Another wave of nausea hit Carly Harris the minute she opened her car door and got out in the garage. It was the stench of gasoline and oil mixing with the humid South Carolina heat swirling around the space that upset her stomach. The tourist trade in Pawleys Island was in full swing, and it had taken her longer to get home than she’d planned.
Eric’s truck was in its bay with the engine running, and she gritted her teeth. He knew better than to leave it running with the garage door down. For a police officer, her husband was surprisingly unconcerned with safety issues.
Her hand drifted to her belly, and she sighed. How would he take the news she needed to share tonight? They’d been fighting nearly every day, and she’d threatened to leave if he didn’t start to stick up for her with his mother. Ever since Carly and Eric had been married three years before, Opal’s criticism of Carly had gone unchallenged. And this past year had been unbearable.
Everything Carly did was wrong—she didn’t organize the kitchen right, she didn’t call often enough, she didn’t send Eric off with the perfect lunch every day. And the greatest sin of all was that Carly didn’t want to give up traveling to flea markets and selling the collectibles she’d happily curated from garage sales, online websites, and estate sales.
When she’d first broached the idea of attending a writers’ conference this weekend, he hit the roof, and she knew it was because he didn’t want to tell his mother she was gone. Opal was constantly whispering in Eric’s ear that he couldn’t trust his wife to be faithful if she was out of town without him.
Carly was afraid Eric was beginning to believe it. Even worse, now that she was pregnant, she was beginning to doubt her career choice herself. What she’d wanted to do since she was a teenager was to write historical novels. Selling collectible items had seemed a good option instead of putting a toe in the craziness of the publishing world, but the itch to create her own novel had blossomed lately. Maybe she was finally ready to try. Eric wouldn’t be on board with a pie-in-the-sky move like that, which was why she hadn’t brought it up yet.
With the grocery bags dangling from her arms and hands, she opened the door from the garage and stepped into the kitchen. “Hello?”
She set the groceries on the kitchen counter and headed for the hall. “Eric?”
The house had that empty feeling, and she glanced out the sliding glass door into the backyard. The door to her shop stood open, and she smiled. Eric must have followed through on his promise to start organizing the items belonging to her great-grandmother. He’d been poking around them for several weeks but hadn’t done the heavy lifting she’d asked. Carly planned to take them to the flea market next weekend.
After putting away the groceries, she opened the sliding door and went across the deck and down the steps to the yard. The scent of freshly mown grass mingled with the roses blooming in the garden bed along the back of the deck. He’d been on a roll today. Mowing the grass was his least favorite chore, and she usually had to prod him to get it done.
The dark interior of her shop gave her pause. “Eric, are you in here?”
When he didn’t answer, she reached around the edge of the opening and found the switch. Light overhead flooded the interior, and she found things moved around. Her great-grandmother’s antique desk and chairs had been transferred to the other side of
the building, and some of the boxes sat with their tops open. Eric had at least made a start on the work, but he hadn’t gotten as far as she’d hoped.
Her sisters had been pushing her to sell the items so their inheritance could be split. Even though she’d told them the items were unlikely to bring much money, they were impatient. So was Eric. He’d had his eye on a new truck and had thought their share might be enough for a down payment. Some of the sentimental items had been left to Carly alone, but the valuable, sellable antiques were for all of them.
Her hand drifted to her belly again. A new truck would have to wait with the news she had to give him. The money would need to be used for a crib and other baby paraphernalia.
“Eric, where are you?”
The place felt empty, so she went back outside and checked the cement pad behind the garage. Nothing was out of place. They had no close neighbors, so there was no one to ask if they’d spotted him. Could a buddy have picked him up?
She pulled out her phone and called him. After a few seconds, she heard the distant sound of Eric’s ringtone from inside her shop. He had to be in there.
She went back across the grass and stepped into the building. The sound of his phone came from a back corner where the majority of the boxes had been stacked. As she neared the area, she caught a whiff of an unpleasant coppery scent, and nausea rose in her throat again.
She increased her pace and was nearly running by the time she rounded the end of the boxes and looked down at the open floor space.
Eric lay on his stomach on the floor. A wound in his back had saturated the green tee he wore with a hideous red stain. “Eric—honey?” She knelt beside him and touched his arm. His skin was already cooling.
She rocked back on her heels and didn’t realize she was screaming until she felt the pain in her throat. His phone quit ringing, and she lowered her gaze.
She’d dropped her cell phone in the pool of blood beside Eric’s body.
She snatched it up and wiped the blood from it on her jeans so she could call for help.
But it was too late for her husband.
Nine Months Later
Beaufort, South Carolina
The scent of South Carolina salt water and marsh blew in from the water, and the breeze caressed Carly Harris’s face. There was nothing like a low-country spring morning, and she wanted to enjoy every minute of it before the day got busy. Two-month-old Noah had nursed and fallen asleep to the drone of boats out on Beaufort Bay, and she shuffled her son to her other arm. Her black cat, Pepper, gave her a disdainful stare when she jostled him with the movement. She kept the swing moving with one foot so the baby didn’t awaken.
Her attention lingered on her son’s sweet face, and a fresh wave of grief closed her throat. He looked so much like his daddy. If only Eric could see him, hold him. Instead he’d died without ever realizing he was going to be a father.
The door to her left opened, and her grandmother stepped out onto the wraparound porch. People took Mary Tucker for fifty instead of seventy. Her boho attire added to her youthful air. Today’s outfit was enough to make Carly want to reach for sunglasses. The bright yellow top contrasted with the red-and-blue patchwork skirt that swirled around her grandmother’s slim figure in voluminous folds. Crystal clips kept her white hair in an updo that accented her cheekbones. The soft blue reflection of the porch ceiling enhanced her grandmother’s creamy skin and deepened the color of her eyes.
She carried a Bolesławiec tray with two mugs. Carly eyed the traditional Polish peacock design of the mugs and straightened.
Gram set the tray down on a table beside the Adirondack chair near the swing and leaned over to drop a cube of sugar into each mug of tea. She stirred the tea with a prized Sheffield spoon before handing one of the mugs to Carly. “Here you go, sweetheart. Herbal, of course, so Noah doesn’t get any caffeine.”
Carly accepted the mug and saucer with her right hand and balanced it on the swing. “What’s wrong, Gram?”
“Why would you think anything is wrong?” She settled on the chair and lifted her mug to her lips.
“You only bring out your favorite peacock mugs when you want to stay calm. What are you trying to talk me into now?” Carly smiled to take the sting out of her question.
“Busted.” An impish light danced in Gram’s blue eyes. “Have you thought about what to do next, sugar?” Her soft southern drawl was one Carly could listen to for hours. “I mean, you’ve been here for seven months now. The flea market season is in full swing, and you haven’t made a move to look at my mama’s estate pieces to get them ready for sale. I know little Noah has consumed every waking minute since he was born, but it seems unusual you haven’t made any noises about resuming your previous life. I’ve heard you typing a bit on your computer at night, and I suspect you’re finally writing a novel like you’ve talked about for years.”
Carly nodded. “I’m trying, but I still haven’t landed on the right story.” Her smile faded as she examined her grandmother’s face. “Noah’s been keeping you up, hasn’t he? I can change rooms and stay at the other end of the house.” The huge Georgian home was over five thousand square feet. Surely there was a place where Noah’s colicky cries wouldn’t disturb her grandmother.
Carly had moved in right after Eric’s death and had spent seven months of her pregnancy here before the baby came. It had been a lot to ask of her grandmother.
Gram put her tea down and reached over to place her hand on Carly’s knee. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. He never awakens me. It’s been so wonderful—like having my babies all over again. I’m going about this all wrong. I don’t ever want you to leave."
“I’m confused, Gram. If you don’t want me to leave, what are you trying to say?”
Gram gestured at the expansive porch and view. “I want to restore this place and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. And I want you to run it. You won’t have to leave Noah, and you can putter around with your writing if you want.”
Carly’s gasp made Noah stir, his rosebud mouth puckering as if he was about to cry. She gave another push of the swing with her foot, and he settled. “But what about Amelia and Emily? They’ll think I’m trying to cut them out.”
Gram’s lips pursed. “You’ve babied those girls way too much, Carly Ann.” When Carly opened her mouth to protest, Gram waved her hand. “I know—I know. They needed you after your mama died. Lord knows I love my son, but Kyle has never grown up. You shouldn’t have had to shoulder the burden of raising your sisters. The problem is they expect you to rush in and fix things for them. If they want a part of this house, they need to help restore it. Emily can design the interior to her heart’s content, and Amelia will give it the finest paint job in all of Beaufort.”
Carly found her voice. “Gram, I don’t know anything at all about running an inn.”
“Lordy, I never met anyone with more of a gift for gab than you, Carly Ann. You could talk the paint off a fence post. And it’s not fake—it’s always clear to people that you care about them and are genuinely interested. We’ll buy baked goods from friends for breakfast, and we’ll have the best coffee anywhere in town.”
Carly looked across Bay Street to the water. The house boasted one of the best views in town, and the two “angel” trees on the front lawn had drawn amateur photographers for years. If a live oak tree branched down and rooted itself in the ground before stretching up to the sky again, it was a highly prized specimen of southern beauty. The biggest one in Gram’s yard had done its magic trick the year Carly’s mother died of a stroke at the much-too-young age of forty-five. Carly had always taken it as a sign Mama was looking down on them and smiling.
The massive home had been built in the early 1800s, and Carly had loved it for as long as she could remember. Huge verandas wrapped around both floors, and its red metal roof made a cheerful statement of invitation to passersby. She’d itched to bring it back to its former glory since she was in her teens, but Gram had always insisted it was perfect just the way it was with its worn rugs, uneven plaster, and wide plank floors.
“Gram, do you realize how much work it will take to reconfigure it for guests? For one thing, we’ll need more bathrooms. And we’d have to put in air-conditioning. Visitors won’t put up with sweltering all summer long like we do. You can talk until you’re blue in the face about opening the south-facing
windows and letting the sea breeze lift the heat up through the top floor vents, but guests expect all the comforts of home.”
A frown settled on Gram’s face. “People are too soft these days. All that artificial air is bad for the lungs.”
“We’ll still have to fix it. And the cost. Gram, it will take a lot of money.”
“Mama left me enough to do it. I’ve already consulted Ryan about taking on the job.”
Carly caught her breath at the mention of the next-door neighbor who had broken her heart all those summers ago. So far, she’d managed to avoid him, and she hoped to continue that good luck. “I see,” she muttered.
“I’m going to do this, Carly. It’s not up for discussion. Are you game to be an innkeeper, or do you long to go back to the hectic life of selling collectibles at flea markets?”
Carly stared down into the sleeping face of her infant son. A stable life for him would be right here in this home she’d loved all her life. “I’m in.” And she just might find more time to write.
* * *
Today was one of those days when Lucas Bennett wondered why he hadn’t chosen construction as a career instead of law enforcement. The spring breeze held the scent of salt and confederate jasmine, and puffy clouds blocked the worst of the sun’s scorching rays. He didn’t even mind the insects buzzing around his head as he and his brother, Ryan, nailed the last of the shingles on the garage in their backyard.
While their house had once been the most dilapidated on Bay Street, he and Ryan had worked diligently over the years since they’d inherited it from their parents to turn it into the beautiful lady it had been in 1850.
His gaze fell on the decaying porch of the house next door. Now Mary Tucker’s house held the distinction of being the most dilapidated. She’d had a metal roof put on last year, but it was the most current item on the grand old lady. Lucas had often thought about the things he’d do if he owned the mansion. But it had been in the Tucker family for generations, and he didn’t see it ever going on the market.
Not that a homicide detective could afford the prices the Bay Street houses brought these days. If this house hadn’t been left to them, he and Ryan never could have bought it, though Ryan’s net worth was increasing quickly as the reputation of his construction business blossomed.
Ryan paused to wipe a red bandanna across his forehead. He took a swig from his thermos. “Yeah, I know Mary’s porch is about to fall off, but she’s asked me to renovate the place. Things will look a lot different by this time next year.”
Lucas turned to stare at his brother, and it was like seeing a version of
himself—same hazel eyes and dark hair. Ryan was slightly shorter and more tanned from his construction work. “Sounds like too big of a job with the new apartments you’re working on.”
“I can handle it.”
Lucas didn’t like the smile on Ryan’s face. “I don’t know, Ryan. We both like Mary, but don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
Ryan’s mouth twisted, and he shrugged. “You just don’t want me around Carly.”
“She broke your heart once. Don’t mistake pity for something deeper.”
“It’s been six years since we broke up, and I’ve moved on.”
“Oh really? Carly’s been living with her grandmother for seven months, and in that time, you haven’t repeated a date with anyone that I know of. You sure you aren’t just waiting for her to get over Eric’s death?”
Ryan tossed down the last bundle of old shingles. “I just haven’t found the right one. And aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black? When was the last time you went on a date?”
The faint wail of a small infant filtered through the rustle of live oak leaves and the whisper of Spanish moss. Babies made Lucas uncomfortable, and he tried to tune out the sound. How did someone even figure out what made a tiny human like that cry? Give him a file full of evidence any day over figuring out emotions.
When he was twenty-five, his fiancée had told him she couldn’t bear the constant worry his job had brought to her life. He realized then that law enforcement and a romantic relationship made for uneasy friends. Now that he was thirty-two and the department’s top homicide detective, he was convinced it was better to stay single. He was called out in the night way too often to deal with a wife and family.
A soulful look in his dog’s eyes was enough to send Lucas on a guilt trip, and he didn’t need a crying kid to add to his stress. “Ryan, she chose her sisters over you. She’s got a kid now too. Everyone and everything will take precedence over you.”
They both knew how devastating that felt growing up. Dad had pushed them all aside to tend to Mom’s constant ups and downs. Lucas wanted more for his brother.
Ryan hooked his hammer into the loop on his tool belt. “You’ve never given her a chance. She was the only mother her sisters had. Of course she was going to take care of them.”
“And she probably still does.” Lucas eyed his brother. “Have you talked to her since she moved in?”
Ryan’s gaze didn’t meet Lucas’s. “Well, no. She’s been busy and so have I. That should tell you I’m not interested.”
Lucas swung
boot over the edge of the ladder and began to climb down. “Then why do I have the feeling you’d like something to develop?”
“Because you’re paranoid and can’t stand her. You need to get over it.”
Lucas pressed his lips together and stepped off the ladder. He hefted the discarded shingles onto his shoulder and stepped around his red golden retriever, Major, to move toward the garage door. Maybe a shower would wash off the uneasy feeling that had coated his skin at all the talk about Carly.
It wouldn’t do any good to argue about it with Ryan. He’d never seen through Carly. Lucas had always considered her a spoiled brat. Mary had lived next door his entire life, and her granddaughters had lived with her after their mother died. Mary never made them grow up. It was understandable she’d had sympathy for the loss of their mother, but at some point, she needed to make them stand on their own two feet and become adults.
And Lucas had heard enough from Eric over the years to know that his brother had dodged a bullet. Carly ruled the roost at home and hadn’t been the supportive wife Eric had hoped for. But his brother had always been blind when it came to Carly Tucker. Like Ryan said, he was a grown man. His life was his own to ruin if he wanted to.
Carly thought she should have about two hours before Noah woke from his nap. Taking the baby monitor and Pepper with her, she hurried up the creaky stairs to the third-floor attic, where most of her great-grandmother’s possessions had been stored after Eric’s death. While Carly told herself the items wouldn’t prep themselves for sale, the real reason for her decision to go through them today was to try to wrap her head around her grandmother’s offer.
A text from her sister Emily had contributed to the final push. According to Emily, her sisters had been patient long enough. It was time to get this job done so Carly could distribute the income from the antiques. And if Gram was serious about her plan to turn the place into a B and B, the attic needed to be cleared out anyway.
Dust motes danced in the rays of sunshine streaming through the windows, and Pepper batted at them before he went hunting for spiders and mice. Carly sneezed and flipped on brighter lighting. Boxes along with antique furniture of every variety, from sofas to tables and bookcases, filled nearly all the floor space. The movers had brought it all here after Eric’s death, and it was a mountain of old belongings. If the job didn’t need to be done now, she would have retreated. Two hours wouldn’t begin to touch organizing this.
An area to her right held enough space to squeeze between the items, so she started there and immediately saw a genuine Tiffany lamp. Her great-grandmother had liked nice things. The French Provincial cabinet would bring a pretty penny too. Carly moved things as she examined them and marked them in a notebook.
By the time she reached an old chest at the end of the row, she realized most of these things needed to go to auction. She’d never get their full value at a flea market. Much as Carly hated to admit it, Emily had been right. As an interior designer, Emily must have paid attention the few times she’d gone to visit Gramma Helen.
Noah could awaken any minute, but the old chest of memorabilia Gramma Helen had left to Carly caught her eye. One quick peek wouldn’t derail her too much. She knelt and opened the lid of the chest. A folded note with her name on it lay nestled atop yellowing christening clothing. Was that Eric’s handwriting? When had he looked inside this old chest—and why?
Her hands shook as she picked up the paper and opened it.
Carls, I’ll put out some feelers about the names on the certificate. Pretty exciting stuff for your grandma. Do you think she knew about this? I’ll let you know what I find out.
What on earth? She laid aside the note and began to lift out the items inside. Under the christening gown and hat, fragile with age, she found more baby clothes as well as an old brown file with papers inside. The wool garment under it was a rich black mixed with brighter colors, and she recognized it as a highly prized Russian Pavlovo Posad shawl. She caressed its soft folds, then picked it up and shook it to make sure no spiders lurked within. Something hit the floorboards, and she looked at her feet. A small red egg lay beside her left foot. It seemed hardly worth the effort it had taken for someone to wrap it up. She picked it up and laid it aside with the shawl.
She opened the file and pulled out a sheaf of papers. It took a moment for the words on the top page to coalesce in her brain. Adoption papers. The child’s name was Mary Balandin, and it had been changed to Mary Padgett, Gram’s maiden name.
There was a note in Gramma Helen’s spidery handwriting.
Carly, I’m sorry to leave this on you to deal with. Somehow, I never found the courage to tell my sweet Mary she was adopted. I was fearful she would love me less. Do with this as you wish. I know you’ll pray about it and do the right thing.
Carly set aside the note to examine the documents under it. The top paper was from a nurse named Adams. A faded picture of two babies in a pram was clipped to the top, and Carly scanned down the text.
Mr. and Mrs. Padgett,
I thought perhaps you would like to have this photo of little Mary and her sister, Elizabeth. It was a shame we had to separate twins, but at least they both have good homes now. Thank you for your generosity in welcoming Mary into your home. Her mother, Sofia Balandin, is grateful as well and enclosed the shawl and the egg so Mary had something to remember her by.
It was signed by a Nurse Adams at an orphanage in Savannah. Carly flipped the paper over to see if there was more information, but it was blank. Gram had a sister out there. She’d always wished she had a sibling but had grown up an only child. Carly was certain her grandmother had never seen the contents of this chest.
Carly had to find out if Gram’s sister was still alive. Wouldn’t that be the most amazing birthday present? Gram’s seventieth was in two months, and Carly had to try. Why hadn’t Eric mentioned this to her? She thought back to the week prior to his death. They’d been fighting a lot and barely talking.
But Eric had always detailed everything. She’d gotten his laptop back after the murder investigation had gone nowhere, and it was in her closet. Maybe he’d made notes about this and what he’d found out.
She scrambled to her feet, picked up an indignant Pepper, and rushed down the steps. Noah was beginning to squawk as she reached the second floor, so she set her squirming cat on the floor, then quickly washed the dirt from her hands before she picked up Noah. Carrying him in one arm, she grabbed the laptop from her closet and plugged it in beside her bed. While Noah nursed, she scanned through Eric’s files.
Bingo. A file titled Mary Tucker had been created a week before he was killed. The first notation mentioned that Eric had called the home of Natalie Adams and spoken to her grandson. He confirmed that his grandmother had worked at the orphanage for many years. The man, Roger Adams, had asked odd questions about old belongings. A day later, Eric noticed he’d picked up a tail. His final note mentioned he was going to install extra security at the house. ...
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