More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way. Karen Harper

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СКАЧАТЬ had no intention of tucking tail and going home.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The overnight ferry from Portland, Maine, to Yarmouth, on Nova Scotia’s southwest shore, was surprisingly smooth—and fun. Jess hadn’t been anywhere in so long, she made an adventure of it. When she arrived back on land, she followed the directions to the Wild Raspberry B and B, which, she soon discovered, was on Nova Scotia’s South Shore, a breathtaking stretch of Canada’s eastern coastline of rocks, cliffs, narrow, sandy beaches and picturesque villages.

      “Forget O’Malley,” she muttered to herself. “I want to go hiking!”

      She’d at least had the presence of mind to pack trail shoes and hiking clothes on her quick stop back at her condo last night. Now it was a sunny, glorious morning, and she debated leaving Brendan to his own devices—his determined solitude—and finding another place to stay. He wouldn’t even have to know she was there.

      But she continued north along what was aptly named the Lighthouse Route and kept forcing herself not to stop, kept warning herself to stay on task. Finally she came to a small cove near historic Lunenburg, named a UNESCO World Heritage Site because of its pristine British colonial architecture and rich seafaring heritage, and found her way to the Wild Raspberry.

      It wasn’t a renovated colonial building like those in Lunenburg, which Jess had read about on the ferry. The Wild Raspberry was, fittingly, a small Victorian house, complete with a tiny guest cottage, that perched on a knoll across from the water. A tangle of rose and raspberry vines covered a fence along one side of the gravel driveway. The house itself was painted gray and trimmed in raspberry and white, and had porches in front and back that were crammed with brightly cushioned white wicker furniture and graced with hanging baskets of fuchsias and white petunias.

      Jess parked at the far end of the small parking area—so that O’Malley wouldn’t spot her the minute he pulled into the driveway. As she got her suitcase out of the back of her car, she could smell that it was low tide.

      And she could hear laughter coming from the back of the house, toward the guest cottage.

      Women’s laughter. Unrestrained, spirited laughter.

      It was so infectious, Jess couldn’t help but smile as she made her way up a stone walk to the side entrance, where an enormous stone urn of four or five different colors of petunias greeted her. There was also—of course—a Welcome sign featuring a raspberry vine.

      She thought of O’Malley’s rat hole apartment. How had he picked this charming, cheerful place?

      She sighed. “Because he got shot in the head yesterday.”

      A forty-something woman in hiking shorts, a tank top and sports sandals came from behind the house. She had short, curly brown hair streaked with gray and a smile that matched the buoyant mood of the B and B. “May I help you?”

      “I’m Jessica Stewart—”

      “I thought so. Welcome! I’m Marianne Wells. Please, come inside. Make yourself comfortable. I can help you with your bags—I just need to say goodbye to some friends.”

      “Don’t let me interrupt. I’m in no hurry.”

      “Oh, we were just finishing up. We meet every week.”

      As Marianne turned back to rejoin her friends, Jess noticed a faint three-inch scar near her hostess’s right eye. A weekly get-together with women friends—it wasn’t something Jess took the time to do. Given her busy schedule, her friendships were more catch-as-catch-can.

      The side door led into a cozy sitting area decorated cottage-style, with an early-twentieth-century glass-and-oak curio filled with squat jars of raspberry jam, raspberry-peach jam and raspberry-rhubarb jam, all with handmade labels. There was raspberry honey in a tall, slender jar, and a collection of quirky raspberry sugar pots and creamers.

      “I’ve told all my friends no more raspberry anything,” Marianne Wells said as she came into the small room. “You should see what I have in storage. It can get overwhelming.”

      “I have an aunt who made the mistake of letting people know she collects frogs. Now she’s got frog-everything. Frog towels, frog soaps, frog statues, frog magnets. Frogs for every room. She even has a frog clock.”

      Marianne laughed, the scar fading as her eyes crinkled in good humor. “I know what you mean. It’s fun to collect something, though. You must want to see your room. Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

      As she started down the hall, following her hostess, Jess noticed a bulletin board above a rolltop desk with a small, prominent sign on it:

      The Courage to Click. Shelternet.ca.

      Shelternet can help you find a link to a shelter or a helpline in your area.

      From her experience both as a police officer and a prosecutor, Jess immediately recognized Shelternet as a resource for victims of abuse, one that Marianne Wells obviously wanted people coming through her B and B to know about.

      Instinctively Jess thought of the scar above Marianne’s eye and guessed she must have been a victim of domestic abuse at one time, then reminded herself that she didn’t know—and shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

      But Marianne paused on the stairs and glanced back at Jess. “Clicking on Shelternet helped save my life.”

      “I’m a prosecutor in Boston. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just couldn’t help noticing—”

      “I’m not uncomfortable. If that sign prompts just one person to take action—well, that’s why it’s there. If a woman in an abusive relationship walks into this inn, I know that she’ll walk out of here with that Web site address in her head. Shelternet. ca.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she seemed to mean for it to. “I don’t mind that you noticed it. Not at all. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve been through. I used to be, but not anymore.”

      Jess smiled back at her. “I hope you’ll tell me more about Shelternet while I’m here.”

      “Gladly.”

      They continued up the white-painted stairs to a large, airy room overlooking the water. The decor was Victorian cottage, with lots of white and vibrant accents, nothing stuffy or uptight. There was a private bathroom—with raspberry-colored towels—and upscale scented toiletries that surely would be a waste on O’Malley.

      Marianne pointed out the television, how to work the windows, where to find extra linens. “My friend Pat comes in to clean every morning. Her grandmother lived in this house before I bought it. I’ve made a lot of changes, but Pat approves. You’ll like her.”

      “I’m sure I will,” Jess said.

      “There’s one other guest room on this floor and a room on the third floor in what was once the attic. A long-term guest is staying there. Brendan O’Malley will be staying on this floor. He’s not here yet. I thought you two might have made arrangements to arrive together.”

      Jess felt a twinge of guilt. When she’d called back to make a reservation, Marianne had recognized her voice from her previous call about O’Malley. “Uh, no.”

      Marianne СКАЧАТЬ