Charlotte heard dogs barking before she saw the house, a two-story cedar-shingled frame building with a big wraparound veranda and a darling cupola on top, complete with battered widow’s walk. The style, more commonly without the cupola, was popular along the coast. Supposedly, a seafarer’s wife could stand on the tiny balcony and gaze out to sea to spy her spouse as he sailed into harbor.
Whether that was so she could put a cake in the oven or chase the gardener out of her bed, Charlotte didn’t know, but cupolas were a charming addition to any dwelling, and she’d always wanted to sit in one, maybe take up a book to read.
Liam’s house was much grander than she’d expected it to be, even needing a coat of paint as it did and some attention to the landscaping. There were trees and bushes—a crab apple, two lilacs and several escallonias—that looked as though they’d once been productive but had been allowed to grow wild and unpruned. Everything seemed a bit run-down, a bit neglected.
“How many more dogs do you have?” she asked as she hurried to catch up to him.
“Twelve right now, not counting a new litter a month ago,” he replied, reaching for the latch that opened the wooden gate. An ancient sumac, its branches laden with candelabras of scarlet cone-shaped fruit, guarded the entrance path.
“Puppies! How lovely,” Charlotte said, trying to be conversational. Liam didn’t respond. He was a singularly uncommunicative man. Thank goodness she had Maggie with her, as a pretext for conversation once they sorted out the introductions. She could hardly imagine what she’d have come up with if she’d just located him in the phone book and called. Knowing her, she’d have blurted out something about the crush she’d had on him when she was eleven and when could they get together to discuss it.
A waist-high white picket fence surrounded the house, each post surmounted by ornamental wood-carvings in a last-century style. Charlotte noted the detail avidly. Folk art of all kinds, from architecture to furniture and the decorative arts: these were the passions she’d turned into a livelihood over the past few years.
Completing the quaint domestic picture—forest to one side, open shore and sea to the other, with the sun suddenly breaking through—wood smoke poured from a brick chimney. Of course! Liam Connery didn’t live alone. Twelve dogs. Plus puppies. What was that—another five or six? And no doubt a wife, kids, mortgage and a big feed bill. After all, if Charlotte was twenty-eight, he had to be at least thirty-three or -four by now.
A family man. What an unsettling thought. So far, Charlotte had not factored a wife and children into the mental picture she’d formed. He seemed so…remote. Detached. Self-sufficient. So—how had Sid put it?—ornery.
They entered a small linoleum-floored anteroom full of coats and boots, and smelling slightly of dog. The dog with him—she still hadn’t heard Liam call it by name—settled with a sigh into a blanket-lined wicker basket. She didn’t know whether or not to slip off her sneakers, deciding, in the end, that she’d keep them on, considering she wasn’t wearing any socks. She wiped the soles carefully on the mat beside the door, noting that she was desecrating a traditional hooked mat, faded but sturdy, that would probably bring seventy-five dollars at an auction in Toronto. Collectors snapped up mats like these.
Liam, she was relieved to see, walked to a glass-fronted cabinet that contained several guns and deposited the one he’d had slung over his shoulder, locking the door and pocketing the key.
“Why do you have the gun?” she asked, unable to resist.
“To shoot ducks,” he said. “You want to keep the coat on for now?”
He moved to the door that separated the vestibule from the rest of the house and paused, less than a yard away from her, waiting for her response.
Charlotte searched his gaze for a clue as to the situation—and saw nothing but an odd wariness. Beneath that scruffy beard, he’d grown up to be a handsome man, in his rough way. And yet he struck her as…almost scary. She decided to stay wrapped up in the jacket, if for no other reason than that she was suddenly embarrassed at the prospect of exposing herself in her damp, no doubt revealing, T-shirt. She nodded.
Modesty, thy name is Woman, she thought, mangling the half-remembered phrase.
He opened the door and gestured her forward into a kitchen. There were no lights on in the room, and it seemed a little gloomy, if delightfully warm.
Liam flipped a wall switch to turn on a light.
“Liam? That you?” came a thin voice from one corner of the room. Charlotte’s gaze settled on an elderly woman, probably in her early seventies, her hands occupied with yarn and knitting needles, and accompanied by a cat that perched on the upholstered back of her chair. The woman looked toward them but there was something unusual in her flat gaze.
“I’m home, Ma. Brought company. She got her clothes wet down at the shore and she could use a cup of tea and a warm-up.”
“Oh? Any luck?”
Liam, who’d taken off his boots, picked up a teakettle that was sitting on a gleaming modern commercial range and went to the sink. “Nope. Scout wasn’t in the mood. He had other things on his mind.” He glanced at Charlotte and she felt herself flush.
The whole kitchen was furnished in a surprisingly up-to-date fashion, with a large refrigerator, a dishwasher and double stainless steel sinks. The appliances appeared to be about ten years old. Somehow, she hadn’t expected a modern kitchen. An older woodstove was in one corner, near the woman’s chair, and was probably the source of the wood smoke she’d noticed. That suited the room.
“Stay there, Ma,” he said, although the woman had made no effort to get up. “I’ll make the tea.” He ran some water into the kettle.
“Where’s Davy’s boy?”
Liam looked toward his mother. “He’ll be along shortly. He’s got Scout.”
The woman chuckled and put her knitting aside. “That Scout is quite a rapscallion.” She shook her head, smiling. Charlotte got the impression that she was pleased to hear about Scout’s hijinks. “He sure doesn’t take after his daddy, does he? Old Jimbo. Now, there’s a dog who’s all business. Did you say you’d brought someone, Liam?”
Charlotte stared at the older woman, shocked. Hadn’t she seen her? She glanced at Liam. He had set the kettle on the stove. He shot her a warning look that she couldn’t quite decipher.
“Yes. This is—I never did ask your name, ma’am.” He actually smiled slightly. It made a huge difference to what Charlotte had come to believe was a perpetually grim expression.
“Charlotte,” she said, stepping forward and rather foolishly holding out her hand. “Charlotte Moore. From Toronto.”
He frowned. “I’m Liam Connery—”
“I know who you are.” She desperately wanted to set the record straight. About Maggie. About Laurel. About herself.
“You do?”
“Actually, believe it or not, I was more or less on my way here, to your place. To drop off a dog—”
“That Labrador?” He was still frowning.
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I understand that you made some arrangements with my sister Laurel to have Maggie bred here….”
“You’re Laurel Moore’s sister?” He seemed completely taken aback.
“I am. Her younger sister. I remember you but—” she laughed nervously “—I don’t suppose you remember me.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t. And I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” He turned toward his mother again without explaining. “This is my mother, Ada Connery.”
“How