More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way

CHAPTER TWO

The overnight ferry from Portland, Maine, to Yarmouth, on Nova Scotia’s southwest shore, was surprisingly smooth—and fun. Jess hadn’t been anywhere in so long, she made an adventure of it. When she arrived back on land, she followed the directions to the Wild Raspberry B and B, which, she soon discovered, was on Nova Scotia’s South Shore, a breathtaking stretch of Canada’s eastern coastline of rocks, cliffs, narrow, sandy beaches and picturesque villages.

“Forget O’Malley,” she muttered to herself. “I want to go hiking!”

She’d at least had the presence of mind to pack trail shoes and hiking clothes on her quick stop back at her condo last night. Now it was a sunny, glorious morning, and she debated leaving Brendan to his own devices—his determined solitude—and finding another place to stay. He wouldn’t even have to know she was there.

But she continued north along what was aptly named the Lighthouse Route and kept forcing herself not to stop, kept warning herself to stay on task. Finally she came to a small cove near historic Lunenburg, named a UNESCO World Heritage Site because of its pristine British colonial architecture and rich seafaring heritage, and found her way to the Wild Raspberry.

It wasn’t a renovated colonial building like those in Lunenburg, which Jess had read about on the ferry. The Wild Raspberry was, fittingly, a small Victorian house, complete with a tiny guest cottage, that perched on a knoll across from the water. A tangle of rose and raspberry vines covered a fence along one side of the gravel driveway. The house itself was painted gray and trimmed in raspberry and white, and had porches in front and back that were crammed with brightly cushioned white wicker furniture and graced with hanging baskets of fuchsias and white petunias.

Jess parked at the far end of the small parking area—so that O’Malley wouldn’t spot her the minute he pulled into the driveway. As she got her suitcase out of the back of her car, she could smell that it was low tide.

And she could hear laughter coming from the back of the house, toward the guest cottage.

Women’s laughter. Unrestrained, spirited laughter.

It was so infectious, Jess couldn’t help but smile as she made her way up a stone walk to the side entrance, where an enormous stone urn of four or five different colors of petunias greeted her. There was also—of course—a Welcome sign featuring a raspberry vine.

She thought of O’Malley’s rat hole apartment. How had he picked this charming, cheerful place?

She sighed. “Because he got shot in the head yesterday.”

A forty-something woman in hiking shorts, a tank top and sports sandals came from behind the house. She had short, curly brown hair streaked with gray and a smile that matched the buoyant mood of the B and B. “May I help you?”

“I’m Jessica Stewart—”

“I thought so. Welcome! I’m Marianne Wells. Please, come inside. Make yourself comfortable. I can help you with your bags—I just need to say goodbye to some friends.”

“Don’t let me interrupt. I’m in no hurry.”

“Oh, we were just finishing up. We meet every week.”

As Marianne turned back to rejoin her friends, Jess noticed a faint three-inch scar near her hostess’s right eye. A weekly get-together with women friends—it wasn’t something Jess took the time to do. Given her busy schedule, her friendships were more catch-as-catch-can.

The side door led into a cozy sitting area decorated cottage-style, with an early-twentieth-century glass-and-oak curio filled with squat jars of raspberry jam, raspberry-peach jam and raspberry-rhubarb jam, all with handmade labels. There was raspberry honey in a tall, slender jar, and a collection of quirky raspberry sugar pots and creamers.

“I’ve told all my friends no more raspberry anything,” Marianne Wells said as she came into the small room. “You should see what I have in storage. It can get overwhelming.”

“I have an aunt who made the mistake of letting people know she collects frogs. Now she’s got frog-everything. Frog towels, frog soaps, frog statues, frog magnets. Frogs for every room. She even has a frog clock.”

Marianne laughed, the scar fading as her eyes crinkled in good humor. “I know what you mean. It’s fun to collect something, though. You must want to see your room. Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

As she started down the hall, following her hostess, Jess noticed a bulletin board above a rolltop desk with a small, prominent sign on it:

The Courage to Click. Shelternet.ca.

Shelternet can help you find a link to a shelter or a helpline in your area.

From her experience both as a police officer and a prosecutor, Jess immediately recognized Shelternet as a resource for victims of abuse, one that Marianne Wells obviously wanted people coming through her B and B to know about.

Instinctively Jess thought of the scar above Marianne’s eye and guessed she must have been a victim of domestic abuse at one time, then reminded herself that she didn’t know—and shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

But Marianne paused on the stairs and glanced back at Jess. “Clicking on Shelternet helped save my life.”

“I’m a prosecutor in Boston. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just couldn’t help noticing—”

“I’m not uncomfortable. If that sign prompts just one person to take action—well, that’s why it’s there. If a woman in an abusive relationship walks into this inn, I know that she’ll walk out of here with that Web site address in her head. Shelternet. ca.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she seemed to mean for it to. “I don’t mind that you noticed it. Not at all. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve been through. I used to be, but not anymore.”

Jess smiled back at her. “I hope you’ll tell me more about Shelternet while I’m here.”

“Gladly.”

They continued up the white-painted stairs to a large, airy room overlooking the water. The decor was Victorian cottage, with lots of white and vibrant accents, nothing stuffy or uptight. There was a private bathroom—with raspberry-colored towels—and upscale scented toiletries that surely would be a waste on O’Malley.

Marianne pointed out the television, how to work the windows, where to find extra linens. “My friend Pat comes in to clean every morning. Her grandmother lived in this house before I bought it. I’ve made a lot of changes, but Pat approves. You’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jess said.

“There’s one other guest room on this floor and a room on the third floor in what was once the attic. A long-term guest is staying there. Brendan O’Malley will be staying on this floor. He’s not here yet. I thought you two might have made arrangements to arrive together.”

Jess felt a twinge of guilt. When she’d called back to make a reservation, Marianne had recognized her voice from her previous call about O’Malley. “Uh, no.”

Marianne frowned. “But you are friends, right?”

“Yes. Yes, definitely.” Which, Jess thought, didn’t mean he’d jump up and down with joy to see her. But as a survivor of abuse, Marianne Wells would be sensitive to such matters—and properly so. “We’ve known each other since I was a police recruit.”

“You’re a former police officer?”

Jess nodded. “And O’Malley—Brendan is a detective.”

Her hostess seemed satisfied. “Is there anything I can get you right now?”

“No, nothing. The room’s lovely. Thank you.”

“We serve afternoon tea at three, on the back porch if the weather’s good, and a full breakfast in the dining room starting at seven. If there’s anything special you’d like to request, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Jess debated warning Marianne that Brendan O’Malley wasn’t expecting to find her here, but decided there was no point in complicating the woman’s life just yet—or stirring up any old fears. O’Malley would behave. It wasn’t as if he’d be really irritated that Jess had followed him.

On the other hand, he’d had a rotten week. Everything might irritate him.

After Marianne left her to her own devices, Jess unpacked, opened the windows and took a bath to the sound of the ocean, listening for O’Malley’s arrival.

O’Malley waited in the hall while Marianne Wells pushed open the door to his second-floor room. The place was nice, a little quaint, probably, for his tastes, but maybe the bright colors would improve his mood. At least Marianne—she’d already told him to call her by her first name—was dressed for climbing on the rocky coastline. And the other guest, the one in the attic, was a guy.

The scar on Marianne’s face looked like it was from a knife wound, but Brendan figured he was in a frame of mind to come to the worst conclusion. She could have slid off a sled as a kid and cut her face on ice.

He noticed the pink towels in the bathroom.

Pink. It was a grayed pink, but it was still pink.

He wondered if the guy in the attic got white towels.

“Your friend from Boston is in the room across the hall.”

His experience as a detective kept him from choking on his tongue. “Jess?”

“That’s right. You seem surprised.”

And she didn’t like his surprise. He could see it in her body language. She straightened, narrowing her eyes on him, and moved to the doorway, ready for flight.

O’Malley relaxed his manner, not wanting to get his hostess mixed up in whatever he and Jess had going on. “I’m just surprised she beat me here. I thought I had the head start.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Marianne said firmly. “If you don’t want Ms. Stewart here—if she’s stalking you—”

“Jess? Stalking me? No way. It’s nothing like that.”

“And you. You’re not—”

“No, I’m not stalking her.”

She seemed at least partially relieved. “I hope not.”

He pointed to his bandaged forehead. “I was in a scrape at work a couple days ago. Jess is worried about me is all. She and I go way back.”

“You’re a police officer, aren’t you? Were you—”

“It was nothing.”

Jess had been talking. O’Malley had known her since she was a recruit. She’d gone through the police academy two years after him and had done a good job on the force, but her heart wasn’t in it, not the way it was in her job as a prosecutor. She absolutely believed that the system could, should and most often did work, and that she was there to get to the truth, not advance her own career, change the world or pander to public opinion.

O’Malley wasn’t that idealistic. Jess insisted it wasn’t idealism on her part, but a serious, hardheaded understanding of her duties as a representative of the state’s interests. She’d tried to convince him of that over one of their dinners together. But he wasn’t convinced of anything, except she was a bigger workaholic than he was and needed to take a vacation once in a while.

And he’d wanted to make love to her.

He’d been very convinced of that.

After Marianne retreated downstairs, he stood out in the hall and stared at Jess’s shut door. Damn. What was she doing here?

The three-legged puppy syndrome, he thought.

She must have been the kind of kid who brought home injured animals, and that was what he was at the moment.

Except he didn’t see it that way.

He walked over to the door and stood a few inches from the threshold, wondering if he’d be able to figure out what she was doing in there. Sleeping? Plotting what she’d do once he got there? But he didn’t hear a sound from inside—no radio, no running water, no happy humming.

No gulping.

No window creaking open as she tied sheets together to make good her escape.

She must have heard him talking in the hall with their hostess.

The door jerked open suddenly, and Jess was there in shorts and a top, barefoot, her hair still damp and her skin still pink from a recent bath or shower.

“O’Malley,” she said. “What a coincidence.”

“Like minds and all that?”

“Mmm.”

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing ‘like’ about our minds.”

But she was unflappable—she’d had longer to prepare for this moment. “I saw all those Nova Scotia brochures on your dining-room table and couldn’t resist. Funny we picked the same B and B.”

“You’re not even trying hard to sound convincing.”

She ignored him. “It’s adorable, isn’t it? I love the cottage touches and the raspberry theme.”

He had no idea what she meant by “cottage touches.” He placed one hand on the doorjamb and leaned in toward her, smelling the fragrance of her shampoo. “How’s your room?”

“Perfect.”

He tried to peer past her. “I think it’s bigger than mine.”

She opened the door a bit wider. “See for yourself.”

In her own way, Jessica Stewart liked to play with fire. O’Malley stepped into her room and saw that it was shaped differently from his, but about the same size. “I didn’t see your car,” he said.

“Really?”

All innocence. “Did you hide it?”

“I engaged in strategic parking. If you’d arrived with a woman friend, I’d have been out of here in a flash.”

He smiled. “Don’t want any competition?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass you. You deserve a break, you know, after the shooting. It’s just that you also need to be around friends.” She scrutinized his head as he walked past her. “How’s the wound?”

“I’ve cut myself worse shaving.” He peered into her bathroom. “Do you have pink towels?”

“They’re a shade of raspberry. Don’t think of it as a feminine color.”

“It’s a cheerful place. I’ll say that.” He stopped in front of Jess’s bed and turned to her, noticing the color in her cheeks. It was more than the aftereffects of her shower. “Now that you see me, do you feel like a dope for following me?”

“It’d take a lot for you to make me feel like a dope, O’Malley. Everyone’s worried about you. What did you think would happen when you snuck off like that?”

He shrugged. “I thought I’d get to spend a few quiet days on my own in Nova Scotia.”

“No, you didn’t. You thought I’d follow you. That’s why you circled the name of the B and B—”

“You didn’t have a key to my place.”

“You knew I’d ask your brother. I’ll bet he okayed it with you to give me the key. Am I right?”

“Hey, hey. I’m not on the witness stand, prosecutor.”

She sighed, shoving her hands into her shorts’ pockets. “O’Malley—” She broke off with a small groan. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I ever slept with you. My first day at the academy ten years ago, I was warned about you.”

He feigned indignation. “Warned in what way?”

“Every way.”

“What, that they don’t come any smarter, sexier, more hell-bent on catching bad guys—”

“More full of himself, more hell on women, more cynical—”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t cynical in those days.”

“You are now.”

“Only a little.”

He approached her, slipping his arms around her as she pulled her hands out of her pockets. She didn’t stiffen. She didn’t tell him to back off or go soak his head. Instead she met his eye and smiled. “You’re more than a little cynical, O’Malley.”

“It’s to protect a soft heart.”

“Ha.”

But she had to know he had a soft heart—he’d exposed it to her when they’d made love. He’d never done anything like that before and wasn’t sure he wanted to again. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable—emotionally or physically.

She was still smiling when his mouth found hers, and he could taste the salt air on her lips, her tongue. She draped her arms around his neck and responded with an urgency that told him she’d at least thought about this happening on her trip up here. He lifted her off her feet. Why hadn’t he asked her to come with him? Maybe she was right and it was some kind of test, some kind of sexy game between them.

“O’Malley.” She drew away from him and caught her breath. “Brendan. Oh, my. I didn’t mean—” She didn’t finish. “Maybe we should take a walk.”

“A walk?”

“It’s a gorgeous day.”

“Right.”

He set her down and backed up a step, raking one hand through his close-cropped hair. She licked her lips and adjusted her shirt, which had come awry during their kiss.

“I’m on a rescue mission,” she said. “I shouldn’t be taking advantage of your situation.”

“Why the hell not?”

But the moment had passed. She had something else on her mind besides falling into bed with him—not that it was easy for her, he decided. She just had a lot of self-discipline.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said. “We can take a walk, then do afternoon tea.”

That was it.

Jess made her way to the door and held it open for him as he strode past her back out into the hall. “Think Marianne Wells would have a ham sandwich or something at tea time?”

“I doubt it.”

“Little scones, probably, huh?”

Jess smiled, looking more at ease, less as if she was afraid he’d go off the deep end at any moment. “I’d count on something with raspberries.”

The afternoon stayed warm and sunny, and Marianne served tea on the back porch, laying out an assortment of miniature lemon scones with raspberry jam, tiny triangles of homemade bread, fresh local butter and watercress, and warm oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies that one of her friends had dropped by that morning.

Jess couldn’t have been happier, but O’Malley looked a little out of place sitting on a white wicker rocker with a watermelon-colored cushion as he negotiated a Beatrix Potter teacup and plate of goodies.

He’d gotten rid of the bandage on his forehead. His bullet graze looked more like a nasty cat scratch. Probably no one would guess what it really was, or even bother to ask. He’d had no trouble negotiating their hike along a stunning stretch of the rugged granite coastline. Whenever the afternoon sun hit his dark hair, his clear blue eyes, Jess was struck again by how really good-looking and madly sexy he was. She hadn’t thought about his mental state—the possibility he was suffering from post-traumatic stress symptoms—at all.

Maybe it was being away from Boston—violence and his work seemed so far removed from Nova Scotia.

Or maybe it was the way he’d kissed her.

When a middle-aged man joined them on the porch, Jess forced herself to push aside all thought of kissing Brendan O’Malley.

The man introduced himself as John Summers, the Wild Raspberry’s third guest. He had longish graying hair and a full gray beard and was dressed in worn hiking shorts and shirt, with stringy, tanned, well-muscled legs and arms. He looked as if he’d been strolling the nooks and crannies of Nova Scotia for months, if not years. His eyes were a pale blue, and he had deep lines in an angular, friendly face.

But something about him immediately set off O’Malley’s cop radar. Jess could see it happening. He started with the inquisition. “How long have you been here?”

“A month. Gorgeous spot, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Spend the whole month here alone?”

Summers winced visibly at O’Malley’s aggressive tone, then said coolly, “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Must be relaxing. Hike a lot? Or are you into sailing?”

“Hiking and kayaking, mostly.” He sat on a wicker chair with his plate of goodies and a cup of tea and changed the subject. “What brings you to Nova Scotia? You’re American, aren’t you?”

“From Boston. Just taking a few days off.” O’Malley didn’t take the hint and back off. “Where are you from?”

“Toronto.”

“That’s a ways. You fly here or drive?”

Jess tried to distract O’Malley from the scent by offering him a warm cookie. He didn’t take the hint. Summers, to his credit, just answered the question. “I flew into Halifax.”

“I’ve never been to Halifax,” Jess said.

Summers seized on her comment like a lifeline. “It’s a wonderful city. I hope you’ll have a chance to spend a day there, at least, while you’re here. The entire South Shore is worth seeing. Lunenburg can occupy you for quite some time.”

“What would you recommend I see?”

O’Malley scowled at her as if she’d interfered with a homicide investigation. He said nothing, just downed a final scone in two bites. Jess chatted with their fellow guest about South Shore sites, then got him to recommend hiking trails. O’Malley finally growled under his breath and excused himself.

Summers nodded at his retreating figure. “You two know each other?”

“We work together,” Jess said vaguely. It was close enough to the truth. “He had a bad experience before coming up here.”

“He reminds me of a cop. Are you two in law enforcement?”

Jess sighed, then smiled. “Caught. Brendan’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor.”

He didn’t seem pleased that he’d guessed right. “Have you prosecuted many domestic abuse cases?”

“Too many on the one hand, too few on the other.”

“Meaning domestic violence shouldn’t happen, ever, but it does and you want to get all the perpetrators.” Summers nodded with understanding. “Our hostess left an abusive marriage two years ago. She’s a very courageous woman. She’s come a long way in a relatively short time.”