The Fool Dies Last, page 11
Before he could finish, Dylan interjected, ‘They won’t go to the house alone tomorrow. I’ll go with them.’
Hope’s head snapped toward him. ‘What? No, I don’t—’
‘What an excellent idea!’ Morris exclaimed.
‘Excellent,’ Gram echoed, nodding cheerfully.
‘I couldn’t be more pleased.’ Morris beamed at his son. ‘You’ve set our minds at ease, Dylan. Hasn’t he, Olivia?’
Gram nodded some more.
With the matter settled to their apparent satisfaction, Morris and Gram passed the biscuit basket around, returned to their salads, and began a lively discussion – mostly between themselves – about the varying quality of the produce they had seen at the farmers’ market that morning.
‘About tomorrow,’ Hope said to Dylan in a low tone. ‘You really don’t need to come with us. It isn’t necessary.’
‘But I can’t back out now,’ he replied, calmly sipping his claret. ‘I’ve made a commitment.’
She frowned at him, uncertain whether he was actually concerned about her and Summer’s safety or – more likely – he was simply trying to get back into his father’s good graces. A trace of a smile tugged at Dylan’s lips. It was a smug smile, and it answered her question. He wasn’t worried about her well-being or even Morris’s favorable opinion. He was just being a pain in the neck.
ELEVEN
Summer was not pleased. She scowled at Dylan’s car as it pulled up to the curb in front of the boutique. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘Don’t blame me,’ Hope said. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’
‘But I thought that we were going to the house now.’
‘We are going to the house now. Except Morris and Gram don’t want us to go alone.’
‘Why on earth not?’ Summer retorted indignantly. ‘It’s my house, too. Not just Gary’s. I have every right to be there and take my things!’
‘Of course you do. It has nothing to do with Gary. They’re worried about …’
Hope didn’t finish. There was little point in a lengthy explanation. Summer was barely listening. She was too busy clutching her head in her hands.
‘Oh, my head,’ she moaned. ‘My aching, aching head.’
‘You poor dear. It’s the price you pay for drinking that bottle of gin, I’m afraid.’
‘I hate gin. Gin is the devil.’
‘As I recall,’ Hope remarked with a slight grin, ‘you once said the exact same thing about tequila.’
‘Tequila is also the devil.’
The grin grew. ‘And then there was that time with the vodka …’
In spite of her suffering, Summer burst out laughing. ‘The vodka was Megan’s fault! She had that tour group from Poland staying at the hotel, and they were stuck inside all weekend because of the heavy rains. At Megan’s insistence, I—’ The memory and the laughter were cut short by another moan. ‘Oh, merciful heaven. Make it stop. No noise. No laughter. My head can’t take it. It feels like a herd of elephants is stomping on my skull.’
‘Here,’ Dylan said. ‘Try these.’
Turning in surprise, Hope found him out of his car and standing on the sidewalk next to them. In Dylan’s hands were a coffee cup, a bakery box, and a small paper bag.
‘Try these,’ he repeated, holding the items out to Summer. ‘They should help.’
Summer squinted at them – and him – dubiously.
‘Double shot of espresso. Double order of cheese Danish. Double bottle of aspirin,’ he told her.
The squint dissolved into a look of gratitude. Summer took the proffered gifts and immediately swallowed two aspirin with a large swig of coffee. ‘You’re an angel,’ she sighed to Dylan.
He responded with an amused snort. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever called me that before. Better than being called the devil with the liquor, I suppose.’
‘No more mention of liquor,’ Summer protested, grimacing and gesturing toward her queasy stomach.
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
Queasy stomach notwithstanding, Summer wasted no time opening the bakery box and digging into its contents. ‘Cheese Danish are one of my favorites. How did you know?’ she asked him.
‘I didn’t. It was a semi-educated guess. Last night at dinner somebody mentioned that you like cheesy foods, so I figured that it probably extended to breakfast, too.’
Summer’s mouth was too full to do anything other than nod enthusiastically.
Dylan turned to Hope. ‘There’s an extra Danish in the box for you.’
‘Thank you, but I’ll pass.’
‘Not a fan of cheese or not a fan of breakfast?’
Hope was tempted to reply that she couldn’t be won over with baked treats quite as easily as her sister, but instead she answered simply, ‘I’m not hungry.’
Dylan gave her a scrutinizing look. In the early-morning sunshine, his eyes were so light that they were almost translucent. ‘The pastries haven’t been poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Summer choked. ‘Huh? What?’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Hope said. ‘The Danish is fine.’
Summer stared at the remnant of pastry in her hand.
‘The Danish is fine,’ Hope reiterated. ‘He’s only joking.’ She frowned at Dylan. ‘Although considering the circumstances, it isn’t a very funny joke.’
He shrugged. ‘Better to laugh than to cry.’
‘Amen to that,’ Summer agreed, finishing off her first Danish and promptly plowing into her second. ‘I’m done crying over Gary.’
Hope was not done frowning at Dylan.
‘You can stop glowering at me like that,’ he said. ‘I’m not poison, either.’
‘Hmm,’ Hope remarked skeptically.
The therapeutic combination of caffeine, sugar, and painkillers must have started to take effect, because in a cheerful tone between bites of cheese filling, Summer said to Dylan, ‘You shouldn’t take it personally when Hope doesn’t eat. It isn’t you or the selection of food. She almost never eats anymore.’
Hope’s frown shifted to her sister. ‘That’s really not helpful, Summer.’
‘But it’s true,’ she countered. ‘He might as well be told.’
‘Hmm,’ Hope commented again, no less skeptical than before.
‘Since he doesn’t appear to be leaving Asheville any time soon …’ For confirmation, Summer turned to Dylan. ‘You’re planning on staying around here for a while longer, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ he answered.
She turned back to Hope. ‘So there’s no point in holding grudges or keeping secrets. We should try to get along as best as we can.’
As she said it, Summer licked the last of the pastry crumbs from her fingers. Hope couldn’t help being amused at how quickly her sister had changed her tune. One minute she was scowling at Dylan in his car, and the next minute – after enjoying his angelic provisions – she was declaring the importance of their all being chummy. Apparently, the incident with Betsy Hughes’s tincture was temporarily forgotten in light of the tasty cheese Danish.
‘I believe, my dear Summer,’ Hope drawled, ‘that you might be a little too easily influenced by espresso and baked goods.’
‘I believe you’re right, my dear Hope,’ Summer acknowledged. ‘In my defense, however, during the whole course of our marriage, Gary never once brought me a box of fresh pastries – and I was sleeping with him.’
That made Hope laugh. ‘Then you really are too easily bribed.’
‘And you have become far too cynical and guarded for your own good. It’s understandable, of course,’ Summer added hastily, apologetically, ‘with … with what happened in … in February.’
The sentence ended awkwardly, and an even more awkward silence followed. Her laughter gone, Hope’s eyes were on the sidewalk. Summer fiddled with the lid of her coffee cup. Dylan looked back and forth between the two, waiting for some explanation. None came.
‘What happened in February?’ he asked after a minute.
This time Summer didn’t risk her sister’s ire by volunteering any additional information. Instead, she gave Hope a smacking kiss on the cheek and, in an evident effort to change the subject, headed toward Dylan’s car.
‘No worries,’ she called over her shoulder to Dylan. ‘My stomach is feeling much better now. Your upholstery should be safe from any motion sickness mishaps.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he replied. ‘Although, to be honest, I wasn’t too concerned. It’s a rental.’
Summer opened the back passenger-side door of the car, and as she slid on to the glossy, full-grain leather, whistled in admiration. ‘Fancy rental. Must cost a pretty penny.’
‘It does.’ Dylan opened the front passenger-side door for Hope, who climbed in without meeting his gaze. ‘I’ve been thinking of switching to a lease instead.’
‘Then you must be planning on staying around here for a considerable while longer,’ Summer said, referencing their earlier exchange. ‘If that’s the case, and you intend on treating more of your dad’s patients, it would be lovely if you didn’t overprescribe them quite so many medications. As much as I enjoy seeing my clients, I greatly prefer to see them healthy and happy, not sicker after a visit to the doctor than before.’
Hope struggled to repress a grin. Apparently, the goodwill purchased by a pair of cheese Danish had a short lifespan.
‘If your supposed clients were so healthy and happy,’ Dylan responded tersely, ‘they wouldn’t need to visit a doctor in the first place.’
Summer’s mouth opened to argue, but either she couldn’t think of a sufficiently snappy rejoinder or the after-effects of the gin had succeeded in outmuscling the influx of sugar and caffeine, because a moment later her head flopped back on the leather, and her eyes closed.
Without further ado – or conversation – Dylan settled himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As they pulled away from the curb, Hope pondered briefly whether she should offer to provide directions, but then she saw that Summer’s address was already programmed into the car’s navigation system – courtesy of Morris, in all likelihood.
Summer and Gary’s house was located in one of the newer suburbs. It wasn’t an especially long or complicated drive from downtown Asheville. During the weekday rush hours, there were the inevitable slowdowns caused by too many vehicles squeezing into too few lanes, but on Sunday morning, the traffic was light.
At length, Dylan broke the silence in the car. ‘So are you going to tell me about February?’
‘No,’ Hope snapped.
The sharpness of her reply startled her almost as much as it did him. She hadn’t intended to be so curt, but it was not a topic that she was eager to discuss, especially not with Dylan, while Summer was sleeping in the back seat, on the way to shifty Gary’s.
Her reticence was of little deterrence apparently, because Dylan continued, ‘It isn’t some sort of a diet, is it?’
‘No,’ she answered again, this time with annoyance.
‘Good. I don’t like women who are constantly dieting.’
‘What a coincidence. I don’t like men who are constantly judging.’
‘It’s not a judgment,’ Dylan said. ‘It’s the simple truth. There isn’t much pleasure in being with a person on a perpetual diet. You want to try out a great new restaurant that has an acclaimed chef, and instead of enjoying all the menu has to offer, you’re sitting with someone who will only indulge so far as to squeeze half a lemon over a single stalk of asparagus.’
Hope wondered if someone was meant generally or referred to a specific ex from his past. ‘I thought doctors were supposed to encourage people to eat a healthful diet focused on fruits and veggies.’
‘Healthful, yes. Fad or starvation, no. Malnourishment isn’t sexy.’
‘So the best way into your bed is through a bottle of multivitamins?’
‘You want to find out?’
He purred the words, the proposition unmistakable. Perhaps she should have been offended, but Hope found herself smiling instead.
‘You are a smooth operator, Dylan Henshaw. I have to give you credit where credit is due. Sunday morning, not a drop of alcohol or a scented candle in sight, and you still managed to make that sound remarkably sensual. You must have every unattached female – and probably a good number of the married ones, too – wrapped around your little finger at that hospital of yours in California.’
‘I’m not interested in them,’ he responded in the same purring tone. ‘How am I doing with you?’
Hope’s pulse quickened, and she felt her face flush. It lasted only for a moment, but it was long enough to surprise – and disconcert – her. The man really was smooth. Too smooth for comfort. She didn’t know whether he could see the pink in her cheeks, but she was saved from having to worry that her voice would quaver and betray her by the navigation system, which fortuitously announced that they were arriving at their destination on the left.
Handling the car with the same degree of confidence as he had handled the conversation, Dylan pulled into Summer’s driveway.
‘Why are we stopping?’ Summer asked, yawning and stretching in the back seat. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Rise and shine,’ Dylan told her. ‘We’re here.’
‘Here?’ Summer looked out of the car window and saw her house in front of them. ‘Wow. That was fast.’
Hope wasted no time in opening the car door and climbing out, eager for a breath of fresh air. Dylan followed suit.
‘It’s nice enough,’ he remarked, taking a sip of his own coffee as he stood on the driveway and admired the house’s façade. ‘Well designed, and attractive color on the brick. But if I’m being honest, it’s too cookie-cutter subdivision for my taste. I like older houses with history and character.’
‘In my experience, history and character equal never-ending leaks, drafts, and expensive repairs,’ Hope said.
‘You mean your brownstone, I presume? That’s exactly the kind of place I’m talking about. It’s a great old building. Got real substance to it. I didn’t have a chance to view much of the interior that one time I was inside …’
Probably because you were too busy accusing Summer and me of trying to kill little old ladies, Hope thought wryly.
‘But from what I did see, it appeared to have some outstanding architectural details. The woodwork looked exceptional.’
‘Exceptional and rotting,’ she replied. ‘You don’t get hundred-year-old woodwork that’s not rotting somewhere.’
‘Are all three floors livable?’ Dylan asked her.
Hope nodded. ‘The third floor can get awfully hot in summer, though, so it isn’t the best choice for bedrooms and sleeping. We use it mostly for storage these days, and that has the added benefit of letting us avoid going all the way to the attic.’
‘You don’t like the attic? Too many ghosts up there giving you trouble?’
Her nose twitched. He clearly said it in jest and had no idea how right he actually was. ‘The rickety stairs have also been a problem. Gram slipped on them last year and came close to breaking her good hip. Your dad was so upset about it that he wanted her to shut off the attic permanently, which she refused to do.’
‘Why?’
‘The ghosts, of course. They wouldn’t like to be sealed in.’
‘But can’t they just wander through the walls or slip through floorboards?’
‘Some can, and some can’t,’ she answered. ‘It depends on the ghost.’
A crease had formed in Dylan’s brow. The natural assumption was that she was joking as well, but Hope could tell that he wasn’t entirely sure. Her nose twitched again.
‘Gary had been promising to get one of his construction buddies to look at the stairs and see what could be done without commencing a major remodeling project,’ she said, ‘but I think it’s a safe bet that won’t be happening now. Speaking of which, where is Summer? Did she go into the house?’
Turning to look for her, they found Summer where they had left her: still in the back seat of Dylan’s car.
‘Are you coming?’ Hope called to her.
Summer shook her head.
Hope walked back to the car and opened Summer’s door. ‘It’s time to get moving, sleepyhead. You can nap later.’
She shook her head again, anxiety visible in her hazel eyes.
‘If you’re worried that he’s here, he’s not,’ Dylan told her. ‘Not unless he’s gotten rid of his car. I can see through the window that the garage is empty.’
‘It’s not Gary,’ Summer said. ‘It’s them.’
‘Them?’
The hazel eyes moved from side to side, in the direction of one neighboring house and then the other. Hope followed her sister’s gaze.
‘Whoa! I see what you mean,’ Hope said. ‘They are lurking.’
‘Who is?’ Dylan asked.
‘The neighbors. Take a look; just don’t make it too obvious.’
As though he was inspecting the tires or checking for nicks in the paint, Dylan circled once around his car, surreptitiously surveying the surrounding houses. In every direction a neighbor had suddenly emerged to engage in some ostensibly necessary activity. To the right a man retrieved the newspaper from his front lawn. To the left a woman watered the pansies in her window box. Across the street a couple adjusted the furniture on their front porch. Next door a woman brushed off her stoop. They all moved at tortoise speed, with one extraordinarily slow step after another, while at the same time keeping their gazes fixed on Summer’s house and the current occupants of the driveway. Not one neighbor smiled, or waved, or called out a greeting. They just lurked and stared.
‘Damn, that’s creepy,’ Dylan said. ‘It’s like one of those black-and-white sci-fi films from the 1950s. Pod people or invaders from Mars.’
Hope grinned. She turned to Summer. ‘So what if they’re watching? Let them goggle and gossip.’
‘But they’ll speculate as to who left whom and why. They’ll post all sorts of stuff about it. I’m sure they will!’
‘Since when do you care about that?’ Hope rejoined. ‘I heard you and Gram just the other day wishing a pox on anybody who had ever shared a photo of their pet dressed in a costume.’
