“I hope it’s a good Cuban cigar and a bottle of brandy.”
“That can be arranged,” Gramma Finnie called out, smiling conspiratorially at Evie. “Though I prefer a fine Irish whiskey.”
“Finnie Kilcannon!” he called out. “Come in here, you blue-eyed bombshell.”
Finnie giggled and headed in, but Evie held back, a sixth sense making her want to go check on the stranger in the house.
“Go chat,” Evie said. “I’ll talk to your friend.”
A look that could almost be panic crossed Gramma Finnie’s face. “Stay with us a wee bit, lass. She’s fine alone, I promise.”
“He gets enough of me,” she said, that sixth sense fluttering again. What were these two up to, exactly? “Go.” With a pat on the older woman’s back, she pivoted and headed down the hall, her footsteps soft on the hall runner as she listened to two old friends greet each other.
She slowed her step at an unexpected punch of memory.
Two old friends.
Hadn’t Declan once said he’d wait for her until he was ninety, close to the age her grandfather was right now? An ancient sadness, dulled by decades of nudging it away, pressed on her heart, probably brought on by seeing Gramma Finnie, a woman Declan adored.
Thoughts of him were always under the surface when Evie was in Bitter Bark, knowing he could be around any corner or in any store. And that encounter would simply leave her aching for more and wondering where her best friend had gone.
Once, about six years after the fire, Evie had decided to try one last time to reconnect with him. She’d accepted a rotation at Vestal Valley College and lived with her grandparents for a few months, with hopes to rekindle the friendship she desperately missed.
But the only friendship she rekindled was with his cousin Molly, then a vet student and a single mother. Molly had invited her to Waterford Farm but, as a true friend would, had warned her Declan was seeing someone, so Evie steered clear of him that semester. All that Molly could tell her was that Declan had grown “serious” since his father’s death, with family responsibility heavy on his broad shoulders.
After that, she’d seen him a few times, once outside the hardware store, another time passing in the square.
Then, a few years ago, she’d come to help Dr. Kilcannon with a brain-tumor surgery on his dog Rusty. The setter had healed in a week, but it had taken Evie a full month to get over the impact of seeing Declan in the vet office waiting room that day.
As she reached the bottom of the steps and headed toward the museum room, she heard the squeak of a hinge.
Was that…the cover for the piano keys? Did Yiayia play? Evie didn’t want to be rude, but every treasure in the former library was priceless, including the Krakauer, a Victorian upright her great-grandmother had commissioned exclusively for the house.
Without making a sound, Evie headed to the double doors, her eyes widening when she realized Agnes had closed them to an inch-wide crack.
Had she done that to keep the dogs from getting out? Walking closer, Evie peered through the slit at the very moment the woman slammed the keyboard lid so fast it clunked with a noisy thud that made the tan dog bark.
Evie used the distraction to enter.
“Can I share some of our family history?” Evie asked.
Yiayia whipped around, her dark eyes flickering with guilt. “Oh. Hello. Didn’t hear you.”
Obviously. Planting a smile that she doubted reached her eyes, Evie took a few steps closer, her gaze dropping down to Yiayia’s bag, gaping wide open. Snooping was one thing, but had she…taken something?
“It’s quite the room,” Yiayia said, her voice tight as she gestured toward the many shelves and surfaces filled with knickknacks, photos, ceramic dishes, antique lighters, leather-bound books, and more than a few pieces of jewelry worth thousands.
“My great-grandmother Evangeline started displaying the heirlooms in here many, many years ago after her older sister, Gloriana, died. That’s Glory Bushrod in the portrait.” She indicated the large watercolor over the piano of a dark-haired beauty of nineteen who could have stepped off the set of Downton Abbey.
“Is that who the house was named for?” she asked.
Evie nodded. “And my grandmother Penelope continued the tradition of making this room a museum.” She took a few steps closer, still trying to sniff out this woman’s game. She didn’t seem…innocent.
Evie gestured to the piano the woman had opened and closed. “Do you play?”
“No, but I heard you do.”
Evie drew back, surprised. “My goodness, you’ve heard quite a bit about me.”
The other woman crossed her arms, her dark eyes narrowing as if she was having some deep mental debate. “I have. I’ve heard you’ve known Finnie’s family for a long time. That you go way back, and your family and hers—which, through marriage, is now mine—have a long…history.”
Blood drained from Evie’s face as she tried—and failed—to follow the ramblings. Was Yiayia chattering to change the subject from her strange activities in the room, or was she referring to the tragedy of the fire?
Would this woman be impolite enough to bring that up?
“It’s a small town,” Evie said, carefully dancing around the conversation. “We all have histories and intertwined pasts.”
“But you and…” She swallowed and glanced at the door. “You have more than…”
Evie held up a hand to stop her. “Would you like something to drink?” She gestured toward the door. “I have some iced tea in the kitchen.”
“Because you don’t want me alone in this room.”
Dear God, she was blunt. “I’d like to chat.”
Her eyes tapered to slits. “You think I stole something, don’t you?”
“Goodness, I—”
She huffed out a breath. “I knew I couldn’t do this Finnie’s way. I told her over and over that this was not the way to go about our mission. I’m terrible at subterfuge.”
“Mission? Subterfuge?” Evie shook her head. “Wow, color me clueless, Yiayia.”
“Oh, now I’ve gone and stepped in it.”
“Deeply.” For a long, totally confused moment, Evie stared at her, then perched on the
