her sloping back yard, down through her meadow—basically unmowed lawn—toward the marsh. The grass was damp and cool on her bare feet. Hot coffee splashed out over her hand as she came to the narrow path.
A few weeks ago she could have slipped through the privet and had her coffee with Hannah.
Instead, she headed into the marsh, through cordgrass, sea lavender, beach peas with their pretty pink flowers. They slapped her legs, drenching her nightgown from the knees down. Sand clung to her feet. She crossed a long two-by-four she'd laid over a wet section of marsh, then came out onto the narrow strip of beach.
The breeze was cooler on the water, not as gentle. Boat engines purred in the distance. It was just past high tide, the surf up. She drank more coffee, sniffled. She'd be all right. She'd make sense of it all. Who on earth would want to hurt her over pestering her new neighbor? Harass her, maybe. Scare her, obviously. But not actually hurt her.
It wasn't Hannah. Piper knew that, even if her aunt would be everyone else's first suspect because of her odd behavior lately. Hannah's rendition of reverse psychology, a ploy to force her niece and Clate Jackson together. Nobody was looking for Hannah's logic to make sense anymore. Piper preferred to have a stranger on the other end of the line to anyone she knew. Let it be someone she could have arrested, sic her brothers on, punch out herself. Not someone she knew—and certainly not someone she loved, worried about, wanted so desperately to live out her remaining years in happiness and comfort.
"I'm old, Piper. My husband's dead, most of my friends, my brother. I've had my happiness. Now I want to ensure yours."
"A hell of a way of doing it, Auntie," Piper muttered, as if hearing her own voice out loud would help calm her nerves.
"Well, good morning."
Her coffee went flying. She screamed and swung around, stopping herself just short of clobbering Clate with her mug. "Good God, you scared the living daylights out of me!"
"So I gather. Sorry. I thought you heard me. I was out on the beach taking a walk and saw you, figured I'd be neighborly and at least say good morning."
That wry tone again, half teasing himself, half teasing her. But as she brushed coffee off the front of her cotton nightgown, emblazoned with an enormous moose, she felt his scrutiny, the wryness going out of his expression. A fine mess she must be. Coffee down her front, wet from the knees down, hair unbrushed, face pale.
"All right," he said in that deceptively mild drawl. "You're telling me everything."
"What do you mean?"
"Everything, Piper, or I call your father and brothers."
"Call them about what?"
He just glared at her.
She glared back. What made him think he could squeal to her father and brothers? She set her jaw. "There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit." Still that mild drawl. He picked up her hand and pried her stiff fingers from her coffee mug. He held the mug, and she began to shake. She couldn't stop herself. He hissed through clenched teeth. "I rest my case. Now. What the hell's going on?"
"A phone call." She sucked in a breath, grateful for the fresh sea air, the wind in her hair. "I just got a nasty phone call. It's the second time. The first was on Saturday, before you left for Tennessee."
"I remember you were disturbed about something. Any idea who it was?"
She shook her head.
"Male, female?"
"I don't know."
"Did they use your name, threaten you in any way?"
"Depends on your point of view. The first phone call suggested I stay off your property if I knew what was good for me. The second—just now—called me a bitch and said I'd been warned. Whoever it was must have known Hannah and I were out at your place yesterday."
Clate frowned, remaining silent. Piper could feel his intensity. He was barefoot, his feet covered with the white sand of the beach and marsh, and he wore canvas shorts and a black-and-gold Vanderbilt T-shirt. She noticed the thick, corded muscles in
A few weeks ago she could have slipped through the privet and had her coffee with Hannah.
Instead, she headed into the marsh, through cordgrass, sea lavender, beach peas with their pretty pink flowers. They slapped her legs, drenching her nightgown from the knees down. Sand clung to her feet. She crossed a long two-by-four she'd laid over a wet section of marsh, then came out onto the narrow strip of beach.
The breeze was cooler on the water, not as gentle. Boat engines purred in the distance. It was just past high tide, the surf up. She drank more coffee, sniffled. She'd be all right. She'd make sense of it all. Who on earth would want to hurt her over pestering her new neighbor? Harass her, maybe. Scare her, obviously. But not actually hurt her.
It wasn't Hannah. Piper knew that, even if her aunt would be everyone else's first suspect because of her odd behavior lately. Hannah's rendition of reverse psychology, a ploy to force her niece and Clate Jackson together. Nobody was looking for Hannah's logic to make sense anymore. Piper preferred to have a stranger on the other end of the line to anyone she knew. Let it be someone she could have arrested, sic her brothers on, punch out herself. Not someone she knew—and certainly not someone she loved, worried about, wanted so desperately to live out her remaining years in happiness and comfort.
"I'm old, Piper. My husband's dead, most of my friends, my brother. I've had my happiness. Now I want to ensure yours."
"A hell of a way of doing it, Auntie," Piper muttered, as if hearing her own voice out loud would help calm her nerves.
"Well, good morning."
Her coffee went flying. She screamed and swung around, stopping herself just short of clobbering Clate with her mug. "Good God, you scared the living daylights out of me!"
"So I gather. Sorry. I thought you heard me. I was out on the beach taking a walk and saw you, figured I'd be neighborly and at least say good morning."
That wry tone again, half teasing himself, half teasing her. But as she brushed coffee off the front of her cotton nightgown, emblazoned with an enormous moose, she felt his scrutiny, the wryness going out of his expression. A fine mess she must be. Coffee down her front, wet from the knees down, hair unbrushed, face pale.
"All right," he said in that deceptively mild drawl. "You're telling me everything."
"What do you mean?"
"Everything, Piper, or I call your father and brothers."
"Call them about what?"
He just glared at her.
She glared back. What made him think he could squeal to her father and brothers? She set her jaw. "There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit." Still that mild drawl. He picked up her hand and pried her stiff fingers from her coffee mug. He held the mug, and she began to shake. She couldn't stop herself. He hissed through clenched teeth. "I rest my case. Now. What the hell's going on?"
"A phone call." She sucked in a breath, grateful for the fresh sea air, the wind in her hair. "I just got a nasty phone call. It's the second time. The first was on Saturday, before you left for Tennessee."
"I remember you were disturbed about something. Any idea who it was?"
She shook her head.
"Male, female?"
"I don't know."
"Did they use your name, threaten you in any way?"
"Depends on your point of view. The first phone call suggested I stay off your property if I knew what was good for me. The second—just now—called me a bitch and said I'd been warned. Whoever it was must have known Hannah and I were out at your place yesterday."
Clate frowned, remaining silent. Piper could feel his intensity. He was barefoot, his feet covered with the white sand of the beach and marsh, and he wore canvas shorts and a black-and-gold Vanderbilt T-shirt. She noticed the thick, corded muscles in
Similar Books
