Copper Lake Secrets

Heard them. Reece had never seen a ghost. She’d simply heard them, and felt them.

She loosened her grip on the banister and backed away as Grandmother descended the stairs.

“Dinner is served promptly at 12:30. Supper is at 6:30. If you miss the meal, you fend for yourself—and clean up after yourself.” With an arch look, Grandmother passed her and headed for the dining room.

Reece followed her and took a seat at the polished mahogany table as a woman about her mother’s age began serving the meal. There was iced tea in crystal goblets that predated the War, salad and rolls served on delicate plates her great-great-and-so-on grandfather had brought from France when he was still a sea captain in the early 1800s, roasted chicken and vegetables, and pie. Much more than the po’boy or muffuletta she usually had for lunch back home.

The conversation was sporadic, nothing more interesting than general comments about the weather or the food. It was ridiculous, really, to chitchat about nothing when they hadn’t seen each other in so long, but Reece was no more eager to have a serious conversation than Grandmother was willing to break her dinnertime rules.

It would have been nice, though, to have been greeted with a little more pleasure—a hug, a kiss, an I’m happy to see you. Valerie didn’t have much patience with her, but even she managed that much every time they met.

Finally, the meal was over and Grandmother, taking her tea along, led the way into her study. It was the brightest, airiest room in the house, but it was stifling in its own way. The furniture was uncomfortable, and Grandmother didn’t relax her rules there. A settee that didn’t invite sitting, spine properly straight, chin up, ankles crossed and Grandmother with her own rigid posture didn’t invite confidences or intimacy.

Grandmother had apparently exhausted her store of chitchat and went straight to the point. “All these years, all those invitations you turned down or ignored, and suddenly you show up without so much as a call. What changed your mind?”

She could claim tender feelings, but Grandmother wouldn’t believe her. Reece had always tried to love her; weren’t grandmothers supposed to be important in a girl’s life? But loving someone who constantly criticized and lectured and admonished … Fearing Grandfather had been easy. Feeling anything for Grandmother hadn’t.

Reece gave a simple, truthful answer. “Curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

How many times had she heard that? And Mark, always out of the adults’ earshot, creeping up beside her, his mouth near her ear. Meow.

“You look well,” Reece said evenly.

“I am well. Your grandfather, however, is dead. Your mother came for his service. Your aunt Lorna came, and Mark and his family were there. Several hundred people were there, in fact, but not his one and only granddaughter.”

The desire to squirm rippled through Reece, but she controlled it. Howard women met every situation with poise and confidence. “I couldn’t come.”

“You mean you wouldn’t.”

“It’s not as if we were close.”

“And whose fault is that?”

His. He never said a nice word to me. He yelled at me. He scared me. He threatened—

Reece stiffened. Threatened? She didn’t recall Grandfather ever actually threatening her, not with tattling or spanking or anything. Was that part of what she couldn’t remember? Part of why she couldn’t remember?

“It was my fault,” Reece said. She would take all the blame Grandmother could dish out if it helped her get a few answers. “That summer I lived here, I was frightened of him. He wasn’t exactly warm and cuddly.”

To her surprise, Grandmother nodded. “No, he wasn’t. But he was a good man.”

Maybe in the overall scheme of things. Reece couldn’t deny that Mark had adored him. Maybe Grandfather hadn’t known how to relate to girls. Maybe he’d never forgiven his older son for leaving and transferred that resentment to her. Maybe asking him to deal with his son’s death and a grieving thirteen-year-old girl at the same time was too much. She did look an awful lot like her father.

“That summer,” she hesitantly began.

“What about it?”

What happened? Why do I still have nightmares? Why can’t I remember? The questions seemed so reasonable to her, but she’d lived with them for fifteen years. Would they sound half so reasonable to Grandmother, who hadn’t been much better at dealing with a grieving thirteen-year-old than her husband?

“I’ve been thinking a lot about that summer lately,” Reece said, watching Grandmother closely for any reaction.

She showed none. “It was a difficult time for everyone. Losing your father that way … Your uncle Cecil passed four years ago. A mother’s not supposed to outlive both her children.”

The last words were heavy, as if she felt every one of her seventy-eight years, and sparked both sympathy and regret in Reece. She couldn’t imagine losing a child … or having a loving grandmother. If things had been different, if Daddy hadn’t moved to Colorado, if Reece had had a chance to know both her grandparents before Daddy’s death, would that summer have had such an impact on her?

But Daddy had had issues of his own with Grandfather, so their visits had been few. They’d been practically strangers when she and Valerie had come to stay.

And there was no wishing for a new past. It was done, and all that was left was living with the consequences.

“I’m sorry about Cecil,” Reece said, meaning it even though she hadn’t met the man more than twice that she could recall.

Grandmother’s unusual sentimentality evaporated. “He ate too much, drank too much and considered riding around a golf course in a cart exercise. It was no great shock that his heart gave out on him. His doctor had been warning him for years about his blood pressure and cholesterol, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he would live forever.” Her sharp gaze fixed on Reece. “How long are you planning to stay?”

“I don’t know. A few days.” No longer than she had to. “If that’s all right with you,” she added belatedly.

“Of course it’s all right. Fair Winds has always been known for its hospitality. I already told your cousin Mark that you’re here, so he’ll be by to say hello.”

Reece swallowed hard. “He lives around here?” That was one thing she hadn’t considered. Much as she wanted answers, she wasn’t sure she wanted to face her childhood enemy to get them.

“In town. He moved here after college. He and Macy—she’s from a good Charleston family—they have one daughter and another on the way. He runs the family business and checks in on me every day.”

Reece smiled weakly. “Wonderful.”

Grandfather’s dead. I’m not thirteen. I can handle this.

If she repeated it often enough, maybe she would start to believe it.

Jones stopped at the grocery store to get the five major food groups—milk, cereal, bread, eggs and chips—before going to the motel to pick up his clothes and Mick. When he let himself into the room, the dog was stretched out on the bed, the pillow under his head, the blanket snuggled around him. He lifted his head, stretched, then rolled onto his back for a scratch, and Jones obliged him, grumbling all the time.

“You are the laziest animal I’ve ever seen. You eat and sleep all day, then snore all night. You’ve got it made.”

Mick just looked at him, supreme satisfaction in his big brown eyes.

“We’ll be bunking in a new place for a while. There will be room for you to run as long as you stay out of Miss Willa’s way. She doesn’t strike me as a dog-friendly person.” Jones considered it a moment. “She’s not a particularly people-friendly person, either. But we’ve dealt with worse.”

And there was the consolation prize of her granddaughter, whose own eyes were as brown as Mick’s but way less happy and a damn sight less trusting. He didn’t think it was just him, either. She didn’t seem the type to warm up to anyone quickly, if at all.

That was okay. Pretty as she was, all Jones wanted from her was information. She was still a Howard, still a part of Glen’s disappearance, and he was still the kid who’d been taught wariness and distrust of country people—anyone outside of his people, regardless of where they lived—from birth.

But she was awfully pretty, and she did have that vulnerable-damsel thing going on that neither he nor Glen had ever been able to resist.

But he would resist now.

After loading his bags and Mick into the truck, Jones slid behind the wheel and left the motel, turning west on Carolina Avenue. Catching a red light at the first intersection, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel until, beside him, Mick whined. Jones glanced at the dog, an admonishment on his tongue, then forgot it as his gaze settled on a man in the parking lot twenty-five feet away.

He was about Jones’s age, an inch or two taller, maybe thirty pounds heavier, and he wore a light gray suit so obviously well made that even Mick would recognize its quality. He was talking to a young woman, a briefcase in one hand, keys in the other, and he stood next to a Jaguar. He was fifteen years older, a whole lot softer and a hell of a lot better dressed, but Jones would have recognized him anywhere.

A horn sounded, and Jones’s gaze flicked to the traffic light, now green, then back at Mark Howard. The sound drew his attention, and he looked at Jones, their gazes connecting for an instant before Howard dismissed him and turned back to his conversation.

Hands tight on the wheel, Jones eased the gas pedal down, resisting the urge to turn the corner, pull into the lot, grab Howard by the lapels of his custom-tailored suit and demand the truth about Glen. There would be a time and a place to talk to the man, but this was neither.

By the time he’d turned north on River Road, a bit of the tension had seeped out. He liked Copper Lake. It was the quintessential small Southern town, war memorials in the square and the parks, beautifully restored antebellum homes. The people were friendly and happy to answer questions. No one had treated him with suspicion … though so far he hadn’t asked any questions that sounded suspicious. He hadn’t brought up the subject of Glen’s disappearance or the discovery of his belongings or his gut instinct that the Howard family was responsible. If he started asking that sort of question, they were likely to close ranks and protect their own.

Mick sat straighter in the seat when Jones turned off the highway onto Howard property. Shutting off the AC, Jones rolled the windows down, and the mutt immediately stuck his head out to sniff the air. When they drove through the gate, though, Mick drew it back in, let out a long, low whine and moved to the floorboard to curl up.

“Baby,” Jones accused, but Mick just laid his head on his paws. The dog knew the place was unsettled. Reece knew it. How the hell could Miss Willa not know, or if she did, how could she continue to live there?

The road continued past the cottage, leading to the other buildings. Jones drove past the small house, then pulled onto ground covered with a heavy layer of pine needles. The spot would block the view of his truck from any casual visitors to the house—maybe not a bad thing once Miss Willa’s grandson and others found out she was planning to spend a ton of money on their grand project.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get settled.” Jones climbed out and stood back, but Mick didn’t stir. “Mick. Out.”

The dog gave a great sigh, but didn’t move.

“C’mon, Mick, out of the truck now.” He stared at the dog, and the dog stared back.

He’d never had a battle of wills with an animal that he hadn’t won, and today wasn’t going to be the first. He snapped his fingers, an unspoken command that Mick always responded to, but the mutt just whined once and hunkered in lower.

“I guess we know who’s the boss in this family.”

Jones started. He’d been so intent on the dog that he hadn’t even heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel, and apparently neither had Mick. He reacted now, though, stepping onto the seat, sniffing the air that brought a faint hint of perfume and smiling, damn it, as he jumped from the truck and landed at Reece’s feet.

She offered her hand for Mick to sniff, then crouched in front of him, scratching between his ears. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you? And a pretty one. I don’t blame you for wanting to stay in the truck. I don’t much like this place, either. But we do what we gotta do, don’t we, sweetie?”

Jones watched her slender fingers work around Mick’s ears, rubbing just the way the dog liked. Hell, Jones liked a pretty woman rubbing him the same way, and Reece certainly was pretty crouched there, her khaki shorts hugging her butt, her white shirt shifting as her muscles did. For the first time since she’d climbed out of her car a few hours ago, she looked almost relaxed, and he doubted he’d ever seen her look that trusting.

Did she ever offer that much trust to a human being? To a man?

“He’s usually not that stubborn,” Jones remarked, leaning against the truck while Mick offered a toothy smile. It was almost as if the mutt was gloating: I’ve got her attention and you don’t.

“Animals are sensitive.”

“You have dogs?”

“Three. All throwaways. Like me.” The last two words must have slipped out, because her gaze darted to him, guarded and a bit anxious, and a flush colored her cheeks. He knew from Glen that she’d had abandonment issues that summer. Her father hadn’t chosen to die in that accident, but the end result was the same: he was gone. And her mother had preferred Europe with her friends over taking care of her daughter.

Jones could sort of relate, except from the other side of the matter: he was the one who’d done the abandoning. Had it cost Reece’s mother as much as it had him? Did she share even a fraction of his regret?

“Mick was dumped near a job site. When he got tired of waiting for his owners to come back, he decided to live with me.”

“Lucky you. After I fed the first stray outside the store where I work, he brought two more with him the next day. They’ve been living with me ever since.”

“Too bad you couldn’t bring them with you.” Traveling with dogs could be a hassle, but their company was worth it.

“Dogs in Grandmother’s house? And not even purebreds?” She scoffed as she stood.

Reaching into the bed of the truck, he took out his suitcase and laptop, then started for the porch. To his surprise, the rustle of plastic told him she’d taken out the grocery sacks and was following.

Mick jumped onto the low porch while Jones and Reece went to the steps in the center. He propped open the screen door, unlocked the door, then stood back so she and the dog could enter first.

The door opened directly into the living room, with the kitchen a few feet to the right. To maximize space, there was no hallway, just a door off the living room that went into a bedroom. He guessed the bathroom could only be reached from that room.

“I always wanted to see this place.” Reece set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and automatically began unpacking them.

He laid his own bags against the wall. “You lived here and never came inside?”

The refrigerator, a recent model, closed with a thud after she put the milk and eggs inside. “Did I say I lived here?”

The undercurrent of wariness to her voice stirred its own undercurrents in Jones. He, who’d always been cautious of what he said to country people, never should have made such a stupid slip. “I just assumed you grew up around here.”

She considered the words a moment as she crumpled the plastic grocery bags together, then shrugged. “I stayed here for a few months when I was thirteen. My cousin Mark was here, too, that summer. This cottage was off-limits to us. Grandmother said it was for guests, not hooligans who ran wild.”

He forced a grin. “Hooligans? She actually called you hooligans?”

Her own smile was half-formed. “She did. Grandmother had—has—very exacting standards that we often failed to meet.”

Jones didn’t know about Mark, but apparently Reece was still something of a failure in Miss Willa’s opinion. The old woman certainly didn’t approve of Reece’s long absence or missing her grandfather’s funeral. That was the sort of thing that got a person disinherited by a prideful woman like Willadene Howard.

Was that why Reece had come now, because her grandfather was dead and her grandmother was nearing eighty? Did she want to get back in Miss Willa’s good graces before she passed and left everything to cousin Mark?

Or maybe she’d heard about Glen’s stuff being found. Maybe she wanted to make sure there was no suspicion, no effort to find out what happened to the boy who’d saved her life and, apparently, lost his own as a consequence.

Jones watched her wander through the living room, giving Mick on the sofa an affectionate pat as she passed, and hoped neither suspicion proved to be true. Maybe she had come to realize over the years that family was important. Maybe she regretted not making peace with old Arthur before his death and didn’t want similar regrets when Miss Willa was gone.

God knew Jones had regrets about his family. He liked his life. He loved his job. But if he could do it all over again, he couldn’t say he would make the same choices. There was a lot he hated about his family’s way of life, but … he’d missed so much. He hadn’t gotten to stand up at his brothers’ and sisters’ weddings. He had nieces and nephews he’d never met. Birthdays and holidays and anniversaries, celebrations and funerals, good times and bad …

Reece broke the silence. “The furniture looks like it’s been here since the cottage was built.”

“It probably has. There’s a fortune in Chinese antiques in this room alone.” He opened the drapes, letting in the afternoon light, before sitting on an unpadded imperial rector’s chair. “The Howard who originally settled here was a sea captain. There’s a maritime phrase, Fair winds and following seas. A wish for good weather. That’s where the name comes from.”

Head tilted to one side, she sat beside Mick, resting her hand on his back. “I didn’t know that. I told you, I didn’t learn the family history.”

“He acquired treasures from all over the world. I’m sure Miss Willa’s given you the rundown of some things in the house.”

“Some. I was always terrified, using lamps and dishes and furniture that were irreplaceable. Being afraid made me feel clumsy and insignificant.”

There it was again—that hurt. Vulnerability. She’d grown up. She’d gone from cute and awkward to beautiful, from a child to a capable woman, but it didn’t seem as if time had done a thing to change that part of her.

Seem. Which meant it wasn’t automatically true. She could be a world-class manipulator. After all, she still hadn’t acknowledged that they’d met before. She hadn’t asked the obvious question: How is your brother? After all, she’d spent a lot more time with Glen that summer than with Jones.

Leaning back in the chair, he rested his ankle on the other knee. “Those months you stayed here … this must have been a great place to run wild. All the woods, the creek, the river … you and Mark must have had some fun times.”

“Not particularly.”

“You didn’t get along?”

A jerky shrug. “He was a fourteen-year-old boy. I was his thirteen-year-old girl cousin. I think we were genetically predisposed to not get along.”

“So what did a thirteen-year-old girl do for fun out here alone?”

Her expression shifted, darkness seeping into her eyes, caution into her voice. “I read a lot. Spent as much time away from the house as I could.”

The reading part was true; she’d been lying in a patch of sunlight near the creek reading the first time he and Glen had seen her, and she’d always brought books along every other time.

“Didn’t you have someone to play with? A neighbor’s kids?”

The caution intensified before she answered on a soft exhalation. “No.”

Realizing he was holding his own breath, Jones forced it out and did his best to ignore the disappointment inside him. Okay. So she was a liar. It wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t even a real disappointment. She was a Howard, and Howards were part of that segment of rich, powerful people who felt money raised them above everyone else. They weren’t bound by the rules that applied to everyone else. They were, as Miss Willa made clear at every turn, better.

Truthfully, though … he was disappointed.

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