That Night on Thistle Lane Read online

  Everyone liked Brandon. He was easy to like since he didn’t have to deal with the details of paying bills, raising their sons, figuring out their future. When faced with unemployment, he’d taken off for the mountains with a backpack and his dreams. He’d never meant to be a carpenter forever. He was good at it, he even liked it—but he thought he should be doing something else. Maggie didn’t even know what anymore. She doubted he did, either.

  She put him out of her mind and dialed her mother’s house. Tyler picked up. “Gran’s making hot chocolate.”

  “Hey, Tyler. Why are you still up?”

  “The bat woke us up.”

  “I see.” Bats weren’t unheard of at her mother’s farmhouse, especially in summer. “Where’s the bat now?”

  “Gran shooed it outside with a broom. I helped.”

  “Good for you. What about your brother?”

  “He hid under his blanket. He’s having hot chocolate, too.”

  “All right. Well, you two be good and help Gran. Tell her I called, okay?”

  “I will, Mom. When are you coming home?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Did you see Dad?”

  She couldn’t lie to her son. “I did, but just for a few minutes.”

  “He’s taking me and Aidan camping.”

  Maggie heard the questioning note in Tyler’s voice and responded without hesitation. “Yes, absolutely, he’s taking you and Aidan camping.” That was one thing she knew for certain: Brandon would keep his promise to his sons. “Go enjoy your hot chocolate. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When she disconnected, she threw her phone onto the entry table and sank onto the sofa. It opened out into a bed. She would sleep there.

  She kicked off her shoes and noticed a side seam in her flowing dress had split an inch, probably from dancing with her husband.

  “Why aren’t you here with me, Brandon?”

  She hugged her arms around herself and burst into tears.

  * * *

  Phoebe could hear the pitter-pat of rain on the library roof as she sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the hidden attic room. Too wired to sleep after the masquerade ball and the drive back to Knights Bridge, she’d changed into yoga pants and a lightweight fleece tunic, intending to do a few stretches on the living room floor, but she’d ended up grabbing a flashlight and heading out into what was then a light drizzle. As she’d breathed in the damp night air, she imagined her swashbuckler’s arms around her.

  What a night it had been.

  She’d walked down Thistle Lane to the library, letting herself in through the side door. Putting aside thoughts of ghosts, she’d debated a moment before starting up the back stairs. A more formal set of stairs in the main room led just to the second floor. In her five years with the library, she’d seldom ventured up to the attic. One of those rare times was two weeks ago, and it had resulted in the discovery of the dresses that she, Olivia and Maggie had worn tonight.

  It was pouring rain now, pitch-dark outside. Phoebe had never been up to the attic at night. She half expected a bat to fly out from its dark recesses, crowded with cast-off library furnishings, archives, books and everything her waste-not, want-not predecessors over the past century-plus had thought might come in handy someday.

  She’d come upon the hidden room accidentally, when she’d lifted a small paper bag sitting on top of an old filing cabinet and a dozen antique marbles broke out of the bottom. They dropped onto the floor, rolling every which way. Several rolled under two tin closets standing side by side, filled with more junk and treasures. She’d edged between the closets, determined to collect the marbles.

  As she’d bent down to retrieve a colorful swirled boulder, she noticed a door behind the free-standing closets. She’d had no idea it was there. Madly curious, she’d tucked the marble in her dress pocket and shoved the closets back just enough to give her room to get at the door. It was unlocked but obviously hadn’t been opened in a while. It hadn’t given way easily.

  She’d expected to find that it was a closet, probably stuffed with more of the mishmash of materials in the rest of the attic. Instead the door opened into a small room that she hadn’t even realized existed. It was lined with shelves and cupboards neatly arranged with fabric, patterns, buttons, zippers, needles, thread, notions, buttons—everything an avid seamstress might need.

  A secret sewing room.

  It felt like a hideaway, a tiny retreat where someone could sit and work in peace and quiet. Another door opened onto a remote corner of the sprawling attic, by a small window that overlooked the town common. A dusty sewing table was positioned so that a seamstress could work with a pleasant view and a bit of natural light.

  The only thing that seemed to be missing for a fully equipped sewing room was an actual sewing machine.

  Phoebe had done a quick survey of the contents of the room and discovered the Hollywood-inspired and period dresses in two matching cedar-lined trunks and several hanging garment bags. Leaving everything undisturbed, she’d replaced the tin closets in front of the door and decided to keep the room her secret for the time being.

  A few days later, she’d gone back and picked out the three dresses to be cleaned.

  Now, tired, a little spooked with the dark night and rain, she raised the lid on a sewing basket. Given the conditions, she was ever-watchful for mice and spiders but the sewing kit yielded only pins, needles, thread, embroidery floss, a tracing wheel, cards of zigzag and seam binding.

  Who had sewn up here? Why leave so much behind?

  Phoebe took a sharp breath. Had the sewer of all these clothes died? Was that why the incredible dresses were still here?

  I have to know.

  She pulled all the notions and other items out of the sewing kit and laid them on the floor, looking for any clues that would help identify who had sewn the dresses she, Maggie and Olivia had worn to Boston tonight.

  Her Edwardian gown had attracted her swashbuckler and hidden her from the scrutiny of the mystery man in the coatroom.

  A night of mysteries, she thought, untangling several zippers.

  A browned sheet of paper was matted to the bottom of the sewing basket. Phoebe carefully peeled it off and saw that it was a practice sheet of the conjugation of the French verb to be in a neat, feminine handwriting: Je suis, tu es, il/elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils/elles sont.

  Phoebe had taken French in high school and college but she was rusty and wasn’t sure she could have managed to conjugate even a simple verb. Had the seamstress gone to high school in Knights Bridge? Had she been a student when she’d set up this room?

  So many questions.

  Phoebe returned the sheet of French verbs to the sewing kit and carefully replaced all the supplies. She stood, finally feeling the effects of her long day. She grabbed her flashlight and shut the door, moved the closets back into place, then headed back down the steep, dark stairs. The creaks and groans of the old building normally didn’t faze her, but the hidden room had her thinking about ghosts as she locked up.

  It was still raining when she started back down Thistle Lane. She’d gone out without a raincoat or umbrella, but it was a warm, gentle rain, as if to remind her what was real and what wasn’t real.

  Pretending to be a princess and dancing with a mysterious swashbuckler at a Boston charity ball had been a fleeting fantasy, a peek into another kind of life.

  Someone else’s life. Not hers.

  Five

  Noah slept fitfully and awoke wishing he had sent a check for the neonatal ICU instead of attending the masquerade ball. He could have gone straight back to California after hiking in the White Mountains or stayed in California altogether. Either way, he’d have spared himself meeting the potential love of his life and letting her slip through his fingers.

  It was his own fault. He never should have left his princess and chased after his mystery man, if, indeed, that was who he’d spotted.

  There had to be a way to find her.


  He decided he didn’t want to deal with email and voice mail and “accidentally” dropped his iPhone in the water-filled bathroom sink.

  The people who truly needed to reach him would figure it out.

  He got dressed, appreciating his normal black trousers and black shirt. No more hiking clothes, no more swashbuckler cape. He went down for breakfast and tried to act as if he’d had a good night.

  Once he had coffee, he decided he probably shouldn’t have tossed his phone into the sink.

  He’d run into people last night from his MIT days. Rumors were circulating about what was next for him now that NAK had gone public. One account had him staying on as CEO, another shifting into research and development. Focusing on his Central Coast winery. Getting deeper into venture capital, starting a new business, devoting himself to philanthropy, moving into academia.

  None of the rumors were true, if only because Noah had no idea what was next for him beyond whole-wheat pancakes and warm Vermont maple syrup for breakfast.

  He’d finished his pancakes when Dylan and Olivia wandered into the restaurant and joined him at his table. Waiters quickly brought out fresh place settings. Olivia had on lightweight jeans and a green linen top that matched her eyes. Dylan was in jeans and a hiking shirt, as if he hadn’t thought about being at the Boston hotel this morning. Noah hadn’t, either. He just generally wore the same thing.

  Olivia sat next to Dylan. She looked radiant, comfortable in her own skin in a way she hadn’t on Noah’s brief trip east in early spring.

  He’d been assaulted by black flies then, he remembered.

  “Loretta called,” Dylan said. “She said she emailed you and left you a voice mail and thought she’d hear back by now.”

  “Phone’s broken.”

  “Dropped it again?”

  “In the sink. Water damage.”

  “Ah.” Dylan shifted his gaze to Olivia. “Noah breaks a lot of phones.”

  “You get distracted and drop them?” she asked.

  Noah ignored Dylan’s obvious amusement at her question. “You could say that.”

  Dylan grinned. “He gets pissed off and kills his phone.”

  “Not often,” Noah said, keeping his attention on Olivia. “Dropping my phone in water is an indulgence but the alternative is to get distracted by the thing.”

  “It’s how his mind works,” Dylan said, leaving it at that. “What does Loretta want with you?”

  Noah glanced past him and looked out tall windows as Boston slowly came to life on a quiet, sunny Saturday morning. “I guess I’ll call her and find out.”

  “Noah?”

  He heard the concern in his friend’s voice and shifted back to him. “It’s all good, Dylan. No worries.”

  Dylan was clearly unconvinced. “Loretta has no official role with NAK. She’s my lawyer and business manager, and my friend. You two aren’t cooking up a surprise party. Something’s wrong. What?”

  “You’re moving on. I don’t want you to worry about this stuff.”

  “What stuff?” Dylan asked, eyes narrowed, alert. “What’s going on, Noah? You might as well tell me. I’m not going to quit badgering you until you do.”

  Badgering was one of Dylan’s qualities that had been most helpful and necessary during the past four years. It also could be inconvenient and, occasionally, annoying. But Noah saw that he had to tell him.

  He shrugged. “Some guy’s on my tail. He was here last night. At least I think it was him. I could be wrong—”

  “But you’re not.” Dylan took a breath. “Early fifties. Six feet tall. Dark hair with a lot of gray. Black suit. No costume.”

  Noah wasn’t surprised Dylan could describe the man. Between his years on the ice and at NAK, he missed nothing. He’d honed his natural instincts about people, their motives and character. He’d turned down a larger role with NAK, but he’d been indispensable in transforming Noah’s ideas and technical skills into a viable—and ultimately highly successful—company.

  “Did you talk to this man you saw?” Noah asked.

  Dylan shook his head. “He was watching you dance with your princess. Was she with him?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “She left the ballroom right after he did. I tried to follow her but she disappeared before I could catch up with her. I didn’t see the older gentleman.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No,” Dylan said without hesitation, then turned to Olivia. “What about you? Did you see this man?”

  She set down her coffee cup. “I spoke with him briefly. I think he’s the one you’re talking about. He asked what I knew about the woman Noah was dancing with.”

  “How did you respond?” Noah asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “I didn’t, really. I just said I was there to enjoy the evening. I had the feeling he knew you, Noah. I didn’t think anything of it. We spoke for less than a minute. Then he moved on. Is he a problem?”

  “He’s an unknown.” Noah poured himself more coffee from a small silver pot. “He might not be a problem at all. I spotted him a few times in San Diego.”

  “How many is a ‘few’?” Dylan asked.

  “Three. At a restaurant where I was enjoying a nice fish dinner with a friend.”

  “One of your actresses?”

  Noah ignored him. “Then at the fencing studio. Third time was outside our offices. I ran into Loretta and we agreed she’d see if she could find out who he is and what he wants.”

  “Why not use one of your own people?”

  “Who are my people nowadays, Dylan?”

  Dylan tapped his fingers on the white tablecloth. “Noah, is there any reason this guy would bird-dog you? Personal, professional—anything?”

  Noah pushed away his untouched coffee refill. “Not everyone needs a reason.”

  “What does Loretta say?”

  “She’s stumped. I hoped it’d turn out to be a case of too much time on my hands. Then I saw this strange man again last night. It’s too big a coincidence for me to spot him in San Diego and then in Boston.”

  Dylan sat back. “I’ll talk to Loretta and take care of this.”

  Noah shook his head. “No, Dylan. Thank you, but Loretta and I are handling this on our own.”

  “Any ideas who he is, what he wants?” Dylan asked.

  “No.”

  “Is he stalking you or what?”

  “I wouldn’t say stalking.”

  Dylan took in a sharp breath. “Maybe you should involve NAK security. You’re worth a lot of money. Your company recently went public. You’ve made a few enemies in the process.”

  “I don’t think this is about money, enemies or power. It feels different.”

  “Personal?”

  “Maybe.”

  “An ex-girlfriend’s father?” Olivia asked. “Something like that?”

  Noah smiled at her. “You’re assuming I have an ex-girlfriend.”

  “More like a legion of them,” Dylan muttered. When Olivia raised her eyebrows, he added, “Noah’s high-profile. A lot of women want to have a night on the town with him, at his expense. Deep down, though, he’s still the high school geek who was better at math than most of his teachers. I wasn’t, in case you were wondering.”

  “In other words,” Noah said, his eyes on Olivia, “I have a low threshold of trust where women are concerned.” He sat back, wishing now he’d waited longer to have his pancakes. “I also get dumped a lot.”

  “Because you don’t like being used,” Dylan said. “Maybe you flipped the switch of one of your actress’s crazy uncles, or someone is seizing the moment to see what they can get off you. We can speculate all morning. It won’t get us anywhere.”

  “And it’s not a problem until it’s a problem,” Noah said.

  “This man hasn’t made direct contact with you?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Maybe he sent you one of the emails you didn’t want to read this morning.”

  “I’
m not worried, Dylan,” Noah said truthfully. “If he wanted to physically harm me, he’s had several chances.”

  “He could know you’re a master fencer and a brown belt in karate.”

  “I hope he does.”

  “What if he’s looking up dirt on you so that he can harm NAK?” Olivia asked. “What if he wants to harm you—your reputation?”

  “Let him try. I have no skeletons in the closet.” Noah gave her a slight smile. “I’m not that interesting, Olivia. More than likely this man is just angling for money.”

  Dylan eyed Noah. “Any chance there’s a connection to me?”

  “I have no reason to think so, or that there’s a connection to Knights Bridge.”

  “Knights Bridge?” Olivia sat forward. “Why would there be a connection to Knights Bridge?”

  Noah regretted his offhand comment and tried to reassure her. “I’m sure there isn’t one.” He decided to change the subject. “Unless my princess is hiding there. Are you positive you two didn’t recognize her? She had quite arresting eyes. Almost turquoise. They reminded me of your friend Maggie’s eyes but the color was deeper.”

  Olivia reached suddenly for the cream pitcher. “Really? I wonder who she could be.”

  She greeted the waiter a little too cheerfully when he arrived with her and Dylan’s breakfasts. Noah glanced at Dylan and saw that he noticed her reaction, too.

  The description of his dance partner had obviously struck a nerve with Olivia.

  Noah smiled. His princess might not be so lost, after all.

  * * *

  Knights Bridge was even prettier than Noah remembered from his visit in early April. Having leaves on the trees helped. He sat up front with Dylan while Olivia pointed out various landmarks from the backseat. She explained that the building of the Quabbin Reservoir and the subsequent flooding of much of the Swift River Valley had changed the development of the town, putting it off the beaten track and giving it a “time has stopped here” feel that was, both Olivia and Dylan again insisted, deceptive.

  Maybe so, Noah thought, but that didn’t mean he wanted to do more than float in and out again. He had a chartered jet scheduled to meet him at a nearby private airport that evening.