Endless Night Page 9

  “Mrs. Wakefield, my name is Jake Grogan. I’ve come a long way to meet you.”

  Her head snapped in his direction, and Jake shuddered as the clouds of senility sharpened into condemnation.

  “I thought you were dead,” Estelle hissed.

  Jake felt his heart kick up its pace. He looked at Megan and she offered sympathy with a soft curve of her lips.

  “We’ve never met before, Mrs. Wakefield.”

  Now-shrewd eyes regarded him with open hostility. “You can’t have her.”

  He sought Megan’s gaze again and she offered a silent nod of encouragement.

  “I’m not looking for anyone but you, Mrs. Wakefield,” Jake assured. “Actually, I want to talk to you about Gabrielle.”

  “I said you can’t have her.” The elderly woman’s voice pitched to a near screech.

  Nervous, he glanced at the open door. At any moment he expected an army of nurses to pour in and condemn him for badgering the old woman, but there was no one out there. There was no noise, save the sound of Estelle’s chest rattling in agitation.

  “Mrs. Wakefield,” Megan inserted, “this is Jake Grogan…” she hesitated, “…who do you think he is?”

  “I offered him good money to keep away. His kind is no good for Gabby.” Estelle turned to face Megan, but monitored Jake out of the corner of her eye. When she caught his gaze, she sneered, “But after what he did to her—” Estelle coughed, “—she’s spoiled.”

  “Estelle,” Megan persisted, leaning forward with a squeak in the chair, “who do you think this man is?”

  As quickly as the agitation had sprung, it fled on a rasping sigh. Air leaked from Estelle’s lungs, and so did the clarity in her eyes. On a last lucid drift, she whispered, “Crow,” and then slumped in her chair to stare blindly at the drawn shades.

  Megan reached over and hauled open the yellowed roller blind to offer a view of the overcast day, but all that could be seen was the faded façade of the next building. The muted light did little to alter Estelle’s vacuous gaze as, helplessly, Megan looked toward Jake.

  In her short time with Jake Grogan, she had come to know very little about the man, but there was no denying that he had been affected by this visit. Dark winged eyebrows were knit with strife, and his hands were clasped tensely between spread knees. He watched the older woman without a blink, and the intensity made his chiseled countenance even more defined.

  “Jake?”

  There was no reaction except a soft bob of his throat.

  “Jake, I think that’s all we’re going to get for today.”

  Pensive, his head was cocked to the side in contemplation of Estelle Wakefield’s profile. Megan looked back and forth between them and found no physical resemblance whatsoever.

  But Estelle had recognized Jake. Whether she was actually seeing Jake or recalling his father would not be solved today.

  “Jake,” she repeated softly and went so far as to touch his knee. “Come on, you can come back another time.”

  Gold-flecked eyes met hers and she saw so many questions in that earnest gaze that she reached out and cupped his shoulder.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered, rising to his feet so swiftly he startled her.

  In the corner of the room, Estelle tapped an arthritic finger against the vinyl armrest and didn’t even acknowledge that Jake stepped up beside her.

  Megan watched as he stood motionless before his grandmother. He was such a large man, nearly filling this chamber with his broad shoulders. He waited for the woman’s damaged eyes to lift and recognize him again, but her gaze was focused somewhere outside the limits of this nursing home room.

  With a garbled sound deep in his throat, he turned away. When he faced Megan, the sharpness in his features softened. He reached for her elbow. “Come on.”

  “I hope you weren’t too disappointed.” Megan scanned the street warily and then darted after Jake. “I tried to warn you. I knew you wouldn’t find out much from Estelle.”

  She waited as he leaned past her to turn the key and haul open the door, allowing her to spill into the front seat and flee the public eye.

  “I know. I guess I had to see for myself,” he said after he crossed to the driver’s side and ducked in behind the steering wheel. “Crow? Does that mean anything to you?”

  “She was looking out the window. Maybe she saw one.”

  “Maybe.” He sounded dubious.

  Jake hauled the Jeep into Reverse, but Megan’s arresting hand on his forearm made him tap the brakes.

  “What?”

  She stared at the diner window misted from the heat inside, the words Corner Cove stenciled with chipped blue paint in an arc across the pane. Outside that window sat several newspaper stands, each in a greater state of decrepitude. Lois Goodall generally brought the paper along with groceries on her stops to Wakefield House, but Megan hadn’t seen a paper in over a week. The hunger for knowledge ate at her. Internet connectivity was something she could grab occasionally when she came into town, but it was a source too infrequent to satisfy her needs.

  “I—I just want to pick up a newspaper.”

  Megan darted up to the curb, dropped the necessary coins in the machine, yanked open the panel and dragged out the paper. A brief glimpse at the condensation on the diner window assured her that no one inside could possibly see out, and a scan of the street disclosed only a single car approaching a quarter mile away.

  With a brisk stride, Megan returned to the Jeep and thumped the door shut, leaving the pervasive sound of the ocean behind. Leaning back against the headrest, she crammed the paper beneath her thigh even though she was dying to pore through its text.

  “You know what, Megan?”

  Breathless, she shoved moist bangs out of her face. “What?”

  Even as she asked, Megan was absorbed by the couple emerging from the diner. Instinctively she inched down farther in her seat.

  “We’re going to talk about this.”

  “About what?” she asked, searching the strangers’ faces, deciding they seemed innocent enough in their University of Southern Maine sweatshirts and fleece jackets. Temporarily appeased, Megan rolled her shoulders.

  She was startled to feel Jake’s fingers on her chin. He tilted her head in his direction until she was trapped by his gaze.

  “About what’s going on with you.”

  Her head jerked out of his grasp. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing’s going on with me. You, you’re the one we should be talking about. So what do you think she meant, when she said, ‘Crow’?”

  Jake smiled. It was a smile that said there is no way this subject will be dropped. A shiver coursed through Megan. Beneath her thigh the paper burned with the promise of news, but she resisted the lure.

  One year. One year since Gordon Fortran murdered that man in his office.

  Of course he had never been convicted of anything. Megan was able to follow the news in those ensuing weeks. Gordon explained in his cool, unflappable manner, that he arrived at his office and was assaulted by an irate client and had no recourse but to protect himself.

  Yeah, with a silencer.

  The matter disappeared altogether with Gordon’s legal finesse, but Margaret Simmons was a witness.

  Margaret Simmons could shatter Gordon Fortran’s perfect life.

  Margaret Simmons was a condemned woman, therefore Margaret Simmons ceased to exist.

  “Nice segue, Miss Summers, but I’m worried about you. What’s going on behind your seductive eyes? They are seductive, you know. Haunted, scared, mistrustful, but in the end, very seductive.” Jake’s voice dropped on the last word.

  Megan didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be attracted to anyone. It was the wrong time, the wrong place—everything was just wrong.

  “No answer?” He shrugged, but it was not a casual gesture. He jammed the Jeep in Reverse, obviously frustrated.

  Well, too bad, she thought. I never asked for the storm that s
tranded him on my doorstep. Megan cocked her head to peer out the window at the clouds. Their insidious layers promised more fury. Even now the cove rolled with choppy swells that broke into a frothy procession on the rock-strewn shore.

  Jake murmured, “I’ll take you back to Wakefield House.”

  That was what she wanted. To be alone. To be safe.

  Why did those two notions no longer seem synonymous?

  “Harriet or Coop might know,” she whispered.

  “Excuse me?” His eyes slid off the slick road long enough to study her.

  “Harriet Morgan—you met her, right? And Cooper Littlefield. They’re probably both sitting at O’Flanagan’s right now, and if anybody would know something about Estelle Wakefield’s past, it would be them.”

  They reached the fork in the road that would ultimately climb to O’Flanagan’s or begin the long trek on to Wakefield House. There was no traffic in Victory Cove which allowed Jake to bring the Jeep to a complete halt. His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror and then back to her.

  “Are you suggesting that we stop at O’Flanagan’s before I take you back?”

  In his short time with her, Jake must have come to realize how ludicrous the notion of Megan suggesting to stop in a public venue was. It was absurd. But if Jake was here to identify his heritage, then Megan was not going to stand in the way of him finding his answers. Peace would never be her destiny, but she could possibly help this man to achieve it.

  “A quick stop perhaps.” Once she uttered the words, Megan felt her palms grow damp as panic started to well up in her throat. It was too late though; Jake jerked the wheel to the left and started up the trail to the local inn.

  “You have your secrets, Megan.” His voice was deep. “And I respect that. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I sense that you just made a big sacrifice on my behalf.” He took his hand from the steering wheel and rested it above her clenched fist, caressing that tension with his thumb. “Thank you.”

  Megan nodded, trying to focus on the calloused pattern of his thumb. She struggled to disregard the car that passed them in the oncoming lane as she slid down in the bucket seat, praying her body would blend in with the creamy upholstery.

  O’Flanagan’s was packed, with only one stool available before the L-shaped bar. Jake motioned Megan onto it as he stood behind her and waved the very pregnant bartender over.

  “Mr. Grogan.” Serena smiled congenially. “Megan, what a surprise.” The bartender’s green eyes brimmed with curiosity. “What can I get you two?”

  A couple shots sounded good right now, Jake thought, but he settled for a beer. To be heard over the din of conversation, he dipped to Megan’s ear. “What do you say, Miss Summers, some Jack Daniel’s?”

  Over the crowd noise Jake heard her tiny snort, but Megan’s mirth did not last. Her eyes flitted from the overhead television to the faces at the bar, to the crowd in the dining room, and then lingered on the front door. She trembled every time it opened and a burst of cold air assaulted them.

  “Maybe a bottle of Allagash,” Megan called to Serena.

  The bartender nodded and moved to fill their orders.

  “Are you okay?” In the confines of the crowd, Jake stood directly behind Megan, though he kept space between their bodies.

  The back of her head bobbed. Hazy bar lights made her rich dark hair shimmer. He nearly lifted his fingers to touch it, but instead cleared his throat and surveyed the eclectic patrons lined up before the bar. They, like the buildings on Victory Cove’s Main Street, bore signs of weather damage.

  “Now,” he began, “where do you suppose Harriet is?”

  Megan tipped her head back to look at him. She was so close, forced in tight against him by the throng at the bar. His gaze dipped to her mouth where her lip was slightly glazed from the mist outside.

  God help him, this position, with her beneath him, her head tilted back, brought sinfully erotic thoughts to mind.

  “Oh, Megan,” he whispered roughly, “be careful when you look at me like that.”

  Awareness flooded her eyes. Her mouth opened on a quick intake of breath.

  “Mr. Grogan,” Harriet boomed, slapping Jake’s back. “Well, I’ll be damned. How the heck did you get our resident recluse out in public?”

  Jake was not going to let go of Megan’s eyes till he was good and ready. She seemed to understand that and remained fixed on him, unblinking, locked by the promise she must have seen there.

  “Uh huh,” Harriet uttered. “That’ll do it.”

  Besieged from two sides as Serena appeared with their drinks, he reluctantly tore from Megan’s gaze.

  “Actually.” He ignored Harriet Morgan’s implicating smile. “We were looking for you.”

  “Were you now?” Harriet nudged in toward the bar with her flannel-shrouded elbows.

  “Rena!”

  “Coming right up, Harriet.” The bartender reached for a mug and jabbed it under the tap.

  “What is it you’re after me for?”

  “Insight,” he said.

  “Insight, hmm? I told you this one was going to be interesting, Rena.”

  Serena held a hand to her back and maneuvered herself atop a stool, satisfied that all patrons were served for the moment. “That you did, Harriet.”

  “You went to see that old bat today, didn’t you?” Harriet dipped her face into the mug.

  Jake winced at the reference and nodded. “Yes, we went to see Estelle. You said she still has a sharp mind, but we sure couldn’t tell that today.”

  Megan offered a swift nod in agreement, and then added, “Harriet, have you ever heard Estelle refer to someone as Crow?”

  Gray-blue eyes sharpened with interest. Suspended in midswing, the beer mug settled with a thud on the lacquered surface.

  “Crow, you say?” A faraway gaze made the woman’s weathered face nearly seem youthful. “Now there was a fine member of the male species.”

  Jake and Megan exchanged incredulous glances. “Crow was a man?” he prompted.

  “Oh, indeed he was. George ‘Crow’ Musgrave.” The spell lifted from Harriet’s face as reddened cheeks and aged grooves returned.

  “So, she’s still prattling on about him, is she?” She grinned. “That man really got under her thick blue skin.”

  “Who was Crow Musgrave?” Megan leaned around Jake’s body for a better view of Harriet. The motion distracted Jake because he caught a tiny hint of her scent in between the stale aroma of beer and lobster bisque. He inhaled and awaited Harriet’s information like a soldier anticipating the transport that would bring him home.

  “Crow worked a lobster boat here. He was from one of the local tribes.” Harriet read their quizzical glances and added, “Native American. As gorgeous a man as I can remember in these parts. Kept to himself, but boy did he have an eye for Gabby Wakefield.”

  Alert bells rang a riotous peal in Jake’s head. “Did they become a couple?”

  Harriet smiled, one of those hypnotic smiles full of knowledge only permitted to women. “He watched her, day in, day out, but never spoke to her that I know of. Crow was tall, dark—he had eyes like the sun.” Harriet looked at Jake with renewed interest. “Hmm, that old bat saw you and said the word Crow? Now don’t you find that interesting?”

  “Do you think Jake looks like this Crow?” Megan injected.

  Harriet’s gaze scaled Jake’s body, but lingered when she reached his eyes. “Yeah, there’s definitely a resemblance there.”

  “Now just hold on. Don’t get carried away here.” Jake needed to back off and gain some equilibrium. He reached for his beer and tipped it back with gusto. “You’re telling me they were never even a couple, right?”

  “Like I said, he used to watch her when she came into town in her mother’s fancy car. Two different cultures they were. Crow was a lobsterman. Blue collar. Gabrielle was blue blood. Crow knew his place—so he just watched.”

  “But maybe at some point they got together?” Fami
liar with the cultural and ethnic diversity of a large city such as Boston, Jake acknowledged that no matter what the geographical location was, the rich remained in a class among themselves. He would like to hope that people in general had evolved, that such separation between the wealthy and the working class was an archaic concept, but his gut told him better.

  “If it happened.” Harriet tipped the mug back to her face. “I never knew about it.”

  That declaration meant the likelihood was nil. “The only time Gabby was gone from here for any length of time after college was when Estelle sent her to New York to visit relatives.”

  Harriet sipped at her beer and continued, “Estelle didn’t miss a trick, though. She saw the way that man looked at her daughter. All I know is that one day Crow Musgrave left Victory Cove and he never came back.”

  You spoiled her. Estelle’s condemning words rang in Jake’s ears.

  Jake was deep in thought, but not deep enough to miss Megan’s stiffening spine. A cool breeze invaded the inn, rippling the stack of napkins on the bar. He followed the source to the front door, where a lanky man filled the frame. Jet-black hair billowed in the last throes of wind to settle like lifeless vines atop wide shoulders as the door slammed shut. Black eyes skimmed disinterestedly over the crowd, and long jeans-clad legs propelled the intense figure toward the bar.

  Megan instinctively shrank back into Jake. The gesture was so unconscious he felt a soft tug in the pit of his stomach. She leaned back even farther, trying to sink into him just as she had tried to merge into the car seat. He slipped an arm around her and was wholly aware of her—aware of her slim back against his chest, her scent, her fear, which enveloped her like a shroud—a cloak that he wanted to understand and eliminate.

  “Easy, Meg,” he whispered into her hair for only her to hear, while his eyes traced the moves of the swarthy stranger who elbowed up against the bar. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Jake felt her head shake in denial. Instinctively, his arm tightened around her waist. “It’s okay.” He sensed her need to feel protected. “You’re safe. I’m here.”