completely off base, Norma had been shocked, but overjoyed, too. Then why had Quinn been so anxious to lay hands on the letters? He’d been willing to scrap what he’d declared to be an important previous engagement. Were the Santinis trying to protect themselves—or the identity of the letter writer?

April went back to her laptop. A college friend had located her birth mother through an Internet search. April didn’t know where to start. In France, perhaps. Darn, what was the name of that city?

It eluded her, and she didn’t own an atlas. Since she lived in the homes she remodeled, she never kept a lot of extraneous stuff. As a rule she scoured flea markets for a sparse quantity of furniture that would show well when she was ready to sell the house.

Scrolling through possible sites, April found a map of France. She hoped the city jotted on the back of Norma’s snapshot would jump out at her. But the print on the map was so small, she couldn’t place anything. And she’d forgotten her printer was on the fritz and that she’d dropped it off at the computer store for repair last week.

Giving up, she stored the map until she could remember the town. Instead, she Googled missing-person sites. Two that she checked out charged a hefty fee. And even to start, they wanted more information than a name, although one site said they’d work from a name and last-known location. Although disappointed that she didn’t seem to be making any headway, she typed in Heinz von Weisenbach’s name and requested a general search. No matches came up. She tried adding France. To her astonishment, two H. von Weisenbachs popped up. She bookmarked the site in case she wanted to go back at a later date. The first listing was a dud. It took her to a family-owned landscape-architect business in Mulhouse, France. April was positive that wasn’t the right city. The blurb listed a Web address should viewers want virtual examples of the family’s work. She scrolled on, muttering, “Sorry, folks. Your company’s a bit too far away to handle my landscaping needs.”

A double click on the second name took her to a U.S. military site with short paragraphs on medal recipients from various wars. Recipients were listed alphabetically. Her excitement quickly fizzled when she saw that this Heinz von Weisenbach, although in a correct age range, must’ve been an American. He’d been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal for meritorious service—a medal authorized by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Unwilling to give up, April returned to the professional search site. Muttering, “what the heck,” she typed in her credit card information, followed by von Weisenbach’s name and last-known location as simply France. Satisfied that she’d done the most she could toward solving the mystery of the man in the photograph, April exited the site, and set the laptop on her nightstand.

She’d wasted enough time for one day on Norma and Quinn Santini. Still too restless to dig into boring paperwork but wide awake, she decided to work on something more immediate than worrying about a stranger’s old love letters. She went back to sanding pieces of cove molding that needed to be stained and nailed back up in the dining room. After a light sanding and brushing, she rummaged around until she found a small can of stain mixed to match the built-in cabinets.

Her watch indicated nearly 1:00 a.m. before she finished the chore, cleaned her brush and set the molding on sawhorses to dry.

Her busywork hadn’t produced the hoped-for effect. Long after she went to bed, her mind wouldn’t shut down. She continued to fret over the letters so many people desired. Quinn and Norma Santini. Eric Lathrop. And Eric’s boss. Not for the first time, April wished she had a better command of German.

The last time she looked, her bedside clock read three forty-five.

In spite of an almost-sleepless night, April rose early the next morning. Refusing to ruin another day by dwelling on Santini, his family or the letters, April dressed and brewed a pot of her favorite hazelnut coffee. She prepared cinnamon toast and munched on it while the coffee finished dripping through the French press. The French press reminded her of those blasted letters.

Gazing out the window above the sink, she was glad to see that although the sky was overcast, the rain had apparently blown out to the coast before dawn. That was the usual pattern for fall storms sweeping up from the south. The squalls came and went quickly this time of year.

When she’d poured herself a cup of the rich, dark, nutty-tasting coffee, she strolled in to check the cove molding. The stain had dried and looked terrific. Balancing her cup on a nearby sawhorse, she got busy nailing the moldings around the newly painted and wallpapered, dining room. This was the stage of remodeling April loved most, when rooms she’d visualized for so long came together. In this case, she’d waited six months for Robyn to locate period wallpaper that closely resembled the paper she’d uncovered beneath three layers of newer wall coverings. The wait had been worth it. It was these extra touches that had buyers standing in line for one of her finished houses.

After her last project had been featured in the real estate section of syndicated papers in Virginia, Maryland and D.C., her mom finally began to pay attention to April’s enterprise. So much so, that at the last family gathering, Bonnie Trent had even ventured faint praise. Unlike the cutting remarks leveled by April’s snobbish sisters-in-law or the outright denigrating comments made by her brothers.

Midway through the painstaking task of fitting corner molding, the growl of a car engine forced April to scramble off her ladder, parting the plastic to peer out the living room window. The sight of a big black Lincoln Town Car idling in her driveway rattled April for a frantic second. Her immediate reaction, foolish though it might be, was that Quinn Santini had sent a hit man after her.

Her panic subsided the minute an elderly stoop-shouldered gentleman wearing a chauffeur’s cap climbed from the car and opened the back door. April identified the woman who emerged—and stifled the hysterical giggles as her exaggerated fear gave way to relief.

Still, seeing Norma Santini arriving here at all—let alone in such style—was a shock. Especially, dressed as she was today in square-toed boots, jeans and a rather ordinary car coat. April was caught off guard, and yet curiosity sent her scurrying to her door.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” Norma said brightly as she glanced up. She’d been taking in her surroundings, paying little heed to the mud puddles along the unfinished drive. “I expected to see this place crawling with workmen. Except for the new shake roof, the old place looks much the same as I remember it.”

“I generally work alone, except for a few specialized projects and for those I hire craftsmen,” April said, talking too quickly. “I stay true to the period of the home, but I do make some changes. For instance, I open up small, dark rooms and create larger ones with more light. Homes built back then didn’t have the open spaces we prefer now.”

Norma paused on the lowest step and made a second slow circuit to look around. “I see you also opened up the front and made the house more visible from the road than it used to be. I cleared the area near the house to plant a big garden. I liked the privacy provided by the trees between the house and the road.” She made a sweep with her right hand. “That’s where I hung at least a dozen bird feeders. A useless attempt to keep the pests from eating my corn and tomatoes. This land is on a flyway, so we were inundated with migrating flocks.”

“Oh, that explains the birds’ names on those papers stuck between the letters.”

Norma spun back around and gave April a quizzical look. “Ah…I believe one bird was the oriole,” April quickly mumbled. “I forget the other.”

“Hmm. As you might guess, the letters are why I’m here.”

“I’m sorry you made the trip across town for nothing. I don’t have them. I left them in town, Mrs. Santini. But don’t worry. They’re locked in a friend’s office safe.”

Wind ruff led strands of white hair around a narrow face that fell noticeably at April’s news.

That prompted her to add, “I plan to run into town this afternoon to visit a brick mason—I want him to enclose carriage lamps I bought to flank each side of the drive.” April’s gesture encompassed a muddy circle cordoned off for the drive. “If you think you’ll be home around…say, three,” she said, “I’ll bring you the letters.”

“So…I assume you’ve decided on a price?”

“What? No. Mrs. Santini, I tried to tell you yesterday, I don’t want anything. I realize I lost my temper. Twice—once with your grandson—and I apologize. But please understand…no one has ever accused me of attempted blackmail before. He also insinuated that I was a gold digger,” April said with a sigh. “I’m sure he repeated every word of our shouting match.”

Apparently tuning April out, Norma ran a hand over the brick-and-mortar siding. “I was wrong to send Quinn out here,” she murmured. “This farm has no place in his memories. Not the way it does for me. Perhaps you’re one of the few people who can appreciate how difficult it was for Anthony to scrounge the materials to build this house before the war ended. He did the majority of the work, since most builders were off fighting. This house was little more than a shell when we got married and he brought me here.” She shook her head. “We moved only five years later. I hated to leave.”

“Mrs. Santini, since you’re here would you like to have a look inside?” April jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the partially finished interior.

“I’d like that very much. But please, call me Norma.”

“Norma, then. The carpeting hasn’t been installed, and I have no window coverings yet. I uncovered the most marvelous wood floors in the bedrooms when I pulled out the old carpet. The smallest of the three bedrooms has different wood from the other two. It’s lovely—quite unique. Perhaps you’ll know if it’s a local hardwood.”

Following April inside, Norma took care to scrape the mud off her boots, even though April assured her she’d have to clean many times before having new carpet laid.

Once inside, Norma stood completely still, saying over and over, “Oh my, oh my.”

“The wall I removed separated a tiny room from the living area. These days a lot of people need a home office, and I thought it’d be perfect as a work-space alcove. I’ll install beveled-glass French doors here.” April traced out an area. “This was the wall where I found the letters. Without it, I imagine the room looks very different from what you remember.”

April retrieved her coffee mug from the sawhorse. Lifting it, she spoke into the lengthening silence. “Could I get you some coffee, Norma?”

“What? Oh, I’d love some. I feel…light-headed. I’m afraid I simply wasn’t prepared for all these memories.”

“Do you need to sit? I’ll help you into the kitchen. That and my bedroom are the only rooms I’ve furnished in order to live and work here.” She led the older woman to the breakfast nook and pulled out a chair. Hurrying over to the carafe, April poured a mug full of coffee and returned to put it in Norma’s cold hands.

“You asked about the flooring in the smallest bedroom,” Norma said, after taking a bracing sip of coffee. “Yellow poplar. The only stand that’s left, I believe, is in Ramsey’s Draft Wilderness area.” She pointed out the window. “That room ended up being Brett’s nursery.” Norma set down her mug, crossed her arms and rubbed her sleeves as if warding off a chill.

But she’d never removed her quilted coat and she wore a turtleneck sweater underneath. Seeing the home had obviously been overwhelming. April urged her to drink more of her coffee.

That did seem to help Norma’s color. Rather than remain seated, however, she rose and went to examine the kitchen. “You’ve done a wonderful job with the cabinets. What I wouldn’t have given back then to have this kitchen.”

“You didn’t have a cook?” That surprised April.

“Heavens, no. Tony owned this land, but not much else. As I said, construction materials came at a premium. He had some savings when he retired as an army major and that’s what he used. We’d both left the OSS by then, so for a time we had no income.”

“OSS?” Slipping in behind Norma as she left the kitchen, April wondered what that was. She’d never heard of it before.

“Yes, dear. The Office of Strategic Services. But you’re probably too young to be familiar with it. The OSS was the forerunner to our current CIA. It’s how I met Tony. Of course, then I didn’t know his name, nor he mine. He was one of several officers picked to train agents. And I was one of a few select women who ended up wearing many faces, my dear.”

April gulped, afraid that Norma might be delusional. And as the old woman moved slowly from room to room, murmuring to herself, it was as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. She let old memories unfold in almost a whisper. “In 1943 I was a blissfully naive eighteen. I’d completed a year at Barnard, then attended finishing school abroad. I loved Europe. My father was an international banker, and throughout my teen years we spent a month here or there in France, Germany, Italy. All before the war broke out. When it did, my parents called me home. I was eager to do something to help the war effort—anything except fill cocktail glasses at the parties my parents held to raise money for the troops. I guess that made me the perfect OSS candidate.”

Pausing at the door to one of the empty bedrooms, Norma turned and walked back to the living room, April not far behind.

Nervous, April bit her lip, but said nothing to interrupt Norma’s soft flow of words. She was intrigued, but also wasn’t sure any of this was true. But…maybe it was.

“A general who often attended Father’s evening fundraisers was interested to learn that I’d traveled extensively abroad. And that I was fluent in several languages. At one party he pulled me aside and asked questions in French, Italian and German. I have an aptitude for languages. And before he left that night, he slipped me a business card. He said he had a job for me in Washington.”

Norma stopped in front of the massive fireplace and ran her fingers over the oak mantel, but continued to ramble. “The war changed everyone. Under normal circumstances my parents would never have approved of me working, other than at home for Father. But my older brother and his friends had shipped out to England. Mother’s women’s group helped by rolling bandages, which I found too tame.”

She crossed to stare out the side window. “At the time I put the general’s card in my pocket and agreed to an interview. I told my parents that at most I’d be answering phones, filing or typing in some moldy back office on Capitol Hill. It turned out the general was recruiting me to be a specialized support person in Europe. To be extra eyes and ears for a newly formed counterintelligence unit, he said. I wasn’t allowed to tell a soul, my parents included. Real names weren’t spoken aloud.” She turned toward April and sighed. “A dashing and very attractive officer, whose name I learned much later was Anthony Santini, assigned us code names. Mine was Oriole. He and our other trainers were older and far more experienced than I was. They were so impressive and very serious. I spent weeks in awe of them.”

April remembered the page tucked among the letters addressed to Oriole from Kestrel. April guessed Tony Santini might be Kestrel. So, if Norma’s story wasn’t a figment of her imagination, the scrambled letters on the pages she’d seen could be secret, encrypted messages.

April injected her first comment in a while. “When I was in college, I read a biography of the Countess Romanones, who supposedly worked as a clerk in a U.S. company with offices abroad. Part of her job was actually to decode intercepted enemy messages.”

Norma’s head shot up. “I did that for a few months. I was used to helping my father with his banking, and I discovered I was good at unscrambling codes. Things moved fast, though, and I was transferred to Morale Operations, later called psychological warfare. We disseminated propaganda, so I began delivering messages to field agents, as well. I was taught to kill swiftly and silently when necessary—but fortunately it wasn’t necessary, not for me. Still, a difficult lesson for a refined former debutante. It was far easier to act like a silly young woman out for a good time. In those situations I was expected only to store the conversations taking place around me in a number of languages. Although sometimes that had serious consequences, too,” she said, her eyes blanking momentarily.

Such a sad expression came over Norma that April’s imagination ran wild. So wild, she stopped her guest right there. “Mrs. Santini, uh, Norma. I can’t bear to think I’ve contributed to these painful memories.” Gently, April tugged the mug from the woman’s tense fingers and began escorting Norma back to the entrance. “Those letters and any information they contain should be kept private.”

At the door, April squeezed Norma’s arm. “I swear I’ll return them this afternoon. I’ll try for three o’clock, four at the latest. I ought to be able to manage that, but I really should get back to the work I was doing before you arrived.”

Her promise seemed to relieve Norma. Still, April had grown more curious than ever about those letters—and why they were hidden in a wall. Obviously, someone had intended they’d never see the light of day. If the letters contained damning secrets, why hadn’t Norma simply burned them in the old stone fireplace that flanked the very wall where they’d been discovered?

Teary-eyed, Norma held tight to April’s arm as they maneuvered down the outside steps. “April, you can’t even begin to know how happy you’ve made me. I thought those letters and photographs were gone forever. I thought Anthony had destroyed them.” Awkwardly, Norma turned back and hugged April.

As they stood there, April glanced out at the road—and recognized Eric Lathrop’s battered red compact some distance away but moving inexorably closer.

“Norma, you have to leave now! The reporter I mentioned yesterday…he’s on his way here. Eric’s not so bad, but he’s persistent when he’s after a story. I’m sorry to say he saw your letters, and he’s sure there’s a scandal contained in them. What’s more, his boss is biased against your son. So, you need to go.” April couldn’t have hustled Norma to her car any faster, practically lifting the slight woman off her feet. When the chauffeur opened his door and struggled to get out, April motioned him back inside. She opened the back door and stuffed Norma in, all while babbling that the chauffeur should get moving now.

The two vehicles passed as Eric swung into April’s lane and the old six-passenger Lincoln shot out onto the two-lane county road.

Eric vaulted from his car, leaving his door hanging and his engine running. He dashed up to April, and grabbed her arm. “Dammit all, did you just give Santini’s mother those letters? You lied last night when you said you didn’t have them here. You know I want them, and I was willing to pay.”

From her seat in the back of the Lincoln, Norma Santini craned her neck to see the reporter. She saw him grabbing April. Tapping Joseph’s shoulder, she said, “Slow down please, Joseph. I think that man’s up to mischief.” The words had barely left her lips when Norma saw April plant her thick-soled work boot squarely on the reporter’s instep. He let go of her and hopped around rubbing his foot. April went into the house and slammed the door.

“Never mind, Joseph. Ms. Trent has taken care of the problem. I’m so glad I came to see her.” Settling into her seat again, Norma indulged in a satisfied smile. “April puts me in mind of myself at her age. Oh, I wish she hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot with Quinn. Wouldn’t they make a grand pair? Did I mention she’s dropping by the house this afternoon, Joseph? I wonder if I could persuade her to stay for dinner,” she murmured.

The chauffeur, who’d been with Norma since well before her husband’s death, threw her a glance in the rearview mirror—a glance that warned her she should proceed with caution in that particular matter.

True to her word, April collected the letters from Robyn, who said, “I got your frantic message. What’s the big mystery, April? Why are Eric Lathrop and his boss so interested in those letters? By the way, did I tell you I’m redecorating his boss’s home? Even his witless wife brought up the letters. She pumped me about how well I knew you and asked whether I thought you’d give Eric or her husband the information they want. What information?”

April opened her briefcase and dropped the letters on top of the brick mason’s bid. “Robyn, in about half an hour, it’s going to be a moot point. I’m on my way to Mrs. Santini’s place now to give her back her letters.” She groaned. “Considering how much trouble they’ve been, I wish I’d never found them.” Briefly, April filled her friend in on Eric’s latest attempt to get the letters.

“So I take it you’re not going to Quinn Santini’s fund-raising ball with Eric? He apparently told his boss you were.”

“My brother gave him some tickets. But no, I won’t be attending anything with Eric. He’s toast as far as I’m concerned.”

“Good. You can do better. But I hoped we could go shopping for dresses. I feel a shopping attack hovering,” Robyn said with a wink as April prepared to leave her shop.

“I’ll tag along. I love watching you shell out money, Robyn.” They arranged an afternoon to meet for lunch and shopping.

There were two men working on the Santini front gate when April tried to turn into the drive. “Norma Santini’s expecting me,” she said after rolling down her window.

The workmen weren’t very trusting. One phoned the house and received an okay before letting April pass.

Norma met her at the door. “You came! All day I’ve worried that you’d change your mind.”

April extracted the bundle and placed it in Norma’s outstretched hands. “You’re welcome to these. My advice—burn them.”

The older woman clasped the letters as if they were precious jewels. “Won’t you come in?” she said. “I’d love to have you stay for dinner, my dear.”

“Thank you, but I can’t. I have just about enough daylight left to dig holes for my light poles. The mason said if I get them set, he’ll work in bricking around them next week.” She tripped lightly down the steps and waved as she got into her pickup.

Driving out the gate where the men were still working, she passed Quinn Santini’s Lexus. “Phew, that was a close call.” In the rearview mirror, she watched him turn through the gate. April felt a surge of relief at declining Norma’s dinner invitation.

Back at the house, Norma settled in her favorite chair to begin reading her precious letters for the first time in almost sixty years. She’d reached the end of the first letter when her front door flew open and her grandson burst inside. Sniffling, Norma fumbled for a tissue and attempted to hide the letters in the folds of her skirt.

“Gram, tell me what that Trent woman said to upset you. I passed her headed out. My gut said I should stop her—that she was up to no good.” Quinn jerked up the white phone that matched the room’s decor. “This time I will press charges. It was those damned letters, wasn’t it? Did she come to shake you down for more money? I won’t allow her to barge in here and make you cry.”

“Quinn, hush. She brought me the letters and wouldn’t take a cent. Please, calm down and sit with me. Joseph and Ethel have taken Hayley to her gymnastics class, so you and I have time to talk.”

“About what? Those letters?” He saw them now and eyed her with a scowl.

“In a way.” Her fingers plucked idly at the faded red ribbon. “I have a secret to tell you, Quinn. One that’s burdened my heart for much too long.”

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