Storm Surge. Celia Ashley

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СКАЧАТЬ she’d rented a place next door to her old home? “Do you have a card?” she asked. “I’ll write my cell number down.”

      He pulled a business card and a pen from his pocket. Paige scrawled the number across the back. She asked him for another card and tucked it into her purse. Clutching her coffee, she pushed back her chair and stood. Stauffer followed suit.

      “Thank you,” she said.

      “Not a problem. What about that list of names? What’s that for?”

      “People I think might be able to answer some questions.”

      “Be careful. People in this town don’t like being approached by—”

      “Outsiders,” she said. “I know. I’ve been told. Thing is, I’m not. An outsider, I mean. I’ve been away. That’s all.”

      “A long time away.”

      Right. She needed no reminders.

      * * * *

      He watched her exit the coffee shop, a damned cop on her heels. They were cordial in parting. Not like total strangers. Not like some chance meeting. What the fuck did that mean?

      Stepping behind a tree, he kept an eye on her as she crossed the street to her car. She had a nice step, long and sort of uneven. Yup, the Plain Jane daughter had turned into a fine-looking woman after all. Just like Deb.

      But first, before he placed any wagers on whether she had the personality, too, he’d better figure out why the hell she’d come back.

      Chapter 4

      “Oh, goodness, yes, come in, come in!” The face of the elderly woman who opened the door folded into a thousand smiles. Her snow-white head bobbed in greeting. Paige was taken aback by the exuberant welcome and wavered on the threshold in uncertainty.

      “Do you really know who I am?”

      “You’re the image of your mother, dear. I know that much. Come in and sit down. Tell me how your mother’s doing.”

      Chest tightening, Paige followed Beatrice Hunt—the only person on her list who’d been willing to talk to her—into the living room. Taking the seat the woman indicated, she perched at the edge of the cushion, folding her hands between her knees, purse dangling from her wrist. “Mrs. Hunt—”

      “Bea. Call me Bea.”

      “Bea—”

      “Would you like some tea, Paige?”

      Paige settled her bag on the couch arm. “No, thank you. I have sad news. Mom passed away nearly three years back after a long battle with cancer.”

      “Oh,” the woman said in a hushed voice. “I didn’t know.”

      “I’m so sorry. I thought I had notified everyone.”

      “Is your father aware?”

      Paige hesitated. The woman was speaking in the present tense. Apparently, Bea Hunt didn’t know he had died, either.

      Paige hadn’t told him about her mother. Flowers had appeared at the funeral home in his name nevertheless, leading her to assume someone she’d notified had let him know, or he had seen the small notice she had placed in the local paper. She’d spent several days agonizing over whether she should write to her father, but in the end figured her mother would rather she didn’t. The day of the service she’d considered removing the small bouquet from the room, but ultimately took the flowers home with her, together with the other arrangements that hadn’t ended up at the gravesite. The bouquet had withered, and for some reason that defied her understanding, she’d scooped up the fallen petals and put them in an envelope. The yellowed envelope still sat on the kitchen counter at home.

      “He knew,” she said. “He sent flowers.”

      “Surprising, all things considered.”

      Paige remained mum.

      “I guess I don’t have to tell you,” Bea added. “And it’s all right. We won’t talk about that.”

      “Thank you,” said Paige. “You do know Dad’s gone now, too, don’t you?”

      “Oh, well, yes, I’d heard that. I forgot for a moment. I never saw him. Your mother and I fell out of touch years back. She was always very independent, your mother. Ideas about everything. I found I couldn’t keep up.”

      Paige twisted her fingers together in her lap. “What kind of ideas?”

      “The wild kind. She once told me she wanted to be a famous singer. Now, she could sing, as you well know, but she had no control over the famous part. I told her that, but she didn’t want to hear it.”

      Shifting on the cushion, Paige shook her head. An ambition to be a singer didn’t strike her as all that wild. However, she hadn’t known about her mother’s desires, despite Bea’s assumptions. Although she’d heard her mother sing in church and recognized the beauty of her voice, Paige had never been aware of any aspirations in that regard. Perhaps her mother had chosen Nashville to run to for that reason. “How long ago did she want to be a singer?”

      Bea considered a minute. “Oh, I’m guessing it was before you were born.”

      “Did she change her mind because I came along?”

      Bea thought a little longer, distress creeping into the set of her mouth. She looked at Paige and then away. “She had a lot of dreams. I guess the next one took precedence.”

      “She’d always been steadfast and level-headed.”

      Bea shrugged. Paige plunged on. “Do you know exactly what happened between Mom and Dad?”

      “Not happy with her lot in life, I guess.”

      Paige reeled back. “Would you be happy with a husband who blackened your eye and split your lip and nearly broke your arm?”

      Bea blinked, her expression suddenly bland. “I don’t know anything about that, Paige.”

      No force existed behind Bea Hunt’s statement, and no truth either. Hadn’t the woman commented two minutes ago about how surprising she found it that Edwin Waters sent flowers for his wife’s funeral? Paige had seen her father’s handiwork for herself the night her mother woke her out of a sound sleep by shoving an open suitcase at her and telling her to fit only what she needed in the little space left inside. She didn’t need confirmation from Bea Hunt and began to wonder if she’d misinterpreted the tiny star next to Bea’s name. “What was your relationship to Mom?”

      Clearing her throat, Bea appeared grateful for the change of subject. “I was her teacher in grade school. Later, when she was grown, we became friends. We were on the church committee together.”

      “I didn’t know any of this,” Paige said. “Mom never told me.”

      “She is—was—your parent, Paige. We often don’t know enough about our parents’ lives, nor do they СКАЧАТЬ