She looked around, wondering if any of the customers in the store could read her mind.
The shop door opened, accompanied by the little bell that rang out cheerfully, and Harry Tyler himself walked in.
The part of Tricia that felt sorry for the rat quickly fizzled. “May I help you?” she asked tartly.
For a moment, Harry just stood there, taking in the bookshelves, the beverage station, and the photos of long- dead mystery authors framed on the hunter green walls. His gaze settled on one of them: his own. Tricia had almost forgotten she’d included his face among the no-longer-living legends.
While he was taking in the scenery, Tricia allowed herself to study Harry. He hadn’t changed much. Just a few more lines around the eyes, and streaks of gray in his hair, which was longer, shaggier, too, although it seemed to fit him. His leather jacket was unzipped, and Tricia could see the contour of his muscles beneath a sky blue-and rather tight-sweater. Had he dressed to impress her?
Harry seemed to shake himself and shuffled over to the cash desk. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said, and actually sounded civil. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see if I stock
He shook his head. “I was over at the Baker Funeral Home, making…arrangements.”
“Surely the ME hasn’t already released Pippa’s-” She halted, unable to finish the sentence when she saw the stark look of anguish in his eyes. At one time she’d loved those eyes. Or at least she thought she had. It was so long ago…and yet, when she looked at him now, it might as well have been weeks-not years-since they were together. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
He shrugged, as though he’d expected such a comment.
“When will you hold a service?” Tricia asked.
“I won’t. At least not here. Pippa didn’t know anyone here in Stoneham. I’m going to have her cremated and spread her ashes up north. That’s where we lived for the past fifteen years.”
Tricia nodded.
He ducked his head and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot last night.”
“Have you admitted to Chief Baker who you really are?”
He sighed. “We haven’t spoken today, but there’s no hiding it now,” he said, with a look toward the wall where his portrait hung. He turned back to face Tricia and offered a wan smile. “You’re still a looker,” he said.
Tricia stifled a laugh. “You used to be a lot more loquacious.”
Harry nodded. “That I was.”
“They declared you dead, you know.”
He nodded and shoved his hands into his worn jeans pockets. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Well, I’m sure some branch of law enforcement will, if not the IRS, then social security.”
Harry frowned, as though he hadn’t given it that much-any?-thought until she’d brought it up. Was he suddenly a flight risk?
“So, the big question remains. Why did you fake your own death?” She’d been aching to ask that question since the previous evening.
Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “You make it sound so…tawdry. I’d just had enough, okay?”
“Enough of what? The money? The adoration?”
“It was all too much. The press. The pressure to come up with another winner. My editor rejected the follow-up to
“So, your ego was bruised,” Tricia said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“I told you about that book. You knew it meant everything to me.”
“More than your family? More than me?”
“Now whose ego is bruised?” Harry asked, sounding not the least contrite.
Tricia said nothing. She wasn’t sure she could trust her voice not to give away how hurt she still was after all these years.
“So what did you do? Get lost in New York or L.A.?”
“I went to Idaho.”
“Idaho? What for?”
“To think. To figure out what I wanted to do next. I found a guy who sold fake IDs. I became Jonathan Comfort. I worked on a farm for a while.”
“Somehow I can’t picture you hoeing potatoes,” Tricia said.
He ignored her sarcastic remark and continued. “Eventually I made my way back east and got lost in Maine for a couple of years.”
“You wanted to stay close to the sea?”
“Yeah, I worked a lobster boat for a couple of seasons and then ended up in Bretton Woods where I met Pippa. She worked in the bar at the big hotel there. I got a job as a groundskeeper. We got married a couple of years later.” He looked up at her. “I take it you never married.”
“Why, because my name is still Miles?” He nodded. “I was married for ten wonderful years, and then he dumped me.”
“Why would anyone want to do that to you?”
“You could ask yourself that same question.”
He shook his head. “I guess in my roundabout way I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”
“You’re about twenty years too late for that,” Tricia said. And then, just as suddenly, she didn’t care about the past. It was over. They’d both gone on with their lives, and, despite a few lows here and there, she wasn’t too dissatisfied.
Most days.
“What will you do now-run away again?” she asked.
“I’ve thought about it. But…I’ve also thought about publishing more of my work.”
“You mean online?”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I’ve still got what it takes to get published by a big New York house?”
“I was just asking. Because…I know a literary agent. He might be persuaded to take a look at your work.”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “You’d do that for me…after what I did all those years ago?”
“I would hope you’re a different person now. And you’re going to need income when the law catches up with you.”
He looked downcast. “There is that, too. But I’m not totally without income. I’ve been teaching a writing course evenings at the Milford high school. I took the job so we’d have some money coming in while we got ready to open the inn.”
“Are you published under the name Jon Comfort?”
“A few short stories,” he admitted. “I’ve got a couple of novels in a trunk that are in pretty good shape, too. I just wasn’t sure I could hack writing on a deadline ever again.”
“The bane of the published author, at least those who want to stay that way,” Tricia said offhandedly.
Harry scowled.
“The agent I’m thinking of doesn’t normally handle mysteries-just the estate of Zoe Carter. But he’s good. He’s my sister’s agent.”
“Angelica is an author?”
She gave him points for remembering Angelica’s name, not that he’d ever met her before. They’d been close but hadn’t gotten to the point of meeting each other’s families. “She writes cookbooks.”
His smile was forced. “Pippa was the one who cooked in our house. I can only handle the barbecue.”
“And I can barely boil water,” Tricia admitted, and they both laughed. “I’ll talk to Angelica about it and get back to you.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Harry looked at the clock. “I’d better get going. Chief Baker awaits.”
Tricia didn’t envy him the upcoming conversation.
“Could you do me a favor, though?” He nodded over his shoulder. “Take down that picture. I don’t deserve to be up there with all those real authors.”
“You
