The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [138]
Directly after an early breakfast that morning, she strapped on her backpack and marched out to the cliffs—mostly just to prove she could.
Again the wind picked up once she left the shelter of the trees that protected the house from all but a pleasant pinescented breeze. And because she wasn’t careless or stupid, she stood well away from the edge but close enough to note the discrepancy between the rhythmic pattern of the waves and their erratic intensity, causing the surf to first swell and break against the great stone wall as if testing its strength before it rose up and came crashing back—angry and unmerciful. Exhilarating and intimidating at once.
Taking the path of least resistance, Ivy turned south, away from the crest of the old quarry. And then, for no reason she could identify, she changed her mind and went north along a clear-cut, well-traveled path. It wasn’t a steep hike but it did require more effort than a downhill jaunt. Still, with the wind in her face and the spirit of the lake speaking to hers, she topped the summit in no time.
And there, to her great delight, set back a hundred or so feet from the cliff, was a gazebo. An ornately carved octagon with a high-pitched roof and open sides—of the old Victorian Stick Style, the likes of which one didn’t see often enough in her opinion. Stunning. She imagined it had once been white but was now a seasoned silver-gray . . . and completely irresistible.
Secreted away in a hollow below the primary grounds of what she assumed was the Tennet family summer home, it looked sadly neglected. Lovely, but in dire need of a broom, maybe a paintbrush . . . and a hammer and some nails, she noted as the floorboards slid loose and worn below her feet.
Yet, what struck her hardest was the calm, the sense of relief she felt moments after stepping inside. The quiet, the peace, the protection were . . . spiritual, she decided—as nurturing as one would wish any church to be. For several minutes she stood with her hands on the straps of her pack, eyes closed, simply breathing, deeply, in and out, as if she were home again. At last.
“Ho there!” a male voice, deep and throaty like the growl of a bear echoed in the clearing. “Yer trespassin’.”
Odd. Rather than the surprise or alarm she would normally feel in this situation, his tenor resonated with something familiar inside her. Calm and . . . expectant, as if he should recognize her, she turned to face a short burly man in stretched-out denim and soft flannel. His face was bushy and his hair was gray, but his movements were sure and determined as he approached her, double-barreled shotgun in hand.
Odder. She knew it wasn’t loaded. She knew she was in no danger. She knew he was sweeter than he looked.
Oddest . . . she was delighted to see him.
“Hi!”
“ ’Ello. Yer on private property.”
She nodded. “The Tennets’. Yes, I figured that.”
“Mumford Manor, miss. You oughta be leavin’ now.”
“I’m Ivy Bonner.” She met him on the back side of the canopy and held out a hand. “I’m staying at the Rossinis’ this summer.”
A moment of confused speculation crossed his face before he glanced at her hand, shifted the rifle from his right to his left, and stepped forward to take hers.
“Mr. Craig mentioned ya. Gus. I keep an eye on things here.”
“This”—she held her arms out to indicate the gazebo—“is lovely. The scrollwork is amazing. It must have been spectacular once.”
He took a good look and gave one firm nod. “Gone to ruin of late. Rotting. Could be dangerous.”
“Mm. The floorboards, I saw those.”
“ A couple ties in the roof ain’t as strong as they oughta be neither.”
“What a shame Mr. Tennet doesn’t care enough to keep it up.”
The old man looked as if she’d slapped him—he was annoyed.
“He cares, miss. Best you go now.”
“I didn’t mean anything by that. I was . . . It was just an observation.” She spoke hastily. She didn’t want to leave. But even before the last word left her lips he was pointing south with his shotgun, toward the woods and the Rossinis’ property beyond. “Fine. But I was heading the other