Today, Tomorrow, Always Read online

  After a tearful goodbye to her parents, I carted Seldrine over to Heaven on Earth church, parked, and walked her to the basement where the meeting was being held.

  “Your parents will be here, waiting for you in an hour,” I told her as we stopped outside the rec room door. Since this was a closed meeting, I wasn’t going to break anyone’s anonymity by entering with her. My responsibility was to escort her to the meeting. It was up to her to do the rest. “Don’t screw this up, Seldrine.”

  “I won’t, Cathy. I promise.”

  “Good. Call me before you go to work later with your schedule for the next two weeks. We need to plan which meetings you go to, and I need to adjust my own days to bring you.”

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed it with both of hers. “I’m sorry about all this, I really am. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay all your kindness.”

  “By getting your life back in order.”

  She threw her arms around me, and then entered the rec room.

  Back at my office, Martha greeted me with a stack of files in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. She handed me both after I’d taken off my coat. “Everything go okay?”

  I explained the provisions Asa had handed down, including my need to escort Seldrine to daily meetings. “She’ll call later with her work and school schedules.”

  “Okay. Hey, did that writer fella find you?”

  “Frayne?”

  “Yeah. He showed up here at nine. I told him you were in court, and he said he’d drop by there.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. Did he find you?”

  “He was in the back of the courtroom while Seldrine’s case was being heard, but he left before it ended.”

  “Couldn’t’a been important then, cuz if it was he’d’a waited.”

  I had to agree.

  As I was leaving the office for the day later on, I toyed with the idea of stopping by the inn, seeing if Frayne was there, and asking him why he’d been in court today, observing me.

  Observing me? Ha. Getting me all hot and bothered was what he’d really been doing. I’d never lost my concentration before like I had when I’d found those pale eyes focused on me.

  It was a little discombobulating, to be sure.

  I hit the remote starter on my key fob, and my car roared to life, warming the engine before I ever got to it. A quick movement from the parking lot caught my attention.

  Frayne alighted from a car and walked toward me.

  Since it was almost five on a January day in New Hampshire, dark had descended an hour ago. The lamps along the street were lit, throwing an eerie golden glow of light atop his bare head, haloing it. His face was mostly shadowed, but his lips were pressed tight together, his hands tucked into the pockets of his bomber jacket. He walked as if he were on a mission, with purposeful strides, body erect, eyes fixed in front of him. On me.

  I waited, my briefcase in one hand, keys in the other. A flicker of expectation shimmied down my back, the unexpected jolt I kept experiencing whenever we were together making itself known. I should have been on guard against any kind of silly expectation about seeing him, since I knew his opinion of what I did for a living. Unfortunately, this was one of those times when the logical part of my brain warred with the emotional part. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, emotion usually won the battle.

  “Mr. Frayne,” I said when he finally stopped in front of me. I impressed myself with my ability to keep my voice devoid of the sensations clanging around inside me.

  His face was partly shadowed under the street light, but I was able to see his mouth clearly. It pulled into a straight line at my greeting. “I know you’re done for the day and want to get home to your family, but I need to speak to you about something important. Do you have a few minutes?”

  The only family I had to get home to was probably asleep under the kitchen table. A few minutes more wouldn’t make much difference. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  He pulled his bare hands from his pockets and blew on them. Apparently, no one had told him how cold it gets in New England in the winter. “Can we go somewhere warmer, like up the street to the diner? They’re still open, I think.”

  “The Last Supper is open until eleven every day of the year.” I shut my car off.

  He tossed me another one of those confused looks, as if he missed the pun of a joke when everyone around him had gotten it. He tucked his hands back into his jacket pocket and followed me, silently, up the street.

  Delicious warmth and the heavenly smell of bacon grease and percolating coffee hit us the moment Frayne held the door open for me.

  “Hey, Cath.”

  “Hey, Ruthie. We’re gonna take a booth, okay?”

  “Ay-a. Sit wherever ya want. I’ll be right over.”

  We slid into a flaming red vinyl-upholstered booth, which had been new when my parents had gotten married. Old-fashioned jukeboxes were secured to each tabletop, the tunes all from the eighties and nineties.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen one of these in years,” Frayne said.

  Two empty mugs were plopped down in front of us along with two glasses of ice water. “Cost you a quarter if you want to hear somethin’.”

  Frayne turned his focus to the owner of the Last Supper.

  “You the writer feller staying over at the inn?” Ruthie asked, eyeing him from head to chest. “My dad was talking ’bout you at breakfast th’other morning.”

  “Ruthie, this is McLachlan Frayne,” I said. To Frayne, I added, “This is Ruthie Tewksburry. You met her father, Olaf, at the historical society the other day. Ruthie owns the Last Supper.”

  “Own, operate, cook, and if you get outta line, I’m a second-degree black belt, and I can take you down no matter how big or stupid you are.”

  Frayne’s eyes went wide. Whether it was from her blunt statement or her appearance I had no idea, but once again, he had that paralyzed deer-in-the-headlights stare, exactly as he had the first day at the museum.

  Ruthie Tewksburry, all one hundred pounds of her sopping wet, stood a little over five feet, was sixty-two years old, admitted to fifty-one if asked, smoked like she invented the habit, and was universally loved by all of Heaven.

  “Good to know,” Frayne said.

  Ruthie winked. “Coffee for you?” she asked, and then poured him a cup before he could answer. To me she said, “Your tea is coming up, sweetie.”

  That’s the benefit of living somewhere all your life: the townspeople know everything about you. Of course, it can also be a curse because, well, the townspeople know everything about you.

  Frayne’s eyes tracked her as she sashayed to the counter.

  “She assumes every male on the planet drinks coffee. If you’d prefer something else, ask.”

  He looked down at the cup, then shook his head. “No, this is fine. She’s…” He let the sentence drag.

  “Yeah, she is. Now, what did you need to talk to me about?”

  He lifted his cup, took a sip, and his shoulders relaxed when the first taste hit his mouth. Ruthie breezed by and deposited a full pot of hot water and three unopened tea bags in front of me.

  “You eating anything, kids?”

  My stomach rumbled in answer. With a chuckle as quick and harsh as a car backfiring, Ruthie grinned. “I already know what you want,” she said. “How ’bout you, writer-man?”

  “Um…”

  “Meatloaf’s on special tonight. Comes with garlic mashed, green beans, and a slice of pie for dessert.”

  “What kind of pie?”

  A grin split her gaunt face revealing a huge gap in her front teeth. “Apple, blueberry, blackberry, lemon meringue, key lime, chocolate mousse, rhubarb, pecan, pumpkin, tollhouse, chocolate peanut butter, and orange cream.”

  She rattled of the selections in a swift staccato, and I wondered if he’d actually heard all the choices.

  When he ordered the chocolate mousse, I knew he had.

&
nbsp; Ruthie’s head bobbed a couple of times, and then she left us alone.

  The diner wasn’t packed as it usually was during leaf-peeping season and on any given weekend day, but it still did a fairly good business, enough so Ruthie was able to stay open seven days a week for the entire year.

  While I steeped my tea, Frayne cleared his throat. “Why does she know what you want without asking?”

  I took a sip, closed my eyes, and sighed. Nanny Fee had remarked many times that a good cup of tea could solve any problem, soothe any ache, heal any emotional wound. She wasn’t wrong.

  When I opened my eyes, set on answering him, the words stuck in the back of my throat. As he had in the subbasement, Frayne’s stare was penetrating, as if trying to read my mind, even reach down to my soul. I needed a moment to compose the jumble of nerves tumbling through me.

  When I was sure I could respond without sounding like I needed an inhaler, I said, “Because I order the same thing every time I come in here and have since I was a kid, including the three summers I waitressed for Ruthie when I was in high school. Every item on the menu is fabulous, yet I still order the same meal every time.”

  “It must be good.”

  I smiled at him and then repeated my earlier question.

  He peered down at his coffee mug again. “I know you saw me at the back of the courtroom this morning.”

  Since it wasn’t a question, I didn’t answer.

  “I asked your sister where your office was, and when I got there your secretary told me you were at the courthouse. I thought I’d be able to catch you when you were done, but I got a phone call I had to take.”

  “I was surprised to see you in the gallery. After our conversation the other day, I’d think the last place I’d find you was a courtroom.”

  The tops of his cheeks darkened as he lifted his mug to his mouth. The mist from the hot coffee rose from its center, caressed his face, and for a moment I grew jealous of the steam. I wanted to know what it felt like to run my fingers over the hard, square line of that chiseled jaw, stroke the multicolored stubble crossing it, and drag my fingers into the crevices slipping down the sides of his mouth.

  “A courtroom isn’t my favorite place on earth,” he said, then took a long chug from his mug.

  From his silence on the subject, I surmised he wasn’t going to tell me why.

  I repeated my question.

  “I’ve come across a name in the public files and then did a search through the personal archives, and I’ve hit a dead end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The last direct surviving member of the Heaven family died about twenty years ago. I found his birth and his death certificates. He was, in all respects, the last of the reverend’s line.”

  “Yes, Robert Heaven. I know. He was Josiah’s four, or maybe five times—I forget which—great-grandson. When he died, the line died with him since he never had any kids. What’s the problem?”

  “He may not have had any children, but he was survived by a wife.”

  A little bell rang in the back of my mind.

  “And I can’t find any record of her passing, so I need help locating her. I went down to the county clerk’s office, but there’s no record of her. I thought you might be able to help me.”

  He had no idea how helpful I could be.

  “Why do you need to talk to her? She’s not a descendant. She wouldn’t have any information pertinent to the family.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Oh yes, I could.

  I swear he could read my mind. His eyebrows folded into the middle of his forehead, and he cocked his head in his familiar, pre-questioning way.

  Before he could ask it, our food arrived.

  “Here you go, kids. Meatloaf special for you, Mr. Writer-man. Heaven in the Morning for you, Cath. I had Alvy put on a few extra pieces of crispy bacon for you. And this”—she placed a wrapped paper bag on the seat next to me—“is a little something for George. Colleen and her handsome hunk were in here this morning, and she told me your guy isn’t doing too good. I know how much he loves Alvy’s sausage patties, and I thought this might perk him up a bit.”

  “Oh, Ruthie, you’re the best.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  “Give him a kiss from me, and tell him to feel better.”

  “I will.”

  “Enjoy your meal, you two.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frayne said when we were alone again.

  “For what?”

  “I’m keeping you from your family.”

  I swiped my hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He took a bite of his meat while I slathered butter and syrup over the challah bread french toast, sunny-side-up eggs, and bacon Ruthie had placed before me.

  “That’s what you eat every time you’re here? Breakfast?”

  “Most important meal of the day. I can always eat breakfast no matter what time of the day it is. In addition to it being divine.” I put a huge forkful in my mouth and let the sweet and savory flavors explode over my taste buds. I let out a tiny groan, like I did every single time when the first bite settled in.

  Frayne’s breath hissed in with the force of a steam valve opening.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, fearful he’d burned his mouth on his food.

  “Good Lord. Do you have any idea, any idea at all what you—” He stopped short, his eyes widening and, as if realizing he’d leaned practically across the table to me, slammed his body against the seat back, the force making the cushion release a whoosh of air.

  With a violent shake of his head, Frayne dropped his gaze to his plate. “You don’t,” he mumbled, his head still moving side to side. “Of course you don’t. It’s obvious you don’t have a clue.”

  “Don’t have a clue about what?”

  When he wouldn’t look at me, I reached across the table and laid a hand over his.

  A spark flashed when my fingers came in contact with his skin, powerful enough we both startled. The shock was enough to force Frayne’s gaze back to mine.

  For the life of me, I had no idea what he was thinking. In the brief moment we sat there staring at one another, he went from annoyed to baffled, and then maybe even little turned on. The man’s emotions and reactions were so mercurial I was in the dark about what was going on with him.

  “Tell me what I don’t have a clue about,” I said, in my firm, get-to-the-point lawyer voice, the one Maureen swears is a perfect imitation of our father’s.

  It was fascinating to see him suck in all those conflicting emotions. He dragged in a cavernous breath, held it for a few beats then slowly let it out, enough so his shoulders pulled down from where they’d settled at the bottoms of his ears.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” His carefree shrug didn’t fool me for a moment. He took a sip of coffee, then picked up his utensils again. “What were we talking about? Oh, right.” He speared a slice of meatloaf with his fork. “I meant to say you seem…reluctant, to help me find Robert Heaven’s wife. Why?”

  I’d said he was perceptive. Here was more proof I was correct. I was reluctant to tell him her identity. Not for any reason he could think of, though.

  “I’m wondering what you think she could tell you that’s not already mentioned somewhere in the archives.”

  “Which is my point. There’s a big gap in the personal archives. I spent the better part of yesterday backtracking everything through both sets of files listed on the computer. I can’t find anything listed from after Robert graduated college until his marriage and then his death. Almost sixty years of data is missing.”

  “Maybe nothing of significance happened during those years.”

  His was studying me again with that tilted head, squinty-eyed perusal. “Do you know who his wife was?”

  I waited a few beats while I shoved in my eggs. “Yes.”

  “And is she still alive?”

  I nodded.

  “
Still living in the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you know who she is and you know she still lives around here, you probably even know where.”

  Once again, because he wasn’t asking a direct question, I chose to remain silent and eat my eggs.

  “It makes me curious why you won’t tell me who she is. All I’m going to do is ask her a few questions, you know.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to answer any of your questions.”

  Okay, as far as a rebuttal went, this one was fairly pathetic. I was a much better debater and rebutter than this.

  “How would either of us know if we don’t ask her?”

  He had me there. His argument was lawyer-worthy, a thought I kept to myself considering his feelings about the profession.

  In a soft, dulcet voice made for persuasion, a voice very reminiscent of the one he’d used in the subbasement, he asked, “Who is she, Cathy? Who is Robert Heaven’s widow? Tell me.”

  My tummy muscles jumped when he called me by my given name. It sounded…right, somehow, on his lips. I’d had a hard time resisting him the last time his voice reminded me of a man who’d woken from a night of wild sex and warm bourbon, and this time I couldn’t, either.

  I waited a breath while I composed my thoughts.

  His stare grew more intense. Yup. He’d have made a heck of a lawyer.

  “My grandmother.”

  Chapter 7

  Frayne gaped at me, wide-eyed and openmouthed.

  “You’re a descendent of Josiah Heaven?”

  “Not by blood, no. He was married to my widowed grandmother for a time. There’s nothing connecting us except for a marriage license.”

  The moment the words left my mouth, he slid from the booth and called out to Ruthie to box up our meal. Ten minutes later, with him following me in his rental car, we arrived at the nursing home, unannounced.

  “Number One, this is a surprise. What brings ya here at this time o’ the evenin’?”

  Nanny was already dressed for bed even though it was barely six p.m. The white Irish linen nightgown she’d had sent from her homeland several years ago sat under an ankle-length cotton robe Colleen had given her when she’d been admitted to Angelica Arms. At a tiny ninety pounds, Nanny was perpetually cold even though the nursing home blasted the heat year round for the residents. Her waist-length flaming-red hair—a product of two different colors-in-a-box—was coiled into a thick braid slung over one shoulder. A fair face sparsely etched and usually smiling belied her ninety-three years. I didn’t have one memory of my grandmother where she looked other than she did right at this moment.