Whispering Winds Widows, page 3
A strangled laugh burst out of him. “Oh, man. I have a feeling I shouldn’t have been so brutally honest.”
“Honesty is always the best policy.” His grandfather nodded. “In fact, that oldest Burton girl just got divorced. I see her at church with her mama. She’s—”
“Pops,” he warned, “don’t even go there.”
“Just trying to give you a hand,” Ward suggested.
The buzz of the ancient doorbell saved Ben from having to respond. He slid off his stool. “Finish your coffee—I’ll get the door.”
“Suit yourself.” Ward lifted his mug in a sort of salute.
Ben glanced out the window as he stepped into the front hall. He didn’t recognize the vintage Land Rover that sat in the drive next to his truck. The idea that his grandfather hadn’t argued about answering the door suddenly pinged him. He already knew who it was. There was one thing most of the older folks around here had in common, he’d noticed: they liked knowing who was at their door or calling their phone. And they liked knowing it first.
If the visitor was the Burton girl, as he’d called her, with a Sunday-afternoon casserole, Ben was not going to be happy. He braced himself and opened the door.
Fiery red hair. It was the first thing that captured his attention.
“Good afternoon,” the woman standing before him said.
Green eyes. Ben blinked. Not the Burton woman. “Afternoon, ma’am.” Confusion furrowed his brow. He glanced at the Land Rover and then at the lady. Not from around here, for sure. Everyone knew everyone else in a small community like this one. “You lost?”
She smiled. He blinked again. The lady was pretty, for sure, but when she smiled...wow. Okay, so maybe the conversation with his grandfather had left him off balance. This was not his normal reaction to meeting strangers—even gorgeous ones wearing snug jeans and a green sweater that brought out the green in her eyes.
“I hope not.” She looked around the porch and then at the front yard before meeting his gaze once more. “I’m here to see Mr. Ward Kane. He’s expecting me.”
Ben’s frown deepened. “Okay.” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come on in. We were just having coffee in the kitchen.”
She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind her. She surveyed the front hall, studied the staircase and the line of photos that marched up the wall to the second floor. He hadn’t looked at the place from a stranger’s viewpoint in forever. Natural wood floors. The matching wood treads of the staircase were worn from time and use. Plaster walls that pushed up to ten feet where an ancient ceiling fan turned slowly—its only speed. It was a well-loved and timeworn home.
He gestured for her to go ahead of him. “Right through there.”
These old center-hall farmhouses were mostly all the same. The staircase and a wide welcoming area split the downstairs in half. On the left was the parlor, or living room. On the right was a dining room. Straight ahead, beyond the stairs with its neatly tucked bathroom, was the kitchen that took up the better part of the area across the back of the house. Next to that was the one downstairs bedroom, which had its own bath that had been added half a century ago.
Upstairs was far smaller with only two bedrooms and a shared bath. But the hall on the second level was broad enough for a small office area or den. That hall also led out onto an upper porch that overlooked the backyard.
The design was nothing like the more space-conscious and elegant designs of today, but it was practical and functional. More importantly, no other place had ever felt like home to him. If he was completely honest with himself, he wanted to raise his future family here in this house.
He banished the thought. He really did need to get his brain on track and off his current single status. It wasn’t like time was running out for him to find someone. In his entire life, he could not remember ever being this totally preoccupied with not being in a relationship.
When they entered the kitchen, Ward had cleared away the coffee mugs, and a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses sat on the big table they used for casual eating as well as for a workspace, much like modern islands. Stools lined two sides.
“Miss Hart,” Ward said with a broad smile. “I hope you had no trouble finding me.”
The two met in the center of the room and shook hands.
“Your directions were spot-on.” She surveyed the room. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Kane.”
“No, no,” he argued. “You call me Ward.”
“You should call me Reyna.”
While his grandfather gushed, Ben did a double take when his gaze landed on the plate of cookies sitting just beyond the pitcher and glasses. What in the world was this about? His grandfather did not bake. A quick glance around the counter and Ben spotted the white box from Sweet Feed, the local bakery. Since the shop wasn’t open on Sundays, he’d had to pick up the cookies on Saturday—which meant he’d had this appointment scheduled for at least a day.
Something like denial twisted with irritation started a climb up Ben’s spine. If this was some sort of matchmaking—
“This is my grandson, Ben.”
He snapped from the thought and looked from his grandfather to the woman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Ben.” She thrust her hand in his direction. “I genuinely appreciate your time.”
His hand wrapped around hers. Small, soft... Warmth flashed through his senses. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss here.”
Reyna Hart looked from Ben to Ward, but before she could question his confusion, his grandfather said, “Sit, please. I made fresh lemonade, and those cookies are the best in the county.” The grin on his lips softened the edge of frustration closing in on Ben. “Storytelling,” his grandfather went on, “calls for lemonade and cookies.”
Storytelling?
Reyna settled on a stool, and Ward poured the lemonade. Watching in a sort of dismay that had him feeling as if he wasn’t actually here and was seeing this from someplace else, Ben took a stool and waited for the other shoe to drop.
As soon as he’d placed glasses of lemonade in front of their visitor and Ben, Ward picked up a cookie and took a bite, then hummed his approval. “No one makes a chocolate chip cookie like Carol McVee.”
“That sounds like a challenge to me,” their guest proposed as she snagged a cookie of her own and took a bite. “Hmm. You may be right, Ward. This is excellent.”
Ben could only stare.
As if she’d picked up on his confusion, Reyna turned in his direction. “Your grandfather has kindly agreed to help me with my research on the Whispering Winds Widows.”
Her words landed like a blow to his gut. He flinched. “Research?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m a writer, and I would very much like to solve the mystery that surrounds the disappearance of the Three.”
Now he got it. He laughed, but the sound was far from pleasant. “So you hope to do what no one else has been able to do in thirty years?” He laughed again, couldn’t help himself. “What dozens—and I mean dozens—of other people, cops, PIs, investigative reporters, have tried to do. To no avail?”
Ben paid no attention to the glower his grandfather was sending his way.
Her head dipped in a slow nod. “Yes, I hope to do exactly that. Is talking today going to be a problem?” She looked from Ben to Ward. “If so, I can come back at another time.”
“It is not an issue,” Ward said firmly, with an equally hard look in Ben’s direction. “No one wants the truth about what happened to my son more than me and Ben. Isn’t that right?”
For most of his adult life, Ben had pretended his father had died—since there had never been any other explanation and he hadn’t come back and no body had been found. What else was a kid to do? His mother had refused to speak of what had happened. She’d had no choice in the beginning while the official investigation had been in full swing. But after that she’d never spoken of what had happened or of her missing husband. Ever. It was like she wanted to erase the memories so she no longer had to feel the pain.
If Lucinda Kane were in this room right now, she would simply walk out. She wouldn’t ask questions, wouldn’t shout her frustrations or anger—she’d just go. By the time Ben had left for college, he had pretty much taken that same path. God knew he’d asked enough questions and done enough digging himself, once he’d been old enough. But no amount of wondering or digging or feeling sorry for himself had ever changed one thing.
His father and two other men—his friends—had vanished, never to be heard from again.
That had been thirty years ago.
His mother had a point. Always looking back and wondering was too hard. It was far easier just to look forward and not think about it.
Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, Ben was nodding and saying in answer to his grandfather’s question, “No one.”
This woman—this stranger, a writer who wanted to delve into his most painful past—smiled brightly. Her green eyes flashed vibrantly. Her cheeks flushed the tiniest bit. “That’s great. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to working with the two of you. This is such an important endeavor.”
The two of them? He glanced at his grandfather. What had he promised this woman?
“Do you work for a newspaper or other media outlet?” The question had only just bobbed to the surface through all the disbelief and confusion fogging Ben’s brain. His gut was in knots, his chest tight enough to bust open like an overinflated tire.
“No. I’m an independent writer. This is a story that I want to write, but before I can do that, I need to find the facts.”
This just got worse. This woman intended to write the story of the Widows and the Three. His mother would go ballistic, even if only inside, where no one else could see or hear. Right or wrong as to how she looked at the past, Lucinda Kane was Ben’s mother and he had an obligation to look out for her.
“If you’re expecting me to help with this in any way, you should know I won’t go down any path that puts my mother in a bad light.”
Reyna nodded her understanding, her eyes searching his. “I would never expect you to disparage or hurt your mother in any way. Whatever you think of the people who’ve tried to solve this mystery, I’m not here to find what I want at all costs. I’m not that sort of person. I’m here to find the truth...if I can. Your and your grandfather’s help will go a long way in guiding my search in the right directions. I look forward to your input and your oversight.”
As much as part of him wanted to argue, to question her seemingly carefully laid-out sincerity, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was something about her. Not just the way she maintained direct eye contact or the way she stuck to her guns about wanting to do this right...but the genuine passion he heard in her voice. All of it coalesced into something he couldn’t ignore. Couldn’t deny wanting to see through. Not to mention that he didn’t want to embarrass his grandfather by refusing to help.
“All right.” He gave a nod. “We can start first thing in the morning.” He glanced at his grandfather. “Works better for my schedule, actually.”
A frown lined her pretty face and punctuated the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Why not start now?”
“Because I need to find out exactly who you are, and when we start, in the morning,” he repeated, “we’ll start with who my father was and go from there.”
“All right, then.” Challenge rose in her eyes. “Name the place and time, and I’ll see you in the morning.” She looked to his grandfather. “If that’s all right with you, Ward. We can reschedule our interview.” Her gaze returned to Ben. “I wouldn’t want anyone to be uncomfortable.”
“Works just fine for me,” the older man assured her. The tightness in his voice warned he was not happy about his grandson’s reaction.
Ben gave her a nod then. “We’ll meet at eight sharp at the old Henry place on Shadow Brook Lane.”
She scooted off her stool and thrust out her hand for another shake—maybe to seal the deal. “I’ll be there.”
Ben gripped her hand tightly. “See you then.”
He released her hand, and she stepped back. “I can see myself out.”
When the front door had closed behind her, his grandfather swung a glare in his direction. “Are you really planning on making her talk to you while you’re renovating that old house? For God’s sake, boy, it’s a mess over there.”
Ben shrugged. “You can serve her lemonade and cookies when she interviews you, if that makes you happy, Pops. But if she wants to know about the Kane family from me, then she’ll follow me around and see with her own eyes what we’re about.”
“If you don’t want to be a part of this,” Ward argued, “just say so, but don’t try these antics in hopes of running her off—because I do want to be a part of it.”
That was the part that hit Ben the wrong way. “Why? What makes you believe for a second that she can find anything no one else has? Do you even know her?”
He nodded. “You’re damn straight I know her. Eudora Davenport sent her. If Eudora trusts her, then I trust her.”
“Ms. Davenport is very ill, Pops. We can’t be sure she knows what this woman is all about.”
“You can help me with this,” his grandfather growled, “or you can stay out of the way. I want the truth.”
He started clearing the table.
Ben didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
The sudden urge to have things repaired when Ben had been on him for months to let him do the maintenance that needed to be taken care of hit like a punch to the gut. The decision to paint the house. Holy crap.
“Are you sick, Pops?”
His grandfather glared at him. “What I am is old. Eighty-five. I won’t live forever, boy. I want the truth before I go.”
The decision came swiftly and profoundly. No way in the world would he stand in the way of something his grandfather clearly wanted this badly. “I’ve never tried to figure it out,” Ben admitted. “Not really. Not with real effort. Let’s face it—whenever I have tried talking to Mom, she cuts me off. You and Mimi were too deep into the search for the truth to have time to figure out how I could fit in.”
Hurt passed over the older man’s face. “That was never our intent, Ben. We were devastated. We couldn’t see beyond finding him...at least for a long while.”
“That wasn’t a criticism, Pops. It was just the way it felt. I knew even then that the two of you were doing the best you could. The way I survived all of it was to, in time, let it go. Leave it to the reporters and cops who from time to time developed an interest. To go on with my life.”
But had he? Was he really any different from his mother or his grandparents? Had he really, deep down, let go?
Maybe not. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to hang on to the relationship with his ex-fiancée. How could you move forward with the now if part of you was still mired in the past?
Ben took the three strides that separated him from his grandfather and hugged him. When he drew back, he gave the old man a nod. “We will find the truth. No matter what it takes, and if this Reyna Hart can help us, then I’m all in.”
The emotion that shone in his grandfather’s eyes was all the confirmation Ben needed to know he’d made the right decision.
The strangest sensation—a bit of anticipation mixed with something a little like fear—welled inside him.
Thirty years was a long time to wait for the truth. He just hoped that truth wasn’t more painful than not knowing.
Chapter Three
Henry Property
Shadow Brook Lane
Monday, April 22, 8:00 a.m.
The old Henry place, as Mr. Kane had called it, was just that—old and run-down. But like the other old places Reyna had seen in the area, it had a loveliness about it. When restored it would be the sort of farmhouse seen on television renovation programs.
Reyna put the Land Rover in Park and shut off the engine. She’d spoken to Eudora at length last night. She’d asked all sorts of questions about the town and the people Reyna had met so far. Not so many, really. Just Birdie Jewel at the B and B and Mr. Ward and his grandson.
She imagined he—the grandson—was in there looking out a window now. He obviously wasn’t happy she was here. Not that she could blame him, really. She’d scoured the internet for stories about the Widows and the missing husbands. So much of what had been published about the families cast a negative light on them. Though no evidence of foul play on the part of any of the three families had been found, doubt, suspicion and accusations had been all over the place.
How was it that all three Widows had remained single and living right where they’d been when their husbands had disappeared? Even Reyna couldn’t deny the oddity of that reality thirty years later. The possibility that one or more of the Widows knew some little something that could break the case was possible, maybe even probable. Yet for three decades their stories had remained the same without deviation.
Reyna wondered, if one were to become terminally ill, would that change?
Not that she wished any such thing, of course, but it would be interesting to see what happened at that point.
For now, Reyna thought as she reached for the car-door handle, she would try this the old-fashioned way—with hard work and a heavy dash of relentlessness.
She really hadn’t come prepared for this sort of endeavor like this morning’s meeting in a renovation project, but between her and Birdie, she’d pulled together something to wear. Her hiking shoes and the jeans she’d brought along were fine, but she hadn’t bothered with any casual-work sorts of shirts. Birdie had lent her a couple of sweatshirts that were perfect for this cool day. The fact that the sweatshirts sported logos of flowers and birds suited Reyna just fine. She had a feeling that beneath all her exotic jewelry and flowing clothing, Ms. Birdie Jewel was an old hippie at heart.
