Still Lake - Anne Stuart [52]
Maybe because he was a liar. If his name was John Smith then her name was Madonna. She hated liars.
He also had the totally annoying habit of acting as if he could see right through her. Past the flounces and the flowers, past the jams and pies and soothing rituals. He could see something small and frightened inside her, something she tried to wash away. And she didn’t want anyone looking that closely, particularly someone as unnerving as John Smith.
She scooted back down in bed again, closing her eyes. The shadows in the room shifted in the moonlight, and for a moment she cursed her obsessive attention to detail. The room needed light-blocking shades of some sort, or heavy curtains. So far she’d been more than happy to let the sun wake her up at the crack of dawn, and she didn’t even mind when the strong moonlight occasionally roused her from sleep.
Tonight she minded. She lay there in the moonlight, listening to every creak and groan the old house made. She’d grown used to those noises, even loved them. It made her think of a kitten purring. Her huge old house was talking to her, making approving noises, telling her she was welcome.
Tonight it felt restless, nagging at her. Silly, Sophie thought. She was the one who was restless. Anxious about the opening of the inn, anxious about her family, anxious about being kissed by an unwelcome stranger who certainly wasn’t inspired by love at first sight or even a passing attraction. He made it clear he found her just as tiresome as she found him.
So why did he kiss her?
And when was she going to get back to sleep? Tomorrow would be a long day—she had to call the bedding shop in Burlington to deliver the new mattresses, and the building inspector was coming in the next day or two, and sooner or later she had to get her software up and running. All before strangers started invading her inn.
And maybe that was the crux of it. She’d moved to Vermont, bought the huge old house of her dreams in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. She’d worked tirelessly, and everything was coming to fruition. And suddenly she didn’t want to share her haven with a bunch of paying guests tromping through her peaceful rooms.
“Get over it,” she muttered, keeping her eyes closed. You have to make choices in this life—nothing was ever handed to you on a silver platter. The only way she could afford to live in this peaceful place at the back end of beyond, the only way she could support such a huge old house and her sister and mother besides, was to take in paying guests. Whether she wanted them there or not.
She heard the noise, and for a moment she couldn’t place it. Just a quiet clicking sound, coming from below. She had one of the front rooms overlooking the lake, though she knew she would have to give that up when she opened for business. Customers would pay more for a lake view, and Sophie couldn’t afford to indulge herself. The wide porch ran directly beneath her open window, and she suddenly realized what she’d heard. The sound of the front door latching.
She scrambled out of bed and opened the door as quietly as possible. For a moment she stood in the hall, wondering if she was being the world’s greatest idiot. Like a heroine of an old Gothic romance, she was wandering around in the middle of the night in her nightgown with a murderer on the loose.
But there was no murderer on the loose. She was just getting spooked by the unnerving reminders of those long-ago deaths. The boy had been caught, and even if he’d eventually been freed, in most people’s minds there was no doubt he’d done it.
Though her unwelcome neighbor probably had some other theory, or why would he bother snooping around?
No, it was much more likely to be Marty or Grace sneaking out of the house. Marty slipping out for cigarettes or a boy. Maybe Patrick Laflamme wasn’t nearly as stalwart as Marge had promised.
She opened Marty’s door just a crack, breathing a thankful sigh that she’d oiled the hinges, and peered in at the bed. Marty was sprawled on top of it, her fuchsia-streaked hair startling against the pillow,