“Rose Hill came from my mother’s side. The Pruitts. Evelyn has no claim to it.”
“He could have left it to you.”
Chase laughed. “Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“We weren’t exactly the closest of brothers. I was lucky just to get his collection of rusty Civil War swords. No, he wanted Rose Hill to go to someone he loved. You were his first choice. Maybe his only choice.”
“He didn’t love me, Chase,” she said softly. “Not really.”
They drove north, winding past summer cottages, past granite cliffs jagged with pines, past stony beaches where waves broke into white foam. Gulls circled and swooped at the blue-gray sea.
“Why did you say that?” he asked. “About Richard not loving you?”
“Because I knew. I think I always knew. Oh, maybe he
“That sounds like Richard. As a kid, he was always in pursuit of the never-ending high.”
“Are all you Tremains like that?”
“Hardly. My father was married to his work.”
“And what are you married to?”
He glanced at her. She was struck by the intensity of his gaze, the gaze of a man who’s not afraid to tell the truth. “Nothing and no one. At least, not anymore. Not since Christine.”
“Your wife?”
He nodded. “It didn’t last very long. I was just a kid, really, only twenty. Doing my share of wild and crazy things. It was a handy way to get back at my father, and it worked.”
“What happened to Christine?”
“She found out I wasn’t going to inherit the Tremain fortune and she walked out. Smart girl. She, at least, was using her head.”
He focused on the road, which he obviously knew well. Miranda noticed how easily he handled the curves, guiding the car skillfully around each treacherous bend. Whatever wildness he’d displayed in his youth had since been reined in. Here was a man in tight control of his life, his emotions, not a man in pursuit of the ephemeral moonlight and madness.
A twenty-minute drive brought them to the last stretch of paved road. The asphalt gave way to a dirt access road flanked by birch and pine. Rustic signs proclaimed the different camps hidden among the tress. Mom and Pop’s. Brandywine Cottage. Sanity Camp. Here and there, dirt tracks led off to the dozen or so summer retreats of prominent island families, most of whom had held their cottages for generations.
The access road began to climb, winding a half mile up the contours of the hillside. They passed a stone marker labeled St. John’s Wood. Then they came to the last sign, every bit as rustic as the others: Rose Hill. A final bend in the road took them through the last stand of trees, and then a broad, sloping field lay before them. It sat at the very crest of the hill — a weathered cottage facing north, to the sea. Vines of purple clematis clung lovingly about the veranda railings. Rosebushes, overgrown with weeds but still valiantly blooming, crouched like thorny sentinels beside the porch steps.
They parked in the gravel turnaround and stepped out into an afternoon fragrant with the scent of flowers and sun-warmed grass. For a moment Miranda stood motionless, her face turned to the sky. Not a cloud marred that perfect blue. A single gull, riding the wind off the hillside, drifted overhead.
“Come on,” said Chase. “Let me show you inside.”
He led her up the porch steps. “I haven’t seen the place in at least ten years. I’m almost afraid to go in.”
“Afraid of what?”
“The changes. Of what they might’ve done to it. But I guess that’s how it is with your childhood home.”
“Especially if you were happy there.”
He smiled. “Exactly.”
For a moment they stood and regarded the old porch swing, creaking back and forth in the breeze.
“Do you have a key?” she asked.
“There should be one under here.” He crouched down beneath one of the windowsills. “There’s this little crack in the wood where Mom always kept a spare key….” He sighed and straightened. “Not anymore. Well, if the door’s locked, maybe we can find a window open somewhere.” Tentatively he reached for the knob. “How do you like that?” He laughed, pushing open the door. “It’s not even locked.”
As the door creaked open, the front room swung into view — a faded Oriental carpet stretched across the threshold, a stone fireplace, wide pine floors. Miranda stepped inside and suddenly halted in surprise.
At her feet lay a jumble of papers. A rolltop desk stood in the corner, its drawers wide open, their contents strewn across the floor. Books had been pulled off a nearby shelf and tossed haphazardly among the papers.
Chase stepped inside and came to a halt beside her. The screen door slammed shut.
“What the hell?” he said.
Seven
In silence they took in the ransacked desk, the scattered papers. Without a word Chase moved quickly toward the next room.
Miranda followed him into the kitchen. There were no signs of disturbance here. The pots and pans were hung on a beam rack, the flour and sugar canisters lined up neatly on the butcher block counters.
She was right on his heels as he headed for the stairs. They ran up the steps and looked first in the small guest bedroom. Everything appeared in order. Quickly Chase circled the room, opening closets, glancing in drawers.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He moved across the hall, into the master bedroom.
Here double windows, flanked by lace curtains, faced the sea. A cream coverlet draped the four-poster bed. Motes of dust drifted in the sun-warmed stillness.
“Doesn’t look like they touched this room, either,” said Miranda.
Chase went to the dresser, picked up a silver hairbrush, and set it back down. “Obviously not.”
“What on earth is going on here, Chase?”
He turned and glanced in frustration about the room. “This is crazy. They left the paintings on the walls. The furniture…”
“Nothing’s missing?”
“Nothing valuable. At least, nothing your ordinary thief would go after.” He opened a dresser drawer and glanced through the contents. He opened a second drawer and paused, staring inside. Slowly he withdrew a pair of women’s panties. It was scarcely more than a few strips of black lace and silk. He pulled out a matching bra, equally skimpy, equally seductive.
He looked at Miranda, his gaze flat and unreadable. “Yours?” he asked quietly.
“I told you, I’ve never been here. They must belong to Evelyn.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“How would you know?”
“She never comes out here. Despises the rustic life, or so she claims.”
“Well, they’re not mine. I don’t own anything like — like that.”
“There’s more inside here. Maybe you’ll recognize something else.”
She went to the dresser and pulled out an emerald-and-cream bra. “Well, it’s obvious this isn’t mine.”
“How so?”
“This is a 36C. I’m…” She cleared her throat. “Not that big.”
