by another woman’s dreams of snow.
It was nearly midnight when Olivia parked the Range Rover in front of the chief’s house. This was what Jeannie, Sawyer’s sister, had meant by doing something big to show him how she felt. For her to come here, to the house Rawlings and his wife had shared, took every ounce of courage Olivia possessed.
She had no idea what would be inside. Photographs of the Rawlings’ life together, her favorite chair facing his in front of the fireplace, a collection of porcelain tea cups, a bureau covered by an array of perfume jars. Her monogram on the guest towels. Her portrait on the mantel.
None of that mattered.
Olivia rang the bell and then backed off the stoop. She wanted Rawlings to see her aglow in her floor-length silver dress. She wanted him to wonder if a moonbeam had transformed into a woman, the woman who’d come to claim him.
He opened the door wearing a T-shirt and shorts, sleep lingering in his eyes. The flickering light from a television screen danced behind him.
“Olivia? What are you . . . ?” The rest of the question died on his lips. He only had to look at her for the answer.
He took a step forward, his hand outstretched. “Come in,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing.
She smiled, reveling in the yearning that propelled her into his arms.
And then his mouth was on hers, warm and wet, his hands sliding up the skin of her bare back. Deftly, he peeled off the straps of her gown before she had even crossed the threshold. She dug her fingertips into his hair and pressed her hips against him, surrendering to her desire.
Just before Rawlings closed the door against the night, Haviland shot inside and went off to explore. Olivia barely noticed. Every cell in her body was tuned in to Rawlings. She knew nothing except for his breath in her ear, the feel of his lips on her neck, his wide, rough hands cupping her breasts.
He carried her like a bride into the bedroom and laid her down, easing off her heels and running his fingers up her smooth calves. She sat up only to pull off his shirt and then tugged him downward by the arms, inviting him to crush her under his weight.
They made love as if they’d known each other for decades. To Olivia, the feel of Sawyer Rawlings’ body, his smell, even the sound of his groans, was intrinsically familiar.
The world beyond the bedroom slid away. Olivia felt as if she were drowning in heat, enveloped in a happiness far deeper than mere physical pleasure.
Sometime before dawn, with Rawlings sleeping soundly beside her, one of her hands captured in his own, she remained awake, drowsily studying his face.
Olivia felt as though she had entered the woods of Heinrich Kamler’s painting. She had crossed the ice- crusted stream and maneuvered through the bare trees and the shadows on the snow. She’d seen the smoke curling from the chimney and the light radiating from the window and had climbed the gentle slope leading to the cabin. To this man. To love.
It had been a long and lonely journey.
But at last, Olivia Limoges was home.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
From New Bern to Butner to Greensboro, North Carolina became home to thousands of POWs, including Nazis. What I found amazing is how quickly some of these men, foreigners to our land, adopted the American way of life. I was also awed by how well they were treated. Not only did these men work the vacant jobs at area farms and mills, but they also attended baseball games, went to the movies, and even dined out at local restaurants. And yet these camps were so secretive that the average North Carolinian had no idea that the men harvesting their peanut crops, for example, were prisoners of war.
As mentioned in
Some of the dates and details have been altered in the name of good storytelling, but most of the Bayside Book Writers’ discoveries about the POW camp in New Bern could have taken place.
Turn the page for a preview of Ellery Adams’s next Books by the Bay Mystery . . .
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
“There’s a witch in Oyster Bay,” Dixie, the rollerskating dwarf and diner proprietor, announced. She set a breakfast strata made of eggs, tomato, basil, and mozzarella on the table and slid a plate of bacon onto the floor.
Immediately, the black nose belonging to the standard poodle sleeping on the booth’s vinyl cushion began to quiver. Flashing Dixie a brief look of gratitude, Captain Haviland lowered his paws to the checkered tiles and began to eat his breakfast with the delicacy and restraint of an English aristrocrat.
Olivia Limoges, oak barrel heiress, restaurateur, and aspiring author, reached for the pepper shaker and gave her eggs a quick dusting. “A witch? Does she lure small children into her house with candy bars and then lock them inside cages until they’re plump enough to eat?”
Dixie put a hand on her hip and scowled, her false eyelashes leaving thin stripes of electric blue mascara on the skin above her lids. “I’m not pullin’ your leg. Folks have talked about her for years. The stories have gotten wilder and wilder because only a handful of people have actually been brave or stupid enough to pay her a visit.”
Watching as Dixie topped off her coffee, Olivia cocked her head to the side and asked, “Where does this supposed witch live?”
“In the swamp,” Dixie said distastefully. “Word is you can only reach her house by boat, and she’s not shy about greetin’ unwelcome visitors with a few shotgun blasts.”
Olivia, who owned a rifle and was an excellent shot thanks to regular visits to the shooting range, approved. “Perhaps she values her privacy. People always talk about those who don’t abide by societal norms. I know plenty of
