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“Not much. She’s in her nineties.” Loretta stepped onto the porch, her back to him as she took in the view of the Pacific. Finally she turned to him. “Her father bought the house in 1938, after the state forced everyone out of their hometown to make way for the Quabbin Reservoir.”
That had to be the lake Dylan had seen on the map.
“Quabbin,” Loretta continued, still clearly amused, “is a Native American word that means ‘place of many waters,’ or ‘meeting of the waters.’ It refers to the Swift River Valley, which was laced with three branches of the Swift River and multiple streams—the perfect location for a reservoir.”
“Loretta,” Dylan said.
She waved a perfectly manicured hand at him. “Miss Webster’s ancestors settled in the valley in the mid-1700s. Two hundred years later, she and her family were forcibly bought out, along with everyone else in four towns, so the state could dam the valley and let it fill up with fresh water for metropolitan Boston. It’s one of the most egregious examples of eminent domain in U.S. history. I’d love to fight that case now.”
Dylan had no doubt, but he was lost. “How did you find all this out?”
“Internet. Our Grace is quoted in an interview with some of the last living residents of the valley before it was flooded. She’s a retired high school English and Latin teacher. She never married.”
Dylan considered his predicament, and the note from Olivia Frost. He couldn’t even guess why his father had bought the house, or why there was a cast-off refrigerator in the yard.
He joined his attorney and friend on the porch. A vibrant sunset filled up the sky and glowed on the Pacific across the street. “What do I do?” he asked.
“It’s your property,” Loretta said, gazing out at the sunset. “You can do whatever you want. Sell it, renovate it, give it away. Move in.”
“Move in? Why would I move in?”
“I don’t know. You could take up chopping wood and picking blackberries.” She crossed her arms in front of her in the chilly wind. “Those are blackberry vines in the picture of the old refrigerator, aren’t they?”
“I have no idea what they are.”
“Blackberry vines have thorns.”
Other vines had to have thorns, too, but Dylan really didn’t know or care. “What did my father pay for this place?”
“A pittance. He wrote a check. The house is a wreck but it sits on seven acres. Knights Bridge is out-of-the-way, in part because of the reservoir. It’s not like the area grew up naturally around a big lake. Quabbin didn’t exist when the towns were settled. Look on the map. You’ll see what I mean.”
He had, and he did.
“What’s the name of this farm again?” Loretta asked.
“The Farm at Carriage Hill.”
“Quaint. And the owner?”
“Olivia Frost.” Dylan ignored the cool wind as he watched joggers on the beach. “Why did my father buy a house in Knights Bridge, Loretta?”
“That,” she said, dropping her arms to her sides, “is your mystery to solve. If I were you, I’d let sleeping dogs lie and hire someone to clean up the yard, then quietly sell the place or give it away.”
“You’ll check out this Olivia Frost?”
“First thing when I get home. Right now, I’m going for a walk on the beach and enjoy the last of the sunset.” She headed to the steps but stopped before descending, again looking back at Dylan. “You’re not worried about this woman taking legal action, are you?”
“Not really, no.”
“Good. An old refrigerator and whatnot in the yard aren’t a serious concern.”
“I think I saw a washing machine, too.”
Dylan could hear Loretta laughing all the way down the steps and across the street to the water. He went back inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. The sunset was fading fast. He sat on his couch and picked up the note card from where he’d left it and the half-dozen photographs on the coffee table. Loretta hadn’t asked to inspect them. No point, he supposed. He eyed the chives, or whatever the hell they were. They looked hand-drawn. The design, the use of color and the handwriting were contemporary and stylish, not old-fashioned, yet they also conveyed warmth, hospitality and rural charm. He wasn’t quite sure how his Massachusetts neighbor had pulled off the effect but it worked.
He didn’t care how she’d pulled it off, either. Olivia Frost had written to him to ask—or demand—he move junk and a rusted appliance off property he hadn’t, until today, even suspected he owned.
He scooped up the photographs and took them and the card upstairs with him to his bedroom, the drapes still pulled from last night. He hadn’t bothered opening them since he had left for his office before light, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t spending a lot of time in his bedroom these days. A few hours for sleep, time to get dressed—that was it. He hadn’t had a woman in his life in a long time. Too long, maybe, but he wasn’t checking off days on a calendar.
Not yet, anyway.
He set the card and photographs on the end of his bed, then sat on the floor and rubbed his fingers over the black-painted hinges and latch of an old flat-topped trunk. A nomad at heart, his father had left behind few possessions. On his fiftieth birthday, he had quit his day job as a business consultant and spent the rest of his life—more than twenty years—as an adventurer and treasure hunter, tackling obscure mysteries on his own and with a small team of professionals and avid amateurs. He had never sought financial gain for himself. Prowling the world for lost treasures had been his passion more than a source of income. He’d just enjoyed the adventure.
In the months since his father’s death, Dylan hadn’t dug through the contents of the trunk. He and his father had had a contentious yet solid relationship, but first the NHL and then NAK, Inc., kept Dylan’s schedule jam-packed, allowing little time to try to understand why Duncan McCaffrey had made the choices he had, or to figure out what treasure hunts he had left unfinished. Dylan didn’t need the money. Money was one thing he had in abundance, and how could anything in the trunk bring him closer to his father now that he was gone?
Dylan couldn’t imagine how long it would take him to properly sort through all the files, boxes, envelopes and scrapbooks stuffed haphazardly in the trunk. Hours and hours, and even if he had the time, he didn’t have the patience.
And there was no guarantee he would find one word about Knights Bridge.
He could send Loretta to Massachusetts to deal with the house and its offending yard, and with Olivia Frost.
He lifted out a tattered stack of a half-dozen manila folders, held together with a thick rubber band. He shook his head. “Leave it to you, Pop, to complicate my life.”
The rubber band was so dry and brittle it broke when Dylan tried to remove it.
He welcomed the distraction when his landline rang. He rolled to his feet and picked up.
“Check your email,” Loretta said. “I sent you some preliminary info on the woman who wrote to you.”
“Are she and Grace Webster friends?”
“Maybe, but Olivia Frost isn’t old. I can tell you that much.”
Loretta was chuckling when she hung up.
Dylan checked his email on his BlackBerry. Loretta had produced a photograph of his tidy-minded neighbor. It was taken at a formal dinner in Boston and showed Olivia Frost accepting an award. Apparently the owner of The Farm at Carriage Hill and artist of chives was also a successful, accomplished graphic designer.
The picture was too small to see in any detail on his BlackBerry. He went back downstairs and fired up his laptop on the kitchen table.
Olivia Frost had long, shining, very dark hair, porcelain skin and a bright smile as she held her gold statue and accepted her award. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes. Green, maybe. She wore a sleek, rather businesslike black dress that came to just above her knees.
In another picture that Loretta had found on Facebook, Olivia was more casual, dressed in a denim jacket as she stood in front of an old sawmill. Loretta’s email explained that the Frost family owned and operated Frost Millworks, a small, profitable company that did high-end custom work.
She provided a link. Olivia Frost had designed their website.
Dylan called Loretta back. Before he even had a chance to say hello, she broke in, “I can keep digging if you want.”
“I’ll take it from here. Thanks, Loretta. What’s on the internet about me?”
“You beat up that Montreal defenseman—”
“It was a clean check. He should have gotten an Oscar for that fall.”
“What about the ten stitches?”
Dylan hung up. He didn’t care what was on the internet about him. He wondered if Olivia Frost had looked him up by now, or had even thought to, considering the condition of the property he owned in Knights Bridge.
He glanced at her Facebook picture again. It was more of a close-up than the one at the awards ceremony. Her eyes weren’t green, he decided. They were hazel, a fetching mix of green and blue flecked with gold.
He shut off his laptop and called his assistant to book a morning flight east to Boston.
Three
Olivia raked the last of the fallen leaves from the raised herb bed by her back door. The overcast sky and chilly temperature didn’t bother her. The snow had melted out of her backyard, if not in the woods, and signs of spring were everywhere. She loved finding shoots of green under their cover of sodden leaves. The physical work gave her a burst of energy. She was ready to head up the road to Grace Webster’s old house and start hauling junk. Naturally its owner, Dylan McCaffrey, hadn’t responded to her note.
What had she expected? After two years of ignoring his property in Knights Bridge, why would he care?
Elly O’Dunn, who’d provided McCaffrey’s name and address, remembered meeting him when he’d stopped at the town offices. She told Maggie, who’d then told Olivia, that he was a good-looking man in his seventies, with thick white hair and intense blue eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him, and she couldn’t fathom why he’d wanted to buy Grace Webster’s house.
Olivia couldn’t, either. She took her rake with her to the front yard, just as her father pulled up in his truck. She’d almost forgotten she’d invited her parents to lunch. As he stepped onto the dirt driveway, she noticed he was alone. Randy Frost was a big, burly man who had transformed his father’s struggling sawmill into a profitable enterprise, all while serving on the Knights Bridge volunteer fire department since his teens.
“Place is shaping up,” he said, walking around to the front of his truck. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and his fleece jacket was open over a dark blue sweater.
Olivia held onto her rake. “It is, isn’t it?”
He glanced past her at the woods beyond the strip of yard on the garage side of the house. The area had been farmland before World War II, but hardwoods and evergreens had reclaimed much of the land, old stone walls that had marked fields now lacing a forest that stretched to the shores of the reservoir. Any open land was behind her house and up the road toward Grace’s—Dylan McCaffrey’s—house.
“Snow’s almost gone,” her father said, then sighed, turning back to his elder daughter. “This place is in the middle of nowhere, Liv, even by Knights Bridge standards. Do you really think people will come out here?”
“I do, Dad. No question in my mind.”
“Maybe your sister can be your guinea pig.”
Olivia almost dropped her rake. “She and Mark have set a wedding date?”
“No. She’s waiting for him to come up with a ring. She’s a romantic, but Mark…” Randy Frost ran a callused palm over his salt-and-pepper hair. “None of my business.”
Olivia had graduated high school with Mark. She remembered him sleeping in the back of algebra class, but he’d gone on to become an architect. After ten years going to school and working in Boston and New York, he moved back to Knights Bridge a year ago and had no interest in living anywhere else ever again.
“If Jess had wanted a Byron-esque soul,” Olivia said, “she and Mark Flanagan wouldn’t be together. He’s a great guy, though.”
“Yeah. I guess. What have you been raking?”
“The herb beds. The lavender survived the winter. It’s in a warm spot by the back door. I’ve decided to host a mother-daughter tea as a way to kick things off and get out the word that The Farm at Carriage Hill is up and running.”
“Your mother told me. She says she and Jess are coming. You’re not asking for money?”
“Right. It’ll be like an open house.”
“Makes sense. Then your guests can go home and decide to book their own event.”
“I’ll have meals catered and focus on smaller events at first—teas, bridal and baby showers, meetings.”
Her father studied her a moment. “You sound excited. That’s good.”
“I’ve been dreaming about transforming this place ever since I learned it was up for sale. It’s happening faster than I expected, but so far, so good.”
“I don’t have to tell you it’ll be a lot of hard work. What kind of food are you offering?”
“I thought I’d base the menu on herbs.”
“Herbal hors d’oeuvres, herbal bread, herbal soup, herbal dessert? Like that?”
Olivia grinned. “Yeah. Like that. People can wander in the gardens and woods, and I’ll offer books and lectures on various aspects of herbs—cooking, drying, using them in potpourris and fragrances.” She grabbed her rake and flipped it on end, pulling off wet leaves stuck on the metal tines. “I have lots of ideas. Right now I’m concentrating on cleaning out the gardens. You’re staying for lunch, right? I thought Mom was coming, too.”
“She’s home planning her trip to California. She wants to do the coastal highway.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“She’ll never go, but don’t tell her I said that.” He seemed to give himself a mental shake and nodded toward the house. “How’s Buster?”
“Staying. He refused to be persuaded not to dig up the lavender.” Olivia was relieved at the change in subject. Buster, a large mix of German shepherd and who-knew-what-else, had shown up at her house unaccompanied by owner, collar or leash, and for the past ten days had gone unclaimed. “I was thinking in terms of getting a friendlier dog. A golden retriever or a chocolate Lab, maybe. Buster looks like he could chew someone’s leg off.”
“Good. Keep Buster. I’ll feel better about you living out here alone.”
She felt her father scrutinizing her again as she set the rake against the garage. “I should have worn gloves. My hands are cold, and they’ve taken a beating since I moved out of the city.”
“It’s only been a couple weeks. You got enough money in the bank, Liv? You’re not betting everything on this place, are you?”
“I have time to make it work before I go broke.”
“A business plan?”
Sort of. She didn’t like discussing her finances with anyone, including her well-intentioned father. She smiled at him as she headed for the kitchen door. “Blood, sweat, laughter and tears. How’s that for a business plan?”
“Liv—”
“I’m still freelancing. Jacqui Ackerman gives me as much work as I can handle.” Olivia pulled open the door. “Come on in. Lunch is ready.”
“Where’s Buster?”
“Cooling his heels in the mudroom. You’re safe.”
Not, clearly, that her father was worried. Olivia led him into the kitchen. She had set the table for three and felt a pang of disappointment and frustration that her mother had bailed on lunch. She probably was home planning her trip, but if she couldn’t get herself out here for a visit, how was she going to get herself to California? After two weeks back in Knights Bridge, Olivia still hadn’t seen a sign of her mother on her doorstep. So far, any contact was at the mill, her parents’ house or her mother’s usual haunts in the village.
Olivia watched as her father quietly stacked up the extra place setting and set it on the butcher-block island. Randy and Louise Frost had known each other since kindergarten and had been married for thirty-two years. Olivia was confident that whatever was going on between them—if anything—would sort itself out. After her experience with Marilyn Bryson, Olivia was resisting the temptation to help anyone, much less her parents. She was essentially working two jobs as it was with her freelancing and her efforts to turn her house into The Farm at Carriage Hill.
“What’s that, Liv?” her father asked, pointing at the pot of soup simmering on the gas stove.
