The waitress came by with the check. Miranda reached for it, but Chase snatched it up first. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Miranda took a few bills from her pocket and laid them on the table.
“What’s that for?” asked Chase.
“Call it pride,” she said, rising to her feet, “but I always pay my way.”
“With me you don’t have to.”
“I have to,” she said flatly. “Especially with you.” She grabbed her jacket and headed out the door.
He caught up with her outside. The rain had stopped but the sun had not yet emerged and the sky was a cold monochrome of gray. They walked side by side for a moment, not quite friends, not quite strangers.
“I’ll be honest,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to see you today. Or ever again.”
“It’s a small town, Chase. It’s hard to avoid a person here.”
“I was going to drive back to Greenwich tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She lowered her eyes, willing herself not to feel disappointment. Or hurt. All those emotions she’d vowed never to feel for another Tremain. The emotions she was feeling now.
“But I’ve been thinking,” he said.
Those four words made her halt and look up at him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “of staying a few more days. Just to clear up those questions about Richard.”
She said nothing.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m staying in town. It’s the only reason.”
Her chin came up. “Did I imply otherwise?”
“No.” He let out a breath. “No, you didn’t.”
They walked on, another block, another silence.
“You’ll be looking for the same answers, I expect,” he said.
“I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s my future. My freedom.”
“Look, I know it makes sense, in a way, for you and I to work together. But it’s not exactly…”
“Seemly,” she finished for him. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? That it’s embarrassing for you to be consorting with a woman like me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Never mind, Chase.” In irritation she turned and continued walking. “You’re right, of course. We can’t work together. Because we don’t really trust each other. Do we?”
He didn’t answer. He simply walked beside her, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. And that, more than anything he could have said, was what hurt her most.
They might not trust each other. They might not want anything to do with each other. But the simple fact was, if they wanted answers, the cottage was where they both had to look. So when Miranda pulled into the gravel driveway of Rose Hill the next morning she was not surprised to see Chase’s car already parked there. Ozzie was sprawled on the front porch, looking dejected. He managed a few halfhearted wags of his tail as she came up the steps, but when he saw she wasn’t going to invite him inside he flopped back down into a whimpering imitation of a shag rug.
Miss St. John and Chase had already gone through the second bookcase. The place was looking more and more like a disaster zone, with cardboard boxes filled with papers, books precariously stacked in towers, empty coffee cups and dirty spoons littering the end tables.
“I see you started without me,” said Miranda, careful to avoid looking at Chase. He was just as carefully avoiding her gaze. “What have you found?”
“Odds and ends,” said Miss St. John, thoughtfully eyeing them both. “Shopping lists, receipts. Another love note from M. And a few quite literate college term papers.”
“Phillip’s?”
“Cassandra’s. She must have done some writing out here. A few of the books are hers, as well.”
Miranda picked up a bundle of papers and glanced through the titles. “A political analysis of the Boer conflict.” “Doom foretold: the French colonialists in Vietnam.” “The media and presidential politics.” All were authored by Cassandra Tremain.
“A smart cookie,” said Miss St. John. “A pity that slick brother of hers always steals the spotlight.”
Miranda dug deeper in the box and pulled out the latest note from M. It was typewritten.
I waited till midnight — you never came. Did you forget? I wanted to call, but I’m always afraid she’ll pick up the phone. She has you every weekend, every night, every holiday. I get the dregs. How can you say you love me, when you leave me here, waiting for you? I’m worth more than this. I really am.
Quietly Miranda let the note flutter back into the box. Then she went to the window and stood staring out, toward the sea. Pity stirred inside her, for the woman who had written that note, for the pain she’d suffered.
“Miranda?” Chase asked. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” She cleared her throat and turned to him. “I’m fine. So…where should I start looking?”
“You could help me finish with this shelf. I’m finding papers here and there, so it’s going slower than I expected.”
“Yes, of course.” She went to the shelf, pulled out a book and sat on the floor beside him. Not too close, not too far.
For an hour they flipped through pages, brushed away dust. Most of the books, it seemed, hadn’t been opened in ages. There were old postcards dated twenty years earlier, addressed to Chase’s mother. There was a hand-scrawled list of bird species sighted at Rose Hill, and a library notice from twelve years before, still stuck in the overdue book. Over the years, so many bits and pieces of the Tremain and Pruitt families had ended up on these shelves. It took time to sort out the vital from the trivial.
An oversize atlas of the state of Maine provided the next clue. Chase pulled it off the shelf and glanced in the front cover. Then he turned and called, “Miss St. John? You ever heard of a place called Hemlock Heights?”
“No. Why?”
“There’s a map of it tucked in here.” Chase pulled the document out of the atlas and spread it out on the rug. It was a collection of six photocopied pages taped together to form a site map. The pages looked fairly fresh. Property lines had been sketched in, and the lots were labeled by number. At the top was the development’s name: Hemlock Heights. “I wonder if Richard was thinking of investing in real estate.”
Miss St. John crouched down for a closer look. “Wait. This looks rather familiar. Isn’t this our access road? And this lot at the end — lot number one. That’s Rose Hill. I recognized that little jag up the mountain.”
Chase nodded. “You’re right. That’s exactly what this is. Here’s St. John’s Wood. And the stone wall.”
“It’s the Stone Coast Trust map,” said Miranda. “See? Most of the lots are labeled Sold.”
“Good heavens,” said Miss St. John. “I had no idea so many of the camps have changed hands. There are only four of us who haven’t sold out to Tony Graffam.”
“What kind of offer did he make for St. John’s Wood?” asked Miranda.
“It was a very good price at the time. When I refused to sell he bumped it up even higher. That was a year ago. I couldn’t understand why the offer was so generous. You see, this was all conservation land. These old camps were grandfathered in, built before the days of land commissions. The cottages were allowed to stand, but you couldn’t develop any of it. From a commercial standpoint the land was worthless. Then suddenly it’s all been rezoned for development. And now I’m sitting on a gold mine.” She looked at the other unsold lots on the map. “So is old Sulaway. And the hippies in Frenchman’s Cottage.”
“And Tony Graffam,” said Miranda.
“But what if the zoning decision was a sham?” said Chase. “What if there were payoffs? If that fact became public knowledge…”
“My guess is, there’d be such protest, the zoning would be reversed,” said Miss St. John. “And Mr. Graffam
