“I know.” Poppy smiled, clearly delighted that Shay had noticed. “But I want to do what makes him happy, too, which means a lot of shuffling between here and LA, so I can’t work on the cabins as much as I might like.”
“You’re not the only Walker able to wield tools.”
Poppy’s mouth turned down. “The three of you aren’t enthusiastic tool-wielders when it comes to this place.”
“I...” Shay hesitated. Poppy had good reason to believe that. When Mac and Brett had put down their sister’s idea to tackle the decrepit cabins and make them into something good, Shay had stayed on the sidelines, aware it wasn’t a legacy that came to her through DNA.
Poppy’s eyes narrowed again. “You...?”
For some reason, the truth spilled out. “I do like it here. Love it. I always have.” But she’d always felt the destruction of the resort was partly her fault. “Seeing it come alive again...if your father was still here it would make him so happy.”
“Our father,” Poppy corrected. “But are you serious? You’d stand with me in the face of Brett and Mac’s opposition?”
“They’re persuadable, I think,” Shay said.
A small smile curved Poppy’s lips. “So if you explained to them it’s as important to you as it is to me—is it really?”
Even though she knew the land wasn’t her birthright, Shay couldn’t refuse her sister again. She nodded. “Really.”
Poppy swooped in for a fierce hug. “Thank you. Thank you!” She pushed Shay away, her fingers still curled around her biceps. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Telling the truth. Saying what you want.”
Shay couldn’t resist returning her sister’s sunny smile. “I guess not.”
Poppy’s grip tightened. “All right, then. Spill the rest.”
“Spill?”
“You have another secret. What happened on your birthday? What happened to you at that inn? Something did. I can see it.”
Another guilty flush heated Shay’s skin. “Noth—”
Her denial was interrupted by a young boy’s shout. Mason came rushing out of the woods and into the clearing, his hair disheveled and his hands clutching a ragged collection of weeds. “Flowers!” he said, shoving them at his mother. “I brought you flowers, just like Duke.”
“Duke” was his name for Poppy’s groom-to-be. London, aka Omaha, sidled up behind him. “Mace,” she said, “I told you not to squeeze them so tight.”
Shay looked over at her charge. She wore her usual black jeans, a black T-shirt and black high-top sneakers. Her hair was dyed black and she wore such thick black liner and mascara that just looking at her could make Shay’s own eyes itch. There didn’t seem to be one soft thing about the girl...except for the gentle way she treated Poppy’s son.
If only for that, she would have been endeared to Shay forever. But London/Omaha had other qualities, too. Her parents had divorced when she was small and she’d lived with her mother in Europe. From what Shay had gleaned, the woman had put little time into parenting, and the teen had largely raised herself with the aid of household help.
Now her mother was dead and her father absent from the scene. Yet the fifteen-year-old was keeping it together, despite the dark wardrobe. Shay had to imagine London felt alone. But Shay understood loners because of her own outsider feelings, and so tried to give the girl space, as well as boundaries. Companionship when the teen would tolerate it.
The girl tousled Mason’s hair, the smallest of smiles tipping up the corners of her lips. Yes, London was a survivor, and Shay had to admire that, too.
“Did you have a good time?” she asked her now.
Her mask of boredom resettled firmly in place. “Sure.”
“Are you ready to go home?”
“Whatever.” But the world-weary facade again slipped a little as they said their goodbyes. Mason was impossible to ignore when he gifted her with a ferocious little-boy hug, and she again ruffled his hair while expressing polite thanks to Poppy.
The four drifted toward Shay’s car. As London stowed her belongings and then climbed into the passenger seat, Poppy stayed by the driver’s side. “We need to have lunch,” she said through Shay’s window.
“To discuss the cabins?”
Poppy shook her head. “To discuss you. Something’s different about you.”
Buckling her seat belt gave her an excuse to avoid her sister’s comment, and soon she had the car turned in the direction of Blue Arrow Lake. Her sigh of relief was lost in the hum of the car engine and for the first time she actually appreciated her teen charge’s usual dour silence.
So she was completely gobsmacked when the girl shifted in her seat and willingly addressed Shay for maybe the first time ever. “Yeah,” she said. “What happened to you? Something’s changed.”
* * *
SHAY AVOIDED THE teen’s question by employing a trick she’d learned from her mother: she pretended she didn’t hear it. Lorna Walker had used that ploy often and it was easy to understand why. What with four children, a spouse who’d wandered away and then wandered back, and a daughter conceived in scandal, Shay’s mom had likely been often plagued with uncomfortable—or just plain nosy—queries.
Luckily, London didn’t seem interested in bestirring herself to insist on an answer, so the ride home continued in silence. It gave Shay time to think over their upcoming schedule. After a couple of eventful days that had relaxed their usual routine, it was time to get back to normal.
Soon they were passing through the small town of Blue Arrow Lake, with its European village atmosphere that drew tourists up the hill from the big Southern California cities in the valleys and the beaches below. Small shops, boutiques and bistros catered to a crowd with money to burn on fine cheeses, fancy wines and casual, yet chic, designer apparel. The businesses appeared to be busy, even midweek, though on Saturday and Sunday they would be packed when the owners of the mansions surrounding the lake visited their vacation homes at the end of the workweek.
Blue Arrow Lake was a private body of water, and only those who owned the exorbitantly priced frontage properties were allowed docks. As they left the town behind and turned into the estate-lined narrow streets, she caught glimpses of deep blue water and the occasional powerboat or sailboat cutting across the surface. No one walked the streets. They didn’t encounter another car.
Still, Shay couldn’t help her recurring fancy from popping up, the one that revolved around London’s absent father. She’d never spoken with the man. After the death of his ex-wife, he’d apparently turned over his daughter’s care—temporarily, she was told, while he finished up some business in the faraway country of Qatar—to a factotum in his company. The aforesaid factotum, one dry and gray Leonard Case, had interviewed Shay via Skype. Then, he’d brought the stoic teen and her plethora of belongings to the cavernous mansion where Shay had met the two in person.
Leonard Case had lasted forty minutes before he returned to wherever he’d come from.
Ever since that day, she’d imagined herself running into her employer, Jace Jennings, accidentally. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, but she’d drummed up this idea that it would happen like governess Jane Eyre coming across her as-yet-unknown Mr. Rochester when he and his horse fell on an icy causeway almost at her feet. Of course, now wasn’t the time of year for frosty conditions, and the entire idea was beyond ridiculous, but still Shay couldn’t help herself from keeping a lookout for a frowning, rough-looking traveler.
There was no sign of anyone, of course.
And the house they now approached was no Gothic Thornfield