Chapter One
“Another secret passage?” Ellery Page, owner and proprietor of Pirate Cove’s only mystery bookshop, balanced the phone receiver between his cheek and shoulder as he hurried to finish the Crow’s Nest’s payroll. With house guests arriving for the weekend, he was in a rush to wrap things up within the next hour, so he could get over to the ferry landing.
“We can’t be sure unless we open the wall up,” Tony Brambilla, Ellery’s contractor, was saying.
Brambilla and Sons had managed to pull off something close to a miracle as they’d worked to finish renovations on Captain’s Seat before the winter—and Ellery’s guests—set in. When Ellery had inherited the dilapidated 18th century mansion after the death of his Great-aunt Eudora nine months earlier, the place had been just about ready for the wrecking ball. A recent fire on the second floor had not helped matters.
Ellery said quickly, “No! Don’t open any walls. My friends are arriving on the one o’clock ferry.”
“All righty. Well, that door on the leeward side bedroom no longer sticks and the loose floorboards have been repaired. If there is a passage behind that wall, it probably connects to the tunnel opening onto the library.”
During the extensive renovations, no less than two separate secret passages had been discovered within the walls of Captain’s Seat. That was not unusual for the oldest buildings on an island that had once served as a pirate hideout. However, as exciting as was the sound of secret passages, the walkways inside Captain’s Seat had turned out to be dank, dark tunnels filled with empty broken crates, spiders—one of Ellery’s least favorite things—and not much else. One day he’d get around to fully exploring those interior alleys, but they were low priority. After all, he’d happily lived nearly a year in the old mansion without even realizing they were there.
“Enjoy your house,” Tony was saying. “In the spring, we can talk about tackling those structural cracks in the cellar.”
Ellery’s heart sank at the words structural cracks, but he said with determined good cheer, “Yes. Thanks for all your hard work, Tony. Captain’s Seat is like a different house.” A house not in imminent peril of spontaneously combusting every time he flipped a light switch.
“It’s good to have Pages on the island again.”
That sentiment seemed to be broadly held on the island, but it still surprised and touched Ellery. Prior to inheriting Captain’s Seat, he hadn’t even known Buck Island existed—let alone his Great-aunt Eudora.
He ended the phone call with Tony, firmly blocking out all thoughts of structural cracks. He was just finishing up the payroll as the doorbell chimed in welcome and Nora Sweeney, his assistant manager, returned from lunch.
Nora was a wisp of a woman, just over five feet in her sensible shoes. Her eyes were the color of steel and she wore her long gray hair in a severe ponytail. Though prone to gossip and wild flights of imagination, she was clever, loyal, and boundlessly energetic. In addition to her vast knowledge of the island and all its inhabitants (past and present) Nora possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of mystery, which had proved beyond valuable to Ellery. Before inheriting the Crow’s Nest, he’d had zero interest in crime, either real or fictional.
What a difference a few months could make!
Watson, Ellery’s black-spaniel-mix puppy, hopped down from the long wooden library bench where he had been gazing solemnly out the picture windows at the empty cobblestone streets.
Pirate’s Cove in November looked suspiciously like a ghost town, right down to the eerie tendrils of white mist winding around hanging signs and plant urns and porch columns. It was hard to remember that just two months earlier, tourists had crowded the streets, buzzing around in rented golf carts and filling up the beaches, shops, and cafés. Filling up local cash registers as well.
Nora stooped to pat Watson. “Looks like we’re going to have snow this weekend,” she announced.
“You’re kidding.” Ellery went to the windows, gazing out at the ominous leaden skies and white capped harbor. Granted, ominous was normal for this time of year. “A lot of snow?”
Nora unwound her long red scarf. “I shouldn’t think so, dearie. Not this early in the season. February’s the worst month for snow. This time of year, we won’t see much beyond a little powder. It’ll provide a bit of local color.”
“Right.” He was already regretting his decision to not invest in a backup generator. But money only stretched so far, and the roof, plumbing, and electrical wiring had taken precedence.
Nora joined him at the windows, musing, “I hope your friends won’t have too rough a crossing.”
Yikes. “Me too.”
For a moment or two they watched the wind gusting across the waves, rocking the scattered boats in the harbor.
Yes, the island could be a bit desolate this time of year.
As though reading Ellery’s mind, Nora said, “I don’t suppose your friends will be all that interested in outdoor activities anyway.”
“No. True.” Ellery glanced down at Watson, who wagged his tail hopefully. “Let me finish up a few things, buddy. Then we’ll go for a you-know-what.” To Nora, he said, “Tony Brambilla says they think they’ve discovered another hidden passageway, but they can’t be sure without opening the wall up.”
Nora’s eyes kindled with excitement. “That makes sense. Captain’s Seat is nearly as old as the Pirate Eight.”
The Pirate Eight were the first manor houses built on Buck Island. All eight homes had started out as pirate fortresses.
“Why would Captain Horatio Page have needed a bunch of secret passages? He wasn’t a pirate.”
“True, but he was surrounded by pirates.”
Ellery considered that cryptic remark as he returned to his office to make sure he hadn’t left anything pressing undone. This was the first long weekend he’d taken since moving to the island—not counting two weeks of convalescing from a concussion sustained while snooping.
As he was checking his email one final time, Jack phoned.
Jack Carson was Pirate Cove’s chief of police and Ellery’s boyfriend—in fact, he was now Ellery’s fiancé. A delightful fact Ellery was still getting used to.
“Hi, what time are you heading over to the ferry?”
Ellery glanced distractedly at the clock. “Two. Are you going to be able to get away tonight?”
“That’s the plan,” Jack said. “Do you need me to bring anything or—?”
“No. Just you.”
Jack made a sound of amusement. “I think I can manage that. How many of your old crew are arriving this afternoon?”
“Flip, Tosh, Lenny, and Chelsea. Tomorrow we’ve got Oscar, Freddie and Belle.”
“Okay. And Tosh and Freddie used to be married?” That was quintessential Jack, making sure he had the cast of characters straight. Jack was not a play-it-by-ear guy. He was a show-up- on-time-and-know-your-lines guy.
“Correct.”
“But that’s not going to be awkward because it was a long time ago and everyone is over it.”
“Right. Hopefully.”
“And Belle and Oscar used to date, but now she’s dating an English peer.”
It sounded kind of ridiculous when Jack put it like that, but was nonetheless accurate.
“Yes.”
“And you’re confident we’re going to get through the weekend without them killing each other because they haven’t killed each other yet.”
Ellery spluttered a laugh. “Something like that. I mean, it’s all ancient history.”
“Yeah, why doesn’t that reassure me?” Jack sounded wry. “Have you seen the weather report for the weekend?”
“Nora says it’s going to snow.”
“She’s not the only one. You might want to chop some extra firewood. Just in case.”
That was a good thought—and so very Jack.
Ellery said, “Will do. Anyway, getting snowed in could be fun.”
“Getting snowed in could be very fun, although probably less fun with a crowd.”
Ellery’s mouth curved. “I can’t argue with that. But we’ll have other snow days.” He could say that now with confidence.
“That we will,” Jack said, and Ellery could hear the smile in his voice.
The sea surrounding Buck Island was more than a body of water. For centuries that mysterious deep had created a barricade against the outside world and shaped the character of the islanders. It remained a constant presence, hovering on the edge of the island’s every interaction. The sound of it filled the dark nights, its blue shadow provided the backdrop of every single day.
As Ellery waited for the ferry, he could taste the sea on the raw east wind, smell it as the winter-rough water tumbled and roiled golden strands of seaweed. A clammy mist clung to his skin. Watson repeatedly shook himself as though trying to rid himself of the salty sting.
The ferry was late by nearly twenty minutes, and when it finally docked, only a handful of slightly green passengers stumbled down the gangplank. Most of them seemed to be Ellery’s friends.
“Ellery!” Tosh waved to him, towing Lenny along.
“Ahoy!” Ellery waved back. “Welcome to Pirate’s Cove!”
Tosh and Lenny were followed by Flip, who looked like a well-groomed ghost (right down to the phosphorescent tinge of his face) and Chelsea, huffing and puffing as she dragged a mountain of luggage behind her.
Watson, who had never met any of these people in his brief life, nonetheless began to bark as though he’d spotted long-lost comrades.
Arf! Arf! Arf!
“Oh, my gosh, he’s SO cute!” Tosh’s voice rang across the water.
Unsurprisingly, Tosh—tall, red-haired, and boundlessly energetic—seemed the least bothered by what had clearly been a rough trip from Point Judith.
Ellery started down the concrete walkway, and everyone spent the next few minutes hugging and kissing hello.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Ellery told them.
Arf! Arf! Arf! Watson seconded.
“Same,” Lenny moaned. “If I’d realized we had to round flipping Cape Horn…”
Tosh said, “Ell, you look terrific! You’re like a walking ad for J. Crew. Here, take Lenny before she falls into the harbor. Our luggage is still onboard.”
Ellery stopped hugging Flip—Phillip Daly to talent agents and casting directors—in order to receive Lenny, or “Goth Girl” as they’d referred to her back in the day. Lenny was small and wiry with black-green hair and wide green eyes. Usually, her eyes were wide. At the moment, they showed a tendency to roll back in her head.
“Ugh,” Lenny moaned, and sank through Ellery’s hold in order to sit on the cement. “Another three minutes and I’d have thrown myself overboard.”
“That happens a lot in these parts.” He moved to help Chelsea with the tower of suitcases she was attempting to haul single-handedly up the walkway. He called after Tosh, “Wait. Isn’t this your luggage?”
Flip and Lenny laughed. “That’s just Chelsea’s gear,” Flip told Ellery.
“Hey, I’m past the age of living out of a knapsack,” Chelsea snapped.
Ellery did a doubletake. Not at the luggage. At Chelsea.
Chelsea was, without question, the most gifted actor in their clique, but off-stage she had always made a point of scorning any kind of (her word) artifice. She was average height, average weight and, regardless of the season, preferred to dress in jeans and flannel shirts. As long as Ellery had known her, she’d worn her lank brown hair to her shoulders and avoided any makeup more elaborate than lip balm. But now?
Now Chelsea’s brown hair was stylishly cut and gilded with coppery highlights. She wore lash extensions and had clearly had lip injections. Like Tosh, she wore combat boots, jeans, and a black parka that, except for the color, looked exactly like Tosh’s teal one.
“Wow. Chelsea. I almost didn’t recognize you behind all those suitcases.”
Chelsea knew exactly what he meant. Her smile was sour. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“And that’s just her hair products,” Flip put in.
Chelsea made a face at him. “Ha. Ha.”
“Help,” Lenny moaned. She was now flat on the cement as Watson worked frantically to deliver mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Ellery abandoned Chelsea’s luggage and went to rescue Lenny. He scooped up Watson who, knowing his life-saving work was not done, objected loudly. An elderly seagull perched on the white railing, was offended by such language, and began to offer his views.
The remaining passengers straggling off the ferry gave their impromptu theatrical production wide berth.
“Where are you parked, Ell?” Flip drew Lenny to her feet.
“It’s the navy-blue VW behind the snack bar. I think we can all squeeze in, but I hired a taxi to bring your luggage to the house.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Chelsea looked more uneasy than relieved.
But yeah, unless Ellery wanted to make several trips to and from the ferry landing, he had to do that. “Common procedure. No worries. Ezra won’t lose your luggage.”
Chelsea looked unconvinced.
Lenny, half-draped over Flip’s shoulder, said, “Someone should tell Ell about the escaped maniac.”
Naturally, Ellery laughed. Chelsea said, “You only think she’s kidding.”
“Here’s Tosh,” Flip said, and they all turned to watch Tosh ably steering two large suitcases down the gangplank. The wheels of the luggage thumped noisily on the aluminum and carbon fiber ramp.
Watson, firmly clamped beneath Ellery’s arm, wriggled to get down, shouting enthusiastic greetings, as though Tosh had just returned from an overseas voyage.
“Did you tell him about the homicidal maniac?” Tosh was only slightly out of breath as she rejoined them.
Ellery laughed again.
“He doesn’t believe us,” Lenny said.
Flip said, “Yeah, but really.”
“Oh, come on.”
Tosh shook her fiery hair back, saying earnestly, “No, Ell, listen. When we got to the ferry terminal there were all these cop cars with flashing lights. We asked what was going on, and one of the officers said a patient had escaped from the Rhode Island State Psychiatric Hospital, and that they had reason to believe he was going to try to get to Buck Island.”
Ellery rolled his eyes. “Okay. Sure. Do they call him the Cat?”
“What?” Tosh was confused. She looked at Flip.
“Or does he have a hook for a hand?”
Flip snorted, but said, “We’re not making this up.”
“Okay, maybe it’s a mass hallucination. All that fresh air at once could be dangerous for you city folk.”
“City folk?” retorted Tosh. “Who are you supposed to be? Rilla of the Lighthouse?”
Ellery laughed.
“Okay, but seriously,” Lenny said. “And then once we boarded, the crew came around and checked all our tickets again.”
“Well, there you go,” Ellery said. “We all know the only reason to collect tickets is to prevent homicidal maniacs from enjoying free rides.”
“Okay, but there weren’t that many passengers. And after they checked our tickets, the crew started searching the boat. They were trying to pretend it was standard procedure, but come on! They were checking the lifejacket storage bins. They were obviously looking for someone who shouldn’t have been on board.”
Chelsea said, “We’re not saying he actually got on the boat. Just that they were obviously worried he might have.”
Flip said, “I know it sounds like one of those spooky campfire tales, but—”
It seemed some things never changed.
Ellery was half-amused, half-exasperated. “You know, it’s not like I’ve forgotten we did The Cat and the Canary at Tisch.”
Flip, Tosh, Lenny, and Chelsea all looked at each other with varying degrees of blankness.
Ellery prompted, “Eccentric Uncle Cyrus dies and leaves his estate to his niece Annabelle with the stipulation she has to spend the night in the creepy family mansion, but then when Annabelle and the other heirs arrive at Haunted Hollow, they’re stalked by a mysterious figure they believe to be the Cat, an escapee from the local asylum who’s hiding out in the secret passages. I know you remember. Flip was the Cat and Noah played Uncle Cyrus.”
Noah. Wow. He felt a pang at that memory.
“Noah. That’s right,” Flip murmured.
“Oh,” Tosh said. “I do remember. I played Annabelle. You were Charlie.”
“You were terrible,” Chelsea informed Ellery.
“I know.”
Tosh said vaguely, “Noah. God.” She glanced at Lenny, who was frowning at the ferry as if still waiting for a final passenger to disembark.
Ellery uneasily studied the Pirate Queen, rocking back and forth in her mooring.
Was something going on with the crew? There seemed to be a lot of serious-faced conferencing going on between the crew members gathered at the stern of the ship.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who even remembers that production,” Tosh said. “But even if it is a funny coincidence, why on earth would we make up a story like this?”
“Why would you saran-wrap me to the sofa?”
Tosh and Lenny started giggling. Flip looked slightly guilty. Chelsea said, “You looked chilly lying there.”
“Why would you pose a demon mannequin in my closet? Why would you—”
Flip interrupted, “Okay, yes, we all love practical jokes. Let’s not forget, you’re the one who put that demon mannequin in my bed.”
“Oh, that was brilliant!” Tosh exclaimed. “They heard your scream all the way over in Manhattan.”
Flip made a face at her.
“You put a fake tarantula in my oatmeal!” Ellery was laughing though. They were all laughing.
“Oops. That was me,” Chelsea admitted. “I lied about it being Flip’s idea.”
“Anyway,” Flip said, “Your boyfriend’s the chief of police, right? Why not ask him?”
1 Resurrecting Ghosts
London, May 1923 / Ned
Ned looked at his watch and tried to calculate how much of his afternoon he would lose to Hugh’s latest escapade. In principle, this should have been a simple errand before dinner, but life experience had taught Ned that few things were simple when Hugh was involved.
“Remind me again why I am accompanying you to this hat shop?” Ned turned to the blond-haired dreamer beside him in the motor.
Ned had never met another man with such perfect bow lips, skin such a creamy colour of porcelain, or hair such a golden halo of beauty.
“Because I’m going to let you fuck me after dinner,” Hugh responded, completely nonplussed by Ned’s question or the underlying sarcasm.
Ned glanced instinctively up at the driver even though he knew the screen prevented him from overhearing their conversation. There was no point in telling Hugh to be more discreet or explaining the risks of a gross indecency charge. Hugh’s strident refusal to pretend to be something that made society more comfortable was what spurred Ned to buy him a cocktail at Soho nightclub in the first place.
Hugh slid an arm around Ned and stretched out over the sedan seats. “But even without tonight’s entertainment, you really should be thanking me for bringing you along. The shop seems awfully middle class and dull on the outside, but their custom pieces are the most beautiful creations. Like the theatre, but better. All colour and movement, except the hats don’t move at all. I can’t really describe it. They are magic. Remember the hat I wore to the Ritz last month? When I walked into that room, I became the centre of the universe.”
Ned couldn’t help but smile at the younger man’s enthusiasm. “Who makes these creations? A team of fairy godmothers working their fingers to the bone for your latest dramatic entrance?”
“I don’t know,” Hugh answered as if he’d never pondered the question before. Interest in others wasn’t his strong suit. “The owner is an impossible stick-in-the-mud, all old-fashioned and formal. I had to practically bribe the shopgirls to show me the custom hats.”
Ned glanced out the window. They had only a few minutes before arriving at the Marylebone address Hugh had given the driver. Time was up on word games. “As a point of reference, how much do you owe?”
Hugh met his eyes without any shame. “The stick-in-the-mud’s son and I’ve a disagreement about the terms of payment for a number of items.”
“Let me at least know the scale.”
“The cretin says I owe fifty pounds, which can’t possibly be right.” Hugh glanced at Ned through his long blond lashes, a manoeuvre that was almost insulting in its flagrancy. “But I was hoping I could rely on you to negotiate a more reasonable settlement.”
Which meant paying the bills. Ned bit his tongue against all sorts of responses. Fifty pounds was less than he’d feared, and it had been a while since he’d provided Hugh with a suitably large “gift.” Hugh’s acting brought in some income, but not enough to cover his lifestyle. He was always clear with his companions about certain costs. It wasn’t as if Ned needed to be concerned about money.
Hugh probably considered it payment in kind for the time he spent in Ned’s bed, although Ned liked to think that Hugh didn’t find him entirely unattractive. In truth, Ned preferred Hugh’s company and the dramatic fantasy that followed him to their physical relationship. Hugh was the sort of person that made every moment one of high levity or dramatic failure. His world was one where a tragedy was unexpected rain and victory was a delicious cake. Hugh provided an intensity of feelings that had been burned out of Ned’s soul during the war, but he could get a taste of it again when Hugh was around.
The motor stopped in front of a shop that was exactly as Hugh had promised—exceedingly boring in every respect. The hats in the window weren’t so much out of fashion as they were lacking any fashion at all, plain and serviceable. As Ned stepped out onto the pavement, he glanced up at the lettered sign above the door: “Villiers and Son, Fine Hats for Ladies of Distinction.”
There was no air to breathe.
It had been six years since he had last seen Corporal Charles Villiers, but that didn’t make reading his last name any less of a knife to the gut. A vivid memory flashed in front of Ned’s eyes. Charlie walking towards him, rifle over his shoulder, covered in mud, a cigarette in hand, grinning about some horribly inappropriate joke. Blue eyes twinkling, bright against his dull, brown-green uniform.
As quickly as it had appeared, the mirage shattered, and Ned found himself standing alone on the pavement, hands trembling.
It wasn’t the first time an innocuous reminder had sent him back to Flanders. He had once spent twenty minutes in a cold sweat after seeing a jacket with the same cut as his trench uniform. This was just another such moment of his treacherous mind resurrecting ghosts on the most spurious of connections. The extra twist of the knife was the sense of loss that crashed over Ned at the memory’s dissipation. A foolish wish that this time the memory had actually stayed with him longer.
There was no point in dwelling on any of that. It was 1923, not 1916, and there were hats to buy. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of Villierses in London; no reason for Ned to think that this shop had any connection to his Charlie Villiers. Hiding his still trembling hands in his coat, Ned pushed open the wooden door to follow Hugh into the shop.
In contrast to its dull window display, the store was elegant, bright, and surprisingly busy. Hugh had already pushed past three grey-haired ladies to get to the counter.
Ned hung back near the window displays, fighting the temptation to search the shopgirls’ faces for a hint of something familiar—the curl of brown hair, those laughing blue eyes, the freckles on pale skin. When he had first come back to London, he had constantly searched the crowds for Charlie’s face even though there was no guarantee that he would have returned to the city after the war. Yet living with the constant hope of hearing Charlie’s mischievous laughter across a busy street or spotting his curly brown hair from the window of a motor was the devil’s bargain that Ned had struck.
“Edmund!”
Hugh beckoned to him from the counter, snapping Ned out of his daydreaming. “Come and see!”
Ned moved through the other customers to join Hugh at the counter, where a partially constructed hat had been placed in front of him. It was, quite simply, magnificent. A take on a Panama hat, but somehow crisper and leaner. The colour was vibrant without being garish. Ned knew instantly that it would bring out the small flecks of gold in Hugh’s eyes. It was unmistakably a man’s hat, and yet there was this chimeric, feminine quality to it as well. Ned was enchanted.
So much so he failed to notice the shadow that fell across the counter. Someone cleared their throat. “Lieutenant Pinsent, what an unexpected pleasure to have you in our shop.”
Jesus fucking Christ. That low-timbre, working-class burr echoed in his bones.
Ned’s heart raced and, for a split second, he wondered if his broken mind had finally abandoned him and given in to delusions in front of his daily life. As he looked up at the shopkeeper behind the counter, he knew this was no shell-shock mirage.
Six years might have passed, they might be in a Marylebone ladies’ hat shop rather than the trenches, and wearing suits rather than uniforms, but there was no mistaking Charlie Villiers. His muscular figure stood a good half foot shorter than Ned’s. Charlie had no post-war softness, nor had his hair begun to thin. It was just as curly and thick as he had remembered, and his eyes were just as disconcerting.
A detached calm descended on Ned. His superiors at the front had always praised his ability to maintain his sangfroid under crisis. “Corporal Villiers! What a delightful surprise.” His voice sounded like another man’s—calm and composed.
Hugh glanced over to Ned, not bothering to hide his surprise. “You’re acquainted already?”
“I served under the lieutenant for two years.” Charlie’s voice was tight, his blue eyes never breaking with Ned’s.
“Four years at the War Office filing paperwork for Edmund? What inhumane suffering,” Hugh replied, his small smile showing that he was pleased with his own witticism.
“I didn’t do a lot of paperwork with Lieutenant Pinsent in the trenches, unless you count losing to him at cards. It was more along the lines of shells, mustard gas, and night raids.”
“And now you find yourself meeting again! Well, that’s one of the delights of London; you never know who you will run into.” The teasing look vanished from Hugh’s face, although his broad smile remained. Ned had deliberately never spoken about his time at the front with Hugh.
Charlie’s eyes flicked over to Ned’s, as if questioning the rapid change of subject. Ned couldn’t fault Hugh for not understanding. Like all Ned’s acquaintances these days, Hugh came of age after the war.
Hugh continued, breaking the awkward silence. “The Honourable Mr Pinsent is a dear, dear friend of mine. Always just so helpful in sorting out complicated issues.”
Honourable? The arse. Ned suspected that Charlie knew about his title, but he had been careful never to use it in the trenches. Certainly never with Charlie.
“I’m sure he is,” Charlie responded with a quirked eyebrow. It was such a familiar mannerism that Ned found himself once more at odds with himself, fighting the urge to gasp. “But I am afraid my position remains as it was, Mr Ruperston. We appreciate your business, but this is a business. We must be paid for our work. And there will be no more progress made on this hat, or any others, until you have settled up the account you already have with us.”
Before Hugh could respond, Ned cut in. “I understand Mr Ruperston’s debt to the shop is fifty pounds?”
Charlie responded evenly, “Forty-eight pounds, two shillings, and seven pence.”
The man had always been prideful as sin, no way would he accept any charity, even if it was letting Ned overpay him by less than two pounds.
Ned took out a pen and paper and wrote a quick cheque. “This should cover the funds in full.” Ned couldn’t imagine lowering either himself or Charlie to the indignity of haggling.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your respect of honest work,” Charlie replied.
“It’s the least your craftsmanship merits. That hat is stunning.” Ned took a breath. “It’s good to see you doing so well for yourself, Villiers.” This whole interaction was all so banal. It could have been any exchange between any two war acquaintances.
As he handed over the note, Ned’s fingertips met Charlie’s with the lightest of touches, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of emotion flicker across Charlie’s face, an indication, however quick, that this meeting was having a sliver of the same effect on Charlie as it was having on Ned.
Ned wanted to fall to his knees and cry. To yell and scream at Charlie for leaving him. To ask him a thousand questions about everything he’d done and seen over the past years. To push Charlie against the wall and kiss him senseless. To hold his face and memorise his body and all the changes six years had brought to it. After all these years, Charlie Villiers still shattered him. Completely, utterly shattered him.
Instead, their ridiculous theatre continued. They exchanged pleasantries regarding the completion of the hat, followed by an obligatory moan about the weather. Then Hugh was turning towards the door. Logically, Ned knew he should be grateful for this small interaction with Charlie, but emotionally, it burned that their last conversation would be about shopping debts and hats.
Ned already had enough regret about goodbyes for a lifetime. His mind cleared for the first time since entering the damn shop, and he reached into the front pocket of his jacket, pulling out his card.
“Good day, Mr Villiers.” He extended his hand and pressed his card into Charlie’s rough and calloused hand. “I hope our paths cross again.”
❖❖❖
Once back in the motor, Ned stared out the window, trying to focus on the red-brick shops which lined the passing streets. Finally, Hugh spoke, “I thought you said you were mostly at the headquarters.”
“I was,” Ned replied, continuing to stare out the window. “At the end.”
“You scream about it in your sleep.” Hugh paused as if wanting Ned to explain more, but Ned offered no response. Hugh broke the silence for the second time. “Was Villiers your lover?”
Ned didn’t want to respond to that question either, but in that moment, the weight of never speaking of Charlie, never speaking of what they had shared, felt like it was going to smother him. “Yes, he was.”
“What happened?” Hugh’s tone held surprising gentleness.
“I did something unforgivable,” Ned answered, unable to stop the words. “I saved his life.”
Chapter One
CONNOR
I braced myself as a gust of wind tried to take my feet from under me. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten talked into heading out into the most dramatic storm I’d witnessed since the team’s last Red Sea deployment. Not when I had a good book waiting in my apartment.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning split the sky, illuminating the town in brief, eerie flashes as the rain hammered the streets of Whisper Ridge, turning them into slick, glistening rivers.
I shouldn’t have been going out tonight.
I should’ve used the weather as a reason to stay in my lovely, cozy apartment, not headed up a damn mountain in this deluge for Quinn’s birthday party.
I locked the diner door, pulled my long coat jacket tight, and headed towards my SUV. The relentless downpour muffled all other sounds as my boots splashed through the puddles.
“Connor Mason!” The furious yell cut through the rain as Sheriff Neil Windham—six feet of sexy, blustering, temper-driven man—blocked my way. His face was a thundercloud matching the sky, and my adrenaline spiked when he bunched his fists. I thought for a moment he was going to slam me to the ground.
I’d been waiting all day for him to challenge me, but the party and the storm had derailed my concentration, and here I was caught on the back foot, in the rain, and there he was, a man filled with rage. This was a definite step up from his typical sarcastic irritation with me, straight to DEFCON 1—the kind of anger that made me brace for impact and reach for a weapon I wasn’t even carrying.
I’d been expecting this visit all day. Still, I was hoping the confrontation would happen when it was dry.
In my apartment.
In my bedroom.
Preferably naked and post-sex.
My pulse quickened, not just from anticipating a confrontation but from something deeper, something hidden where all my secrets lay. I couldn’t explain my visceral reaction to this intense man, but I craved his sharp tongue pulling me up on any and all chaos I had caused. My therapist would have a field day analyzing my brain—if I ever went back to therapy. She’d tell me I craved all his attention, even if it was negative, and probably go deep into why I loved pushing his buttons. Facing Neil head-on was a challenge that sparked something deep inside me. I lived for these moments when Neil was angry and when his presence in my space made me feel something.
Not that I ever told him that. I pushed and pushed, and when he snapped, I soaked up his passionate temper and loved every freaking moment of it because he made me feel…
Alive.
I squared my shoulders, ready to meet whatever he was bringing in the madness of the storm.
“Tell me you didn’t threaten Abraham Wild!” The fury in his tone was like catnip.
Rain dripped from the brim of my cap, and I pulled up the hood of my coat—not that it helped, given it wasn’t completely waterproof. “I didn’t threaten Abraham Wild.”
I did.
“Witnesses tell me you took his gun from him and shoved him to the ground.”
“He had a rifle, yeah, I disarmed him, but he was drunk and about to fall over anyway.”
“You took his gun and assaulted him.”
“He tripped,” I replied, raising my voice to be heard over another rumble of thunder.
“I don’t have time for your shit!” Neil’s eyes blazed with anger; his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You told him that if he didn’t stop waving his gun, then you’d shove the gun up his ass.”
“Yep, that was me. Now, are you mad I said that, that he tripped, or that there were witnesses?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and I could see him reining in his temper. “He’s accusing you of being armed.”
I tapped my lip in exaggerated thought. “Well, I was armed after I took his rifle.”
“Give me strength.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and swiped away a face full of water.
I snorted a laugh, then spread my hands wide, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. “Anyway, you know I don’t need to carry.”
Neil’s glare was icy. “You took his gun—”
“I emptied the chamber and gave it back to him.”
“You can’t just go around threatening people in my town. If you see something wrong, you call me.”
“I neutralized a threat. What could you have done that was any different?”
I saw the conflict in his eyes, the frustration of understanding his job’s limitations, and the temper riding his ass. We both knew Abraham Wild’s issues, but without a formal report, there was nothing the sheriff could do. Yeah, if I’d called Neil in his official capacity, then maybe there’d be something on record, but what if, in the meantime, Abraham had shot someone? Like his wife or that skinny kid with the braces who worked there after school.
No one dies on my watch.
Neil’s jaw tightened, and then he cursed. “You come to me, Connor. You don’t threaten him.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “So, you can write him a stern letter after the fact? A warning won’t stop him if the posturing and drinking escalates.”
“I know that family.”
“Do you?”
Neil’s eyes flashed with anger and frustration, maybe a hint of agreement that he didn’t know Abraham as well as he thought. Word in town was that Abraham had been fine until he’d lost his job and fell into what his wife called a midlife crisis, which seemed way too soft for the darkness surrounding him. He hadn’t hurt anyone—yet—but he was less likely to hurt someone without bullets.
Logic for the win.
Neil stepped so close I imagined I could feel the heat of his breath despite the chill of the rain. “You’re not the law here, Connor. I am. And you need to let me do my job.” It seemed he wanted to say more, and I waited, but his lips thinned.
I shook my head, exasperated. “People like Abraham need to know there are real consequences to waving a gun around.”
Neil’s expression hardened again, and he stepped back into the rain. “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you.”
Hell, as much as I respected Neil and his dedication to his job, I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing when people were being hurt. It must’ve killed him not to be able to take the man down.
“Do it then—”
He swiped a hand between us, cutting the conversation dead. “No more wannabe heroics, no more theatrics, no putting yourself in front of a gun, Connor. No. More.”
A deluge of water spilled from where it had collected in the door canopy above, just about soaking us both, and I grabbed Neil’s arm, pulling him closer under the shelter. Not one forecaster had warned that this storm was going to throw the contents of a damn lake or gusts of wind down the mountain, but its snarling arrival matched the dark and desperate mood I’d been in all day. The scent of the thunderstorm lingered in the air—a heady mix of ozone and rain, earthy and electric, amplifying the tension between us, and the sudden proximity to Neil made my heart race. We were close enough to kiss. And damn it, but I wanted one taste of the irritable, yet sexy, sheriff. The tension between us was tangible, a mix of frustration, admiration, and something deeper that made me want to hold him and silence his shouting.
“Why are you doing this to me?” His eyes flicked to my lips for a split second, and I almost leaned in, tempted to steal that kiss I’d wanted for so long.
The storm raged around us. The rain was a relentless curtain that hid us, and every nerve in my body was alive with the possibility of what could happen next. This was the moment we’d kiss at last, hidden from the town, giving in to the spark of attraction. God, I could nearly taste him already—
Neil stepped away, moving out into the rain. He marched across the road, heading straight for the sheriff’s office, his shoulders stiff with anger.
Disappointment made my stomach swoop, but I couldn’t help but call out, “Night, Sheriff!”
He ignored me, not even a glance back, and as he walked off, I couldn’t shake the feeling this argument was far from over. The tension between us had been thick enough to cut with a knife—unresolved lust on my part, a hefty dose of anger and disgust from him. I knew the tension between us wasn’t volatile frustration because I’d seen it in his expression.
Naked want and need.
The same as mine.
One day, I’d push him too far, and he’d grab me and show me what he wanted to do to me. Punch me, shake me, hurt me…
Kiss me.
One day I’d crack his stoic exterior, but tonight was not that night, and disappointment piled on top of the resentment because I didn’t want to be out in this rain anyway. I went from lustful and snarky to moody and pissed again.
I loved Whisper Ridge, working with Quinn’s foundation and running his security. I lusted after Sheriff Windham—Neil—and I actually loved storms if I was inside with a good book and a coffee.
I wished the high of confrontation and temper stayed, and that I didn’t feel so lost.
Fuck. How far do I need to push him to get what I want?
Chapter One
When Ernest Hemingway checked out of the Chamberlin Inn, Sebby was on duty to take his luggage to the motorcar that was waiting for him. This included carrying a rod and reel case, a rifle case, two leather suitcases, a hefty steamer trunk of lures and gear, and a thickly-packed leather briefcase, all of which were heavy or bulky or both. But that didn't matter, Sebby was happy to help as Mr. Hemingway had been nice to his Pop yesterday and had sat on the back steps with him to talk about Babe Ruth and the Yankees. The day had been sunny, and Pop had taken the opportunity to get some fresh air and, tucked inside his pea coat, had been able to chat with the great man.
Now, of course, the day was howling wind and cold. Pop was safe in the apartment, though it was chilly without enough coal to heat the place. Sebby had been up since six, hauling luggage, washing dishes, gathering dirty laundry, all the while getting yelled at by Mr. Blair, the hotel's cook and manager, who always thought Sebby was too slow.
"You got those bags, boy?" asked the uniformed driver as he waited by the rumbling Studebaker motorcar that was big enough and sturdy enough to carry seven people and everything they could think of to bring with them. The trunk was open and the driver pointed to it. "You're taking your time, eh? Mr. Hemingway doesn't have all day, I'll have you know."
"Leave him be," came a voice from behind Sebby as he struggled with the two suitcases. "The boy is doing what he can. We have time. It'll only take a couple of hours to get to Clark's Fork anyhow."
Placing the suitcases next to the car so the driver could load them into the trunk, Sebby turned to see Mr. Hemingway waiting on the sidewalk. He stood beneath the grey eggshell sky, hands in his pockets, wearing his broad brimmed felt fishing hat, sturdy jacket, and brown woolen trousers. With a scarf around his neck, he looked plenty warm, though his breath fogged out before him in the cold air, speckling his dark mustache with frost.
"That package go out, Sebby?" asked Hemingway, using Sebby's first name, like he did with everybody, making it sound like the two of them had been friends for years. "I'd have taken it myself, but we've got to get a move on."
"Mrs. Chamberlin took it to the post office this morning, Mr. Hemingway," said Sebby. "First thing, right after breakfast."
"She's a good woman," said Hemingway. He eyed Sebby up and down with his dark blue eyes as if measuring him for a fight. "You're good to carry my luggage. Is this all of it?"
"Yes, sir," said Sebby, counting the items in his head. "I double checked the room, and this is all of it, every last piece. And I think the weather should get warmer soon."
"I hope so," said Hemingway, slowly, as if giving the few words his full consideration. "If it gets any colder, those trout'll drop too deep in the pools of the river to catch." After a pause as he puffed a breath and watched the frost form in the air in front of him, he looked at Sebby again. "When did you last eat, son?"
Feeling as though he'd stepped in front of some very unwelcome headlights, Sebby froze. He'd had breakfast, it was true, but it had consisted of a single cup of tea. There was no sugar and no milk. Sebby had made Pop take the last slice of bread, and then said he wasn't hungry. This was a lie, of course, as he was always hungry, only there was nothing he could do about it. The money he'd earned over the last few weeks only went so far, and there was the doctor's bill to pay on top of everything else. While he knew that other twenty-year-olds probably didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders, there was nothing he could do but struggle on.
"This morning, sir," said Sebby, though it was terribly hard to lie to Mr. Hemingway.
"I told you to call me Ernest," said Hemingway, the irritation plain in his voice, though it was easy to see he meant the words to be a joke. "How many times did I tell you?"
"Several times," said Sebby, smiling, though he was shivering as the wind whipped past him as he stood there in his shirtsleeves. "Yes, Ernest."
"You and your Pop aren't going to last a Wyoming winter." Hemingway lifted his chin as he looked at Sebby.
"Excuse me?" asked Sebby, stopping himself by sheer force of will from rubbing his arms to keep warm. He didn't want Mr. Hemingway to think he was weak at all.
"With that cough your Pop's got, and you without any meat on your bones, you won't last the winter. It's too tough up here for both of you." Settling his hat on his head, Hemingway nodded at the driver, who was practically dancing with impatience to be away. "You ought to get out while you can."
"Yes, we will." Sebby nodded to reinforce the words, but they were a lie too. The whole conversation was settling in his belly like unwanted rocks.
"Here," said Hemingway as he pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out a shiny fifty-cent piece. "Thank you for everything, and tell your Pop I'm sorry for what I said about the Babe."
"I couldn't." Blinking fast, Sebby tried to keep the horror of accepting charity from showing on his face.
"It's a tip, son," said Hemingway. "It's not for nothing. You helped get my package mailed. You carried my luggage. I had a great conversation with your Pop. All in all, you deserve it, so take it."
If Sebby didn't take the money, Mr. Hemingway might get irritated, or there might be an argument. Then Mr. Blair would hear raised voices and come out, and find Sebby at fault for all of it. The coin glinted in Hemingway's hand. Sebby's mouth watered at the food that it could buy. There didn't seem anything else he could do but take it.
"Thank you, Mr.—I mean, Ernest." Sebby clasped the coin in his hand, still warm from Hemingway's touch, and thought, in spite of himself, that there were a million uses for the money, even though fifty cents wouldn't go very far. "I appreciate it."
"That's good, then."
With a tip of his broad-brimmed hat, Hemingway got into the waiting motorcar and waved at Sebby as the driver steered the car into the road. In a chuff of exhaust fumes, the motorcar went up the street, then turned on Sheridan Avenue, headed towards the mountains and the road that would take him north to Clark's Fork to go fishing. He'd invited Pop to go with him, but with Pop's bad cough, it would be impossible for him to be fly fishing in the middle of a swiftly running, icy October river.
Going back inside, Sebby shivered at the relative warmth of the lobby. Down the hall that led to the kitchen, he saw Marie, the youngest maid, carrying a sack of dirty laundry.
She was headed to the stairs that led to the basement, where the laundry was stored out of sight until Sebby could take it to the laundromat, except Mr. Blair, with his large shoulders, was blocking the way. He was dressed in his cook's apron and hat, his black-dyed hair slicked back with Brylcreem, as though he imagined he'd be going to a fancy dress ball later, and he looked down at her with narrowed eyes.
He said something to her in a rough tone. Sebby could hardly hear her response, but her hunched shoulders and blushing cheeks were enough for him to know Mr. Blair was being his rude self. It was one thing for him to order Sebby around, it was another for him to proposition a young lady who only wanted to get on with her work.
Though he wasn't big enough to take Mr. Blair in a fight, Sebby knew he needed to do something about it. Fists clenched, shoulders tight, he strode down the hall like he had someplace to be that required him to not look where he was going.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sebby as he bumped, hard, into Mr. Blair's back. "Didn't see you, Mr. Blair. Are you taking that laundry to the cellar for me, Marie? Thank you."
With these words, Marie was released. Going as fast as she could, black skirts and white apron flying, she headed with her bundle to the kitchen where the door to the cellar was. There, her mother, Janina, the assistant cook, was busy at work, and maybe her sister Serena was as well. All of whom would help to protect her, but left that Sebby standing in the hallway with Mr. Blair glowering at him. He couldn't get away fast enough for Mr. Blair grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"What do you think you're doing, you clumsy idiot?" asked Mr. Blair, shaking him. "Why don't you look where you're going?"
"I only meant to—" Sebby stopped, as yet another lie was rising before him, and he was heartily sick of it. "You shouldn't talk to her that way, Mr. Blair, it isn't right."
"What are you saying?"
"She hardly speaks any English at all, but she knows what you're saying to her." Sebby stood his ground, shoulders back, chin thrust out. "You need to have better manners around her, her and her sister Serena both."
"I'll do as I damn well please with either of them. They're just fucking Polacks, taking good jobs from people who deserve 'em. And as for you—"
Before Sebby could even blink, Mr. Blair hauled back and backhanded him, hard, flinging Sebby against the doorjamb of the communal bathroom. Eyes watering, ears ringing, face on fire, he struggled to stay on his feet and stand up to the man who'd been his constant tormentor almost from the day Sebby and Pop had arrived at the hotel.
"Another word out of you about this and I'll give her twice what I just gave you. Hear?"
Gasping, Sebby couldn't answer. When Mr. Blair raised his hand again, Sebby pushed back against the doorjamb as hard as he could and then ducked low. Which only made Mr. Blair even angrier, but since Mrs. Chamberlin had come out of her office, perhaps to find out what the ruckus was, there was nothing Mr. Blair could do but back down. And nothing Sebby could do but wipe the blood from his chin with the back of his shaking hand and pretend nothing had happened.
"Whatever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Chamberlin, running her fingers down her string of pearls. "Only do keep it down, Mr. Blair, and Sebby, you too. Some of our guests are still waking up and checking out of their rooms. Make some room in the hallway, if you please. Sebby, that laundry will be ready for you to take in another hour or so. Are you set for work?"
Mrs. Chamberlin, the owner of the hotel, meant this in a kindly way, or at least it seemed so. She didn't think he was lollygagging, but, more, wanted to know if he knew what task needed doing next.
"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby. "I'm going to wash the dishes while the girls finish up the rooms, and then I'm going to wipe the tables and sweep and mop the dining hall." Both of these were big, messy tasks. It was better for the hotel, as Mrs. Chamberlin had explained to him, if the girls, who were in public view, looked nice and tidy while they cleaned the rooms.
"Very good," said Mrs. Chamberlin. "Would you tell Janina that if she needs more cabbage, or any onions and such that she needs to give me a list before I head to the post office in half an hour."
"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby, but his heart sank. He'd told Mr. Hemingway specifically that Mrs. Chamberlin had taken his package of letters and whatnot to the post office right after breakfast and here it was almost ten o'clock. Or maybe she'd already gone and come back and was going again? No, that wasn't right. She seemed pretty organized and would only make one trip. Thus what Sebby had told Mr. Hemingway was yet another lie, one more to stack up on top of all the others.
"And Mr. Blair, be sure Barbara counts those keys correctly after checkout. Yesterday she lost track of one, and they are expensive to replace."
"My daughter didn't lose any of the keys," said Mr. Blair, barely able, it seemed, to keep the growl out of his voice. "One of the guests must have taken it."
As Mr. Blair glared at Sebby, he seemed to be saying without words that perhaps Sebby was to blame. But since Sebby only watched the desk sometimes during lunch and maybe after all the guests had checked out for the day, and hadn't at all for the past few days it couldn't have been him. He didn't say anything, though, because that would only start Mr. Blair up again, and give Mrs. Chamberlin more to cluck over as she stroked her pearls.
"If it happens again, I'm afraid I'll have to take it out of her pay."
Mrs. Chamberlin seemed firm about this, but Sebby wondered whether Mr. Blair would be able to sweet-talk her out of it, or maybe threaten her out of it. Or perhaps she would forget, because all in all, Barbara Blair seemed to think she'd been born with a spoon of gold in her mouth, and didn't want anyone to forget it, even though she had to work like everybody else at the hotel.
When Mrs. Chamberlin went back into her office, hopefully to get Mr. Hemingway's mail to take to the post office, Mr. Blair was distracted and Sebby was able to slip down the hall to the kitchen. There, in the warm, steamy room, Janina, the assistant cook to Mr. Blair, was at the counter, slicing potatoes. She was a slight woman with dark hair and eyes, and always wore a sensible black dress and plain white apron that came down to the dress's hem.
When she heard him come in, she turned, and her face was white, her eyes dull. Obviously Marie had told her what had happened, but just as there was nothing Sebby could do, there was nothing she could do, either. Mr. Blair was a bully through and through and any word against him brought down the threat of losing her job, and she knew it.
"I'll take care of these, Janina," said Sebby as he went to the sink, where a pile of pots and pans and dishes and silverware and all the rest of it waited for him. "Then I'll get on the dining room and clean up from breakfast, okay?"
"You watch, yes?" she asked, and while her English was broken it was a damn sight better than Sebby's Polish. "I go to Marie now."
"Sure," said Sebby as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was glad to do it, if it meant that Janina could go comfort her daughter. "I'll say you just stepped out for some fresh air."
With a nod, she opened the door to the cellar and disappeared into the black depths.
Sebby got to work, doing his best to shave off the thinnest slivers of soap into a sinkfull of hot water. There wouldn't be many bubbles, but with elbow grease and good can-do attitude he knew the work would go fast. And maybe Janina would loan him a bit of ice for his jaw, which, as he bent over the sink, brought a low-grade pounding up to its fullest degree.
Living over the hotel's garage and working in the hotel was hard, and the pay wasn't much, but it was a job. It was an arrangement that kept them off the streets, and he was glad to get it. It meant that he could take care of Pop.
Just as it began to rain really hard, coming down like shards of ice, he was finishing up with coal deliveries to Mrs. Chamberlin's office, the reception area. His last stop was the kitchen, where he washed his hands at the sink, relishing the hot water and soap. It made him angry to see Janina at the stove, putting in a sheet of sugar cookies in the oven, her mouth curved down, eyes dark and sad.
They were all in a bad spot because Mr. Blair was a bully who said what he liked and did what he wanted, and all the while Mrs. Chamberlin seemed oblivious. None of them, not Janina or her daughters, or Pop and Sebby could do a thing about it without risking losing their jobs. Thus nobody said anything about it, and every day seemed to go on as this one was, with Sebby having a quick wash before going back to the apartment. There, Pop would working hard to cut strips for Mrs. Johnson to make her braided rugs with. He wanted to stay in the kitchen, but he couldn't, as it wasn't his place. And besides, he couldn't leave Pop on his own.
"Yes, Serena?" asked Janina, as Serena came into the kitchen, holding out a small blue notebook.
"This things," she said waving the notebook at her mother. "It is left. The man with the—" She stopped to motion at her own mouth, drawing her fingers down as if she'd suddenly sprouted a growth of hair. "Bushy face and the eyes, blue."
"Which room?" asked Sebby, even though he felt he already knew, as there was only one guest who'd checked out that morning who might have cause to carry a well-used, hand-sized notebook with a denim blue cover on it.
"The 18," said Serena. She gestured with her hand as though to indicate that the notebook had been beneath something else. "Near the bed."
Both Janina and Serena looked at Sebby for the solution to their problem, which was to find a way to return the notebook to Mr. Hemingway, the proper owner.
"I'll take it," he said, holding out his hand. "He's coming back after his fishing trip, though Pop mentioned he might stay at the Irma Hotel."
"Good," said Janina, her gratitude seemingly way out of proportion with the very small good deed.
It was only a second later he realized the issue. If Mr. Blair saw her or one of her daughters with it, he might accuse them of stealing it, possibly with the hope of getting a reward. The worst part of this was not that Sebby was now on the hot seat, but that he could so easily figure out how Mr. Blair would handle himself. Being able to see into the heart of such an evil man made him feel wounded and sore. He longed to be far away from Mr. Blair but it just wasn't possible. Everything, every bit of their survival, was reliant on what they had at the Chamberlin Inn: the small apartment, the meager pay Sebby brought in, and the kindness of a doctor who was allowing them to pay him a little each week.
Hurrying, he went outside and crossed the small alley between the hotel proper and the outbuilding where, upstairs, he and Pop had been living for the past few weeks. The rent was free, on account of Mrs. Chamberlin's charity, but there was no heat, barely any hot water, and only a pot-bellied stove to make tea on and heat their potato peel soup.
As quietly as he could, he snuck up the narrow staircase and let himself into the apartment as though he was a burglar of some kind, closing the door with a silent snick.
Pop was in his armchair, which was as close to the pot-bellied stove in the corner as it could possibly be. Not that it made any difference, as they only had one lump of coal a day and it had to last through the night, all the way to morning. Still, they had the semblance of being near a warm fire, and could make do if they wrapped themselves in blankets and pretended to be of good cheer.
At night, they put the lump of coal in the pot-bellied stove, lit it, and slept on blankets on the floor in front of it. It was a damn sight better than the alternative, which was being homeless and on the streets in such foul weather, but it broke Sebby's heart every time he thought about his Pop and his bad cough and the number of strips he had to cut for a penny apiece, just to help pay the doctor's bills.
As he thought, Pop was asleep, so Sebby straightened the blanket around Pop's shoulders, and put the scissors on the table, the box of cloth and strips on the floor. The more rest Pop got, the faster he would get better. Besides, Sebby had fifty cents so he could buy them a little food. It couldn't be all bad as long as they could eat. As to what Sebby would tell Pop about taking Mr. Hemingway's charity, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he was headed out to pay the doctor's bill and, with what was left over, buy them a little food to eat.
