In His Wife's Name

Was it Luke’s imagination or did he detect an air of desperation in her voice?

SHANNON WAS IMPRESSED when Luke brought her a stack of the finished wood for the welcome signs at the end of the afternoon.

“This ought to get you started,” he said with a gruff smile that made her chest feel strangely tight as she opened the screen door to him. “I’ll do the letter boxes tomorrow.” His face was beaded with a fine film of perspiration, and his clothes were speckled with sawdust. And he looked sexier than a pinup boy in a tuxedo. Raw and elemental.

Shannon took a firm grip of her hormones and reached down to scoop up Samantha, who was chewing on a biscuit. She’d had a productive afternoon. She’d painted two-dozen crow plant pokes. Tonight she could start on the welcome signs. “You look hot, Luke. Could I offer you a cold drink? Iced tea? Soda?”

“Water will be fine, thank you.”

Shannon motioned toward her worktable. “You can put the signs there and have a seat at the counter. Feel free to wash your hands at the sink if you like.”

He nodded wordlessly. As he stepped into her cottage, what she had always considered an airy space seemed to shrink enough to barely encompass his shoulders. Shannon fought the ripples of panic swelling in her.

Forcing a bright smile, she marched to the refrigerator and yanked open the door, reaching inside for a pitcher of water. One-handed, she poured him a drink and circled to the other side of the counter before presenting it to him. She felt safer with the width of the counter between them. But as he sat down across from her and she met his gaze, she could have sworn he understood her actions. Shame seared her. Was she that transparent?

Luke noted Mary’s uneasiness and the emotions shifting in her eyes, as well as the pink tide of color that rose from her neck and seeped into her cheeks before she turned away from him to examine his work. With her head lowered and her body pressed against the table as she held her daughter protectively on her hip, she reminded him of a hunted animal burrowing into its surroundings to escape the notice of a passing predator.

Compassion squeezed his heart. Just what or who was she running from?

He took a sip of water and let his gaze travel around the room. It exuded the whimsical touches of Mary’s creativity. Wreaths, bouquets of dried flowers and dozens of decorative hand-painted crafts dangled from pegs. Pegged racks painted a country blue were mounted at eye level on the pine-paneled walls. On one wall a narrow shelf was installed above the rack and held an assembly line of crafts in various stages of completion. Pencils, markers and brushes were carefully arranged in glass canning jars on the cottage’s dining table—an antique harvest table waxed to a soft mellow gleam—that obviously served as her worktable. A pine cupboard wedged into a corner held small plastic bottles of acrylic paint and cans of stain and varnish.

On the other side of the table was a playpen filled with stuffed toys and activity sets. He couldn’t see any photos of family and friends. No deceased husband. Like him, had she put the photos away because the memories they evoked were too painful? The room perfectly summed up what he already knew of Mary’s life: work, motherhood and a blank past.

He watched her run a finger along the sanded edge of a sign. “These look great, Luke,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Expertly cut. Perfectly sanded. I’ll be begging you to stay on permanently if you keep this up.”

Luke was oddly pleased by her compliment. It had felt good to see the shapes emerge from the wood. “Thanks, but don’t get your hopes up. We both agreed this was temporary. I took the liberty of looking at some of the other patterns. I like your designs. How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been designing and painting things for years. I finally decided to be brave and turn my hobby into a job.”

Her breezy reply was characteristically vague. Luke dug in his heels, determined to peel back a layer or two. “I admire your initiative. It must not be easy running a business and being a single mom.”

He saw the muscles in the arm that circled her daughter tighten perceptibly. Still hovering over the worktable, she plucked a paintbrush from a jar, examined the bristles as if checking to make sure it was clean, then tucked it back into the jar. “It hasn’t been easy,” she admitted faintly, her back still to him. “When I was a teenager complaining about homework and studying, my mother used to tell me that if it wasn’t hard, then it wasn’t worth doing.” She turned toward him fully, her eyes glowing with steely determination. “I didn’t understand what she meant until I started this business. Now I’m glad my mother made me pay attention to algebra and geometry.”

Luke laughed dryly. Samantha stopping chewing on her biscuit at the deep unfamiliar sound and looked at him in sudden interest, her delicate bow-shaped brows lifting as if questioning what her mother was doing conversing with this strange man in their home. Luke gave her an amused grin.

“She’s a cutie. How old is she?”

“Almost ten months.”

“She’s walking early. My brother’s kids were closer to a year old when they started walking. His son could crawl up bookcases and cabinets.”

“Thankfully Samantha isn’t that adventurous. She never quite got the hang of crawling, but I think her natural curiosity to touch things out of her arm’s reach propelled her into standing, then walking. She loves brightly colored objects, especially flowers. Right, baby?”

Eyes gleaming, Samantha gave her mother and Luke a coquettish smile.

Luke laughed. “I’ll bet she just likes mischief. With a smile like that, she’s going to break a lot of hearts when she hits high school,” he predicted.

“You think?” Mary laughed and playfully dabbed at a splotch of drool on her daughter’s chin. “I hope she has more teeth by the time she hits high school.”

Luke took a stab at shifting the conversation to the more personal. “Did you go to high school here in Blossom Valley? Place doesn’t look big enough to have a high school.”

“There’s a high school in one of the nearby towns.”

Luke kept his smile steady despite the way she’d sidestepped his question. Again. “I’ll bet you got all A’s in art class. Is that where you learned to paint—in high school? Or did you major in art at university?”

“Actually I taught myself to paint from books and magazines, then took a few craft classes. I was an administrative assistant before I decided to turn my hobby into a business. I have to say I much prefer being my own boss to being someone else’s gofer.”

“What kind of company did you work for?”

“The government,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand as if all government offices were the same. “It gave me a whole new perspective on office politics. Though I miss the regular paycheck. That’s one thing you might want to keep in mind if you’re going into business for yourself,” she said pointedly.

“There’s that,” he agreed. “I guess I’d miss my soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law and the rest of his crew. It must be isolating working for yourself.” Luke took a sip of water, deliberately waiting to see if Mary picked up the thread and carried the conversation. Perhaps mention the department where she’d worked or the names of co-workers she missed or still kept in touch with. Anything that might help him confirm her identity.

Usually if you waited long enough, people felt obligated to fill silences.

And Luke was vitally aware that this Mary might have the answers that would fill the yawning silence in his heart. His gaze settled on her expectantly.

She moistened her lips. “I’m too busy to feel isolated. Taking care of Samantha and keeping up with orders keeps me on my toes. Speaking of orders, what hours are you available tomorrow?” she asked, rocking the baby on her hip. Dropping her gaze, she pulled a pencil from a jar, her expression all business as she examined the day planner open on the table.

She’d changed the subject so effectively Luke realized he couldn’t push the topic any further today without raising her suspicions. But while he might have surrendered this minor skirmish, he wasn’t going to lose the war. As Mary penciled in a four-hour shift on the calendar for the next day, he promised himself that someday soon, whether she liked it or not, he’d be downright intimate with her personal history.

BILL OAKES WAS HOME when Luke rang the bell beneath the faded sign reading Shady Pines Resort, Management. He was an elderly man with humped shoulders, elfin ears and a cheek-splitting grin that declared life still agreed with him. Or else he was showing off thousands of dollars worth of dentures, Luke mused.

The resort caretaker’s shrewd brown eyes assessed Luke as he explained his desire to rent a cottage for two weeks and gave Mary Calder’s name as a reference. “She’s hired me to do some woodworking for her.”

Bill Oakes nodded. “Mary’s a nice girl. She re-painted my butterflies for me.” He gestured at five vibrantly painted wooden butterflies that looked as if they had just alighted on the blue siding of his residence. “My wife—God rest her soul—bought those for the cottage years ago. They were looking faded. I’m not good with paints and such, but Mary offered to do them for me. Didn’t charge me a cent.”

“She did a wonderful job,” Luke said. “Has she been your tenant long?”

“Oh, let’s see…A year ago last April. It was right after her husband died. She needed a change, what with the baby coming and all.”

Luke quickly computed the dates. Mary had been murdered in March of that year, on St. Patrick’s Day. “Yes, she mentioned he’d died and that she wasn’t from this area originally,” he murmured conversationally, grateful that Mary had suggested there might be a cottage available for rent at the resort. Renting here could provide him with additional opportunities to find out more about the woman with his wife’s name.

“She’s got a mother and an aunt in the East, I believe,” Bill Oakes said, withdrawing a ring of keys from his pocket. “Now I do have a couple of cottages available for weekly or monthly arrangements. One’s a lot nicer than the other. Come on, I’ll give you a tour. We’ve got our own private beach.”

Luke waited for Bill Oakes to lock the front door, then walked with the elderly gentleman along a series of paths that wound from one lot to the next. Glimpses of Kettle Lake were visible through the trees, diamonds of sunlight dancing across its blue waters. Regaling Luke with tales of his six siblings, their children and grandchildren, Bill Oakes extolled the virtues of Shady Pine’s sandy beach, then showed him the two available cottages.

Luke chose the smaller of the cottages, a drab decaying structure that boasted one bedroom the size of a janitor’s closet and indoor plumbing. The furnishings smelled musty and damp, but it was a two-minute walk to Mary’s cottage. And Bill didn’t have any objection to his moving in that evening.

On his way to the motel to grab his luggage, Luke mulled over the two kernels of information that Oakes had given him about Mary: she might originally be from the East, and she’d arrived in Blossom Valley a couple of weeks after his wife’s murder. It wasn’t much to work with, but combined with Mary’s vagueness about her history and her coincidental resemblance to his wife, it opened the door wide to the possibility that there might be some connection between this woman and his wife’s murder.

Luke’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the unease that had lingered in his belly all day like an undigested meal rose sharply in his throat. Despite the steady wave of cool air blasting from the air conditioner, Luke broke out in a cold sweat. He’d arrested people from all walks of life and knew that almost anyone given enough motivation was capable of committing the most heinous of crimes. But the thought that this Mary Calder had been involved in such a brutal act sickened him. Slamming on the brakes, he pulled off the road and bounced onto the grassy shoulder of a peach orchard. A bell pinged repeatedly, reminding him he’d left his keys in the ignition as he climbed out of his rental car. He needed fresh air.

He gulped in two ragged breaths, then doubled over and vomited onto the freshly mown grass.

THE PHONE RANG at ten-thirty in the evening just as Mary was washing her paintbrushes. She’d finished the fine-detail work on the plant pokes and gotten a head start on the signs, but she was too tired to do more tonight. She quickly dried her hands on a paper towel and reached for the phone. Who could be calling her at this hour? Her mother and Aunt Jayne were in Halifax—in a time zone three hours ahead. And they always called from pay phones so Shannon’s number couldn’t show up on a phone bill.

Could it possibly be Luke Mathews calling to say he’d be late tomorrow or had changed his mind about working for her because she’d been such an idiot today?

Why did that thought make her experience a sharp pang of disappointment?

Because ever since she’d walked out on her marriage to Rob, she hadn’t allowed herself to look twice at a handsome man, much less enjoy the simple pleasure of conversation. She’d been too focused on running and being safe. Even the eight months Rob had spent in prison after she’d pressed stalking charges against him, she’d been afraid to make new friends, afraid to share information about herself, worried that she might inadvertently give away her location or her new place of employment…and Rob would somehow find her again.

Even though she had Samantha, having Luke here today had made her painfully aware of how starved she was for friendship and adult company.

The phone rang again.

“Hello?” she said softly, breathlessly, into the receiver, her pulse spiking as an image of Luke, dusty and virile, unfolded in her mind.

Silence met her greeting. But the line hadn’t gone dead. She could hear sounds in the background: the unmistakable clinking of cutlery.

“Hello,” she repeated patiently, feeling the roots of fear sink deep into her chest and twine around her heart. “Who’s calling? What number are you trying to reach?”

The caller didn’t respond. But she could still hear the noises.

Shannon hung up slowly, telling herself it was probably a wrong number, someone who’d misdialed and been confused by the sound of an unfamiliar voice. It couldn’t possibly be Rob this time—even though it was the third wrong number she’d received this week. She shook her head firmly, ticking off on her fingers all the logical reasons it couldn’t possibly be Rob. She’d taken all kinds of precautions—to the point of cutting off all contact with friends. Aunt Jayne and her mother didn’t even have her new name or phone number written down out of fear the information might somehow end up in Rob’s hands. They’d kept news of Samantha’s birth private and didn’t even keep photos of Samantha and Shannon at home. Instead, Shannon mailed them to a post-office box belonging to an acquaintance of her mother’s—a bridge partner—who kept them in her home, no questions asked, so her mother could see them at her weekly bridge games. Shannon never included a return address, and the acquaintance had no idea of Shannon’s new identity. She and Samantha were safe here.

Still, tonight’s phone call disturbed Shannon.

Enough to keep her awake into the early hours of the morning.

Chapter Three

“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday on the license plate. I was working on another unsolved murder,” Detective Vaughn told Luke over the phone the next morning. His voice was brisk and merciless, like a wire brush scraping rusted metal. Luke heard the sounds of papers being leafed through in a file. “The truck is registered to Mary Tatiana Calder.”

Luke grunted a noncommittal response. Hearing his wife’s middle name spoken out loud by another human being rankled. It seemed a violation of the trust his wife had had in him. A secret only the two of them had shared. But there were no secrets from the police.

And this Mary Calder would have no secrets from him.

Luke brought the detective up to speed about the change in his accommodations and his interview with Bill Oakes. “He told me the suspect has been renting since a year ago last April—two weeks after Mary died. She told him her husband was dead, which is the same line she gave me.”

Vaughn was silent a moment. “You think there’s a custody issue involved?”

“Possibly. It makes the most sense to me. I didn’t see any pictures of a man when I was in the house. I checked the garage for boxes of personal belongings, but no dice.”

“So maybe the husband slit the tire?” Vaughn suggested. Luke could almost hear the gears churning in the detective’s head. “That puts an interesting spin on the situation. You got a name for the husband?”

“No, not even a first name. But then, she’s evasive whenever I ask personal questions. My gut feeling is she’s running from something.”

“Or someone. Think you can get her prints? We might be able to identify her. Stands to reason that if she was involved in Mary’s murder or is the type to buy stolen ID, she may have been in trouble with the law before. She might have a record.”

“I’ll get them,” Luke promised.

Vaughn instructed him to keep in touch and hung up.

Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with the small cell phone tucked into his pocket, Luke took the dirt path by the lake in the direction of Mary’s cottage. She wasn’t expecting him for another half hour, but he figured he could get the lay of the land and keep a vigilant eye on her cottage at the same time. The person who’d slit her tire might be keeping close tabs on her. And Luke didn’t want anything to happen to Mary and her daughter. Mary was the key to the answers he needed.

Voices drifted over to him from the other cottages. But the only person he encountered on the path was a sullen-faced teen in a black tank top and baggy swimming trunks that hung past his knees. The kid had bleached his dark hair to an electrifying hue and had affixed a row of silver studs to his right earlobe. Luke wondered if he’d ever looked that sullen as a teen.

Mary and Samantha were outside when he arrived. Samantha was sitting in a small sandbox with brightly colored toys while Mary was seated in a blue Adirondack chair that someone—Mary herself?—had turned into a work of art with hand-painted renderings of garden spades, hoes and seed packets. A mug of coffee sat on the wooden arm of the chair and a pencil and sketchbook were in her lap.

“Good morning, Luke, you’re right on time.” Mary’s welcoming smile was so cheerful and beguiling it stirred a response from his body that was far too vigorous for his comfort. She was dressed in a pair of sky-blue shorts this morning, with a matching blouse.

He averted his gaze from the devastating eyeful of tanned silky arms and legs as a razor-sharp sliver of guilt pricked his heart. “Of course I’m on time. Believe it or not, I know a number of contractors and subcontractors who actually show up at the time they promise.”

Mary laughed doubtfully.

Telling himself that he wasn’t attracted to her but to her passing resemblance to his Mary, didn’t help. It only made him feel more unsure. The truth was he didn’t want to feel anything for this Mary and her daughter. He was here to seek justice for his wife, nothing more, nothing less. He needed closure and peace to free himself from the limbo of his existence. Then maybe he could get on with his life.

Samantha gave a whimper of frustration as she tried to turn over a mold filled with sand. Luke hunkered down beside her so he could see her face beneath the brim of her pink sun hat and smiled at the unidentifiable clumps of sand she’d created in the sandbox. Judging by the forms she was playing with, they were supposed to be animal shapes. “I see you’re quite the designer, kid, following in your mother’s footsteps. Want some help making that turtle?”

Samantha sweetly handed him another shovel, those big smoky brown eyes of hers a trap in themselves. Luke helped her fill the plastic turtle mold with sand, then flipped it over. The turtle held its shape. Samantha clapped her hands as he added two tiny pinecone eyes. “There you go, kid.”

An unbearable ache wedged just below his heart, widening into a chasm of pain deep enough to drown in. It took every ounce of his willpower not to let himself think about what kind of father he might have been if he and his wife had had a baby. He’d been eagerly doing his duty to get her pregnant in the weeks before her death.

The Adirondack chair creaked behind him, and Mary’s voice, rich with motherly indulgence, encircled him in a bubble of intimacy that touched the emptiness inside him. “Oops, what are you going to do with that pinecone, Samantha?” she said as her daughter pinched another pinecone between her thumb and forefinger and ever so carefully placed it off-center on the turtle’s head for a nose.

“Nice touch, Samantha,” he praised her, patting her back awkwardly. “Every turtle needs a nose. It helps them find lunch.” Samantha giggled as Luke rose and brushed his hands on his jeans.

He risked taking another look at Mary and tried not to think about all those seemingly insignificant yet cherished moments he’d spent with his wife. The Saturday-morning French-toast breakfasts, the visits to antique shops to find just the right touches for their home. The hello and goodbye kisses. So many lost moments, lost dreams. So much he owed his wife. Luke took a firm mental step away from the edge of the chasm that threatened to suck him into its darkness. He could do this no matter what it took.

To his relief, Mary wasn’t paying him any mind. She was scanning the drive and the lawn leading down to the lake, the S-shaped frown he’d noticed yesterday inching between her brows. “Hey, I just noticed you’re on foot this morning. Did someone drop you off?”

“No, my car’s parked at my cottage down the way. Bill Oakes had a vacancy, so I moved in last night.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you were visiting the area with a friend you hadn’t mentioned.” Luke groaned inwardly at the hint of interest in her voice. Was she subtly inquiring whether he was involved in a relationship? It was bad enough that he felt some feelings of attraction for Mary. He didn’t want them to be reciprocated—even if it might facilitate getting some answers out of her! The situation was complicated enough. “I’m staying here alone,” he admitted finally, figuring the less he elaborated, the better.

She flashed him another beguiling smile. “That’s great you got a cottage. Which one?”

“Small one, in terrible need of repair. I’ve heard trains that were quieter than the pipes knocking in the walls when the shower’s turned on. But the price was right.”

“That’s Abner’s cottage. The oldest brother. He’s tightfisted, apparently. Can’t see why he should spend good money on improvements for other people to enjoy.”

Luke studied her closely as she took a sip of coffee. Hair framed her face in tousled disarray as if she’d combed it with her fingers when she’d risen from bed. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. There were lavender smudges under her eyes. From fear? Sleeplessness? Pushing herself too hard? “Bill Oakes didn’t mention it,” he said.

“Can I get you some coffee?” She started to rise.

He waved her to stay seated. “I’ll get it. You keep working. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink, right?”

Luke saw uncertainty flash in her eyes. Why? At the prospect of him entering her home?

She settled herself back into her chair. “Yes, help yourself. Sugar’s in a bowl on the counter and there’s cream in the fridge.”

Luke nodded and ambled toward the front door. Conscious of the ticking seconds, his steps quickened once he’d stepped inside the cottage. The phone was mounted on the wall at the end of the kitchen counter. An old white pitcher crammed with pencils and a notepad was positioned near the phone, but there was none of the daily minutiae he expected to find: an address book, a calendar, letters, bills, bank statements. The day planner she’d had yesterday was nowhere in sight.