Wicked Ways
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Kate Hoffmann
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16,8K
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10
1
THE WIND BLEW straight off the Atlantic in chilly gusts, rattling the nine-over-one windows of the Widow’s Walk Inn and sending a whirlwind of autumn leaves down the dark cobblestone drive and into the silent streets of Egg Harbor, Maine. Rain drummed on the roof and waves crashed against the rocks at the base of the bluff, the roar audible through the old handmade glass panes.
Hallie Tyler looked up from her reservation book just in time to see a fleeting shadow pass by the window that overlooked the wraparound porch. She waited for the front door of the inn to open, for the tiny bell above the door to jingle. But when it didn’t after a few moments, she rubbed her tired eyes and shook her head. After such a hectic day, it was no wonder she was imagining another guest arrival. It was nearly midnight and all her guests should be sound asleep upstairs. No one would be out and about on a night such as this.
Her gaze fell on the folded copy of the New York Times’s Travel and Leisure section. She picked it up and skimmed the brief article that had caused such an unusual onslaught of business so late in the season.
Egg Harbor, Maine, September 23—The Widow’s Walk Inn, run by proprietress Hallie Tyler, was built as the summer retreat of nineteenth-century Boston shipping tycoon Lucas Tyler. Located on the rugged coast of Maine in the picturesque town of Egg Harbor, the twelve-room inn was once home to the legendary Nicholas Tyler, who was said to be a vampire. Buried in the family plot after a drowning accident, Nicholas is rumored to rise from the grave on the night of each new moon to wander the streets of Egg Harbor in search of innocent victims.
“What a crock,” she muttered, tossing the paper aside.
The last thing she needed now was the resurrection of that moldy old vampire legend. The outlandish tale had dogged her family for as long as she could remember. If it had been up to Hallie, Nicholas Tyler and his bloodthirsty bent would have stayed buried in the little vine-twisted graveyard that sat between her property and the rest of the town. But her elderly maiden aunts, Patience and Prudence, had solicited the Times review and had delightedly told the reporter about old Uncle Nick’s strange drinking habits and his oversize eyeteeth.
Hallie shook her head and smiled wearily. The aunts had only been trying to help, taking seriously her suggestion that they turn their energies toward the proper marketing of the inn and away from their sudden interest in UFOs and alien life forms. She’d just never expected their bumbling attempts to have a positive effect on her business.
The aunts—her great-aunts, actually—had been Hallie’s responsibility since her parents had passed away over ten years before. Samuel and Clarissa Tyler had left Hallie, their only child, the deed to the old family house, a huge Queen Anne-style monstrosity that sat on a bluff above the Atlantic.
Most of the townsfolk expected her to sell and remain in Boston at her advertising job. But she’d been raised at Tyler House, and had spent an idyllic childhood in Egg Harbor with her parents and aunts. When the money ran out and the taxes were two years overdue, she’d had no choice but to come back and save the home she loved so much.
It hadn’t taken her more than a moment to decide. She quit her job, abandoned her life in the city along with the man she planned to marry, and returned to a place that had always been safe and secure—the only place she’d ever truly been happy.
Without a regular job and with the aunts to support, she’d been forced by finances to turn the house into an inn. A small but loyal clientele kept the books just barely in the black, which was enough for Hallie. She’d never wanted to run a tourist trap like so many of the inns along the coast of Maine, from Kennebunkport to Bar Harbor. But Patience and Prudence, full of octogenarian energy, wanted Hallie’s inn to be a rousing success and they wouldn’t stop until it was so.
The aunts had been beside themselves with excitement when the review had appeared a week ago. And from that moment on Hallie’s life had been an endless whirl of inn-keeping duties, of demanding guests and unmade beds, of early breakfasts and late-night bookkeeping. And unending questions about Uncle Nick.
The rush didn’t promise to let up until the winter set in. The Widow’s Walk Inn was completely booked for the next month with guests more interested in the Tyler family vampire than in strolling the picturesque town of Egg Harbor.
Vampires, she thought to herself. Only a fool would believe in the existence of the undead. Hallie was much too practical to consider Dracula and his black-caped buddies any more than just fiction. Her uncle was no more a vampire than she was the creature from the Black Lagoon.
A cold draft of damp salt air suddenly wafted around her, causing the pages of the reservation book to flutter. She shivered and rubbed her arms, then glanced up to find a man standing in the shadows of the open door, silently watching her.
Startled, Hallie sucked in a sharp breath and placed her fingers over her lips to keep from crying out. She hadn’t heard the creaky hinge that she’d been meaning to oil for weeks, nor the jingle that usually announced an arrival. And she’d just locked the front door a few hours before, hadn’t she?
“May I come in?” he asked softly, his words drifting toward her on the cold night air.
“Of…of course,” Hallie replied, hardly able to find her voice. “Can I help you?”
The man closed the door, then stepped out of the shadows into the soft pink glow from the old electrified oil lamp sitting on the end of the front desk. He was dressed entirely in black—turtleneck, Levi’s jeans and a flowing trench coat with the collar pulled up around his neck. His hair, straight and windblown, was as dark as his clothing and nearly reached his shoulders. He tipped his chin up and light played along the hawklike planes and angles of his face, revealing the rough stubble of his beard. A pair of eyes, the palest blue, met her gaze and she shivered again, startled by the unearthly color.
“I’d like a room,” he said. “Something quiet.”
Hallie stared at him, transfixed by a gaze that acted on her senses like a mind-numbing drug and a voice that seemed almost hypnotic. “Something quiet,” she murmured, letting the memory of his voice warm her blood like fine brandy on a cold winter’s night.
“Do you have a room, then?” he asked.
Hallie blinked, startled for a moment by the strange haze that clouded her thoughts. “I—I’m sorry,” she replied. “We’re full for this evening.”
He seemed surprised by her statement and raised a dark eyebrow. “But I was assured that no reservation was necessary midweek,” he replied smoothly. “It is late September, well past the peak tourist season.”
Hallie smiled apologetically, still unable to draw her eyes away from his striking features. “Normally we would have a room, but the inn was featured in last weekend’s New York Times.”
His jaw tensed in irritation and he cursed softly. “Are you sure? You must have at least one room left, just for the night.”
“Every room is full,” Hallie said. “I’m sorry. This is quite unusual. We never have a full house, since we’re pretty far north and a good distance…” She suddenly realized she was babbling, telling him things he already knew. “Off the main highway,” she finished lamely.
“Maybe you could recommend another place to stay? It must be peaceful. I need…solitude.”
“There is no place else here in town. We’re the only inn or hotel within twenty-five miles. You’ll have to drive back up the peninsula and head back south.”
He ran impatient fingers through his long ravenblack hair and shook his head. “I’ve been driving for nearly eight hours. It’s midnight. There has to be someplace closer I can stay.”
Hallie hesitated. She had already turned six guests away that night for lack of reservations. Why was she suddenly concerned about the comfort of this particular man? It wasn’t her fault he’d driven halfway to nowhere without the benefit of a reservation. Hadn’t he thought to pick up a phone?
“Well?” he prompted.
“Well, there is our coach house,” she said. “I’ve begun to renovate it into a guest cottage, but the central heating system is a little balky. If you keep the fireplaces going, you’ll be fine for the night. It’s on a deserted corner of the property and it’s very quiet. You’ll have to come to the inn for breakfast.”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” he said. “And if the room is acceptable, I’d like to stay for two weeks.” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and pushed it at her without bothering to count the money.
She looked down at the crumpled bills. “But the coach house is in the midst of renovation. It’s all right for one night, but not really fit for—”
“I’d prefer to judge that for myself,” he said. “And I will pay extra to have dinner brought to me,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
“We usually don’t offer lunch or dinner to our guests,” Hallie began, meeting his mesmerizing gaze again. “But…but I suppose I could do that.”
“Good,” he said, his intense expression softening a bit.
She counted his money, surprised to find nearly two thousand dollars in her hands. “This is more than enough.” She handed half back to him.
“It’s only money,” he said, a hint of contempt in his voice. He pushed it back at.her. “Keep the extra. I have no better use for it. It can’t buy me what I need right now.”
Startled by his sudden change in mood, Hallie grabbed a registration card and a pen. “Your name?” she asked.
“My name?” He paused for a moment. “Tristan … Edward Tristan.”
She wrote his name in her register, then handed him a card. “Just fill in your address, Mr. Tristan.”
A few moments later, his registration complete, she plucked a pair of keys off the board. “I’ll get my coat and a flashlight and show you the way,” she said.
He was standing on the porch, the salt-saturated wind whipping through his hair and the rain spattering his face, when she returned from her small suite at the back of the house. Hallie pulled the hood of her slicker over her head and started down the steps in her knee-high wellies. “We’ll have to walk,” she said. “It’s a bit of a trek in this nasty weather and the path is muddy. Do you have luggage?”
He pointed to a garment bag, a leather duffel and a small shoulder tote, all black, near the rail of the porch. With easy movements, he swung the luggage over his shoulder and joined her at the bottom of the steps.
Hallie bent her head against the wind and set off across the yard for the northwest corner of the property, anxious to get her last guest settled so she could get to bed herself. He matched every two of her strides with one of his and set a pace faster than her own. As she walked beside him, she realized how tall he was, at least an inch or two over six feet, with broad shoulders that seemed even broader in the trench coat.
Halfway to the coach house, she slipped in the slick mud and he reached out to steady her. His hand remained firmly on her elbow for the balance of their walk, the gesture faintly protective, even possessive. She gave him a sideways glance, but found his eyes focused on the path ahead.
Out of the blackness and the mist, the coach house appeared, a rough stone building with a slate roof. The small house had once guarded the entrance to the property, but over the past century the town had abandoned the North Road, replacing it with a road that ran closer to the southern edge of Hallie’s property and the inn. Now, all that was left was a rusted iron gate covered with brush and vines.
She’d always loved the little house. When she was a child, it had served as a wonderful fantasy castle. And someday, after she’d paid off all her bills and loans, she planned to move from her small suite of rooms in the inn and live in the coach house. But for now, it was just another room to rent, a room to be occupied by the enigmatic Mr. Tristan.
She stopped at the front door and looked up at him. “I—I’ll just show you inside,” she said. She unlocked the door, then held out the keys to him. Slowly, he covered her hand with his, his fingers warm and firm on hers. She shivered, not from the cold and damp, but from the unbidden current of attraction she felt for him. Hastily, Hallie snatched her fingers away. “The second key is for the front door of the inn. We lock the door after midnight but you may want to get in after hours.”
She opened the coach house’door and flipped on the lights. The far wall of the great room was cluttered with construction supplies—lumber, drywall, tools. Hallie watched as he took in his surroundings, certain that he’d be spending just one night, yet strangely disappointed at the prospect. He wandered back into the bedroom with its adjoining bath, then appeared at the doorway. He gave only a cursory glance at the tiny kitchen.
“Did your contractor quit?” he asked.
“I’ve been doing most of the work myself,” she replied, rubbing her hands together, more to still the tingling than to warm them. “I blew the budget on the bathroom. I can’t go much further until I take care of the heating problems. I’ll start a fire for you in the bedroom to take the dampness out of the air.”
Their gazes met again and held. Droplets of rain sparkled on his dark lashes and the light gleamed off his damp cheekbones. He shook his head. “There’s no need. Just tell me where the firewood is and I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s out here, around the corner of the house, beneath a tarp. Matches are on the mantel, kindling in the basket. The phone is next to the sofa. Just call if you need something.”
Suddenly uneasy, he turned and walked to the window, then stared out into the black night. “Then I suppose I have everything I need for now, Miss…”
“Hallie,” she said. “Hallie Tyler.”
“Hallie,” he repeated. “It’s an unusual name.”
“It’s really Halimeda. An old family name.”
He slowly faced her. “It’s Greek,” he said with a half smile.
“What?”
“Your name. It’s Greek. It means ‘dreaming of the sea.’” He looked directly into her eyes. “Do you?”
“Do I?”
“Do you dream?” he asked.
She frowned, unable to tell if he was serious or simply teasing her. She barely knew him, but Edward Tristan didn’t seem the type to tease. She smiled hesitantly. “I—I guess I do,” she murmured. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not everyone,” he replied. He took a deep breath, then turned back to the window. “That will be all, Miss Tyler. I’m sure I’ll get along just fine here.”
His tone was dismissive and Hallie bristled slightly. “Well, if you need anything,” she said, “just call.”
He didn’t hear her, or if he did, he chose not to respond. He continued to stare, unblinking, out the moisture-streaked glass into the darkness. Hallie quietly let herself out and started back toward the inn. As she walked through the rain, her mind dwelled on her newest guest.
She had met many people in her years as an innkeeper, but never had she encountered a man like Edward Tristan. Outwardly, he seemed normal enough. In fact, he was most likely one of the most handsome men she’d ever laid eyes on. -And that body, tall and lithe and athletic, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and long, muscular legs.
But for a man with such obvious physical attributes, he seemed uncomfortable in her presence. On first sight, she would have assumed him to be the ultimate charmer, a man with a quick smile and a glib line. Instead, he was aloof, distracted, nearly to the point of rudeness, holding himself above the pleasantries of idle conversation and good manners.
In any other man, she would have sensed pure conceit. But Edward Tristan was more than just the sum of his outward attributes. The man seemed troubled, as if he’d come to the Widow’s Walk Inn to escape rather than relax.
A proper innkeeper would try to draw him out, to loosen that tightly coiled spring inside him and encourage him to find some respite here on the coast of Maine. But she suspected that Mr. Tristan would not welcome her efforts. The man wanted to be alone and she wasn’t about to try to change his mind.
Besides, after her rather startling reaction to his touch, she’d be better off to stay as far away from him as possible. After all, a proper innkeeper did not lust after her guests.
TRIS STARED out the window and watched as Hallie Tyler disappeared into the darkness. He would have liked for her to stay; he knew he’d be awake—and alone—until dawn. He’d been so long without the company of a woman that he could listen for hours to Hallie’s musical voice, drink in her delicate features and inhale her sweet perfume.
He led such a solitary life that he’d begun to wonder whether he’d lost all capacity to interact with people. How did one approach a woman like Hallie Tyler? What was there to talk about? She was nothing like the other women he’d had in his life, women who had so much to say about themselves that he rarely needed to speak. Women well aware of who and what he was— and always eager to please.
Edward Tristan, guest at the Widow’s Walk Inn, was known to the rest of the world as Tristan Montgomery. That name was now as familiar to readers as King and Koontz, masters of the horror genre. After Tris’s last three hardcovers hit the New York Times’s list, he had joined the rarefied circle of authors who could guarantee an instant bestseller by simply putting his name on a book cover.
But the pressure to produce another number-one book had become unbearable. For the past six months, hounded by his agent and his editor, Tris had been in the grip of a major writer’s block, unable to write more than a few poorly plotted paragraphs a day. He had burned out, feeling as if every drop of creativity had been drained from his body.
When his agent suggested a change of scenery, Tris had relented, ready to try anything to break his literary gridlock. His agent had assured him the Widow’s Walk Inn was the perfect place to relax and work on his new book. Unfortunately, Louise had missed the article in last weekend’s Times that had turned the inn into Maine’s newest hot spot.
But the coach house would do for now. At least he wouldn’t have to put up with the cult of fans that hung out in front of his Upper East Side apartment. Or the stress of day-to-day living in Manhattan. Or the many and frequent distractions available in the city.
Here, with nothing else to do, he’d be forced to work. The only distraction would be an occasional look at Hallie Tyler’s pretty face when she brought him his dinner.
A soft ring startled him from his silent revery. Tris reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone, then flipped it open.
“So, are you writing yet?”
Tris recognized his agent’s voice on the other end of the line. “I was sleeping, Louise.”
“Don’t lie to me, darling,” she said. “I know your work habits and you’re strictly nocturnal. You never go to bed before 5:00 a.m. Now, tell me, how’s it going?”
“It isn’t,” Tris said. “I just got here. I registered under Edward Tristan. Hopefully, that will keep the press and the fans at bay.”
“You are such a clever boy. Does it look like the place will be conducive to writing?”
“I don’t know yet, Louise,” Tris replied. “If you’d hang up, I could get out my computer and see.”
“Darling, you know I don’t want to pressure you, but if you don’t have a first draft in by Christmas, we’re in serious trouble. You won’t get your summer release date.”
“I’ll finish,” Tris said.
“Well, just to make certain, I’ll send you something for inspiration.”
“No more gifts,” Tris said. “That damn raven you sent me last year has eaten me out of house and home.”
“How is dear little Edgar Allan Crow?”
“He’s a hell of a lot bigger and he’s staying with friends. If he gives them any trouble, I’ve told them to call you. And if you continue to harass me, I’ll make sure you have a raven for a houseguest next time I leave town.” He paused. “I thought you told me this place would be peaceful. I almost didn’t get a room. The place was full, so the innkeeper had to put me up in an old coach house. Some business with an article in the New York Times.”
“Really? I didn’t read that. But why worry over it now? You do have a room, don’t you?”
“But the town is crawling with tourists. I won’t even be able to go out.”
“That’s probably for the best, darling. By the way, how much do you have done?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Tris lied. He hadn’t written a single page since he’d pitched the book six months ago. But he wasn’t about to tell Louise the truth. If she knew, she’d be calling him ten times a day instead of just five.
“How much?” she prodded.
“Louise, I’m going to hang up. Then I’m going to walk to the bluff and throw this phone into the Atlantic. The next time you get an answer at this number, you’ll be bugging someone in Iceland.”
Tris snapped the phone shut and slipped it into his coat pocket, then grabbed his room key and headed for the door. As he passed his luggage, he glanced down at the case that held his laptop computer. He felt only a small twinge of guilt before he opened the door and walked outside. He would have plenty of time to write. Right now, he needed to think.
The rain had stopped and a half moon hung low in the east. Black clouds scudded across the sky on the brisk wind and the tang of salt touched his nose as soon as he stepped out the door. He waited for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the dark, then set off toward the sound of the ocean.
From the top of the rocky bluff he could see the small harbor below. Lights at the head of each pier illuminated a small fleet of fishing trawlers. The boats bobbed at their moorings, awaiting sunrise and the arrival of their crews. Below him, at the edge of the water, large boulders lined the narrow beach, the surf surging between them.
He turned back to stare at the inn, set on top of a small rise. The house was a sprawling piece of architecture constructed of white clapboard and fish-scale shingles. The bay windows sported multipaned sashes, and spindles and brackets decorated the long porch and the gable peaks. A narrow walk surrounded the third-story turret, giving the inn its name.
Tris raked his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted back to Hallie Tyler, to her fresh-faced beauty and her hesitant smile. She hadn’t seemed to recognize him and he wondered whether she’d ever read one of his books. People were always surprised upon meeting him. He imagined they expected some strange fiend with a slightly warped mind and maniacal eyes.
It felt good to put those expectations aside, to wander through his days and nights like he used to, unnoticed, unknown. He’d never wanted fame. He only wanted to make a living at writing. Now he made more money than he could possibly need, yet he couldn’t walk down the streets of New York without being recognized. He had tried to cut back on the media appearances, hoping that might help, but his fans—and his publicist—were persistent.
Could he hope to remain incognito in Egg Harbor? Or would it only be a matter of time before his alter ego, Tristan Montgomery, was recognized? This little seacoast town was far from a hotbed of media activity, so maybe he’d be safe. Maybe, for just a little while longer, he’d be able to be himself.
“I’ll give it a week, tops,” Tris murmured.
He stepped closer to the edge of the bluff, then reached into his pocket and grabbed his cell phone. In one smooth motion, he lofted the phone into the air and watched as, glinting in the moonlight, it landed in the roiling surf. Satisfied, he started back toward the house, then decided to make a more detailed exploration.
An hour later, just as the moon reached its highest point in the sky, he happened upon an old cemetery. An iron fence choked with vines surrounded the graveyard. The gate screeched in protest as he stepped inside. He stood and listened to the wind whistling in the trees above him, surveying the crooked rows of weathered stone grave markers, the tall obelisks and pale headstones gleaming white in the moonlight.
He smiled to himself. He loved graveyards. In fact, he loved almost anything that caused a prickle to rise on the back of his neck and a shiver to skitter along his spine. He’d become a student of fear and the effect it had on the human mind and body. Fear and terror had become the tools of his trade and there was nothing he liked better than to feel the rush of adrenaline that accompanied a good scare.
If ever he needed inspiration, it was now. He stared into the night and imagined zombies and ghoulies and other horrific monsters appearing out of the dark. Lowering himself to the damp ground, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, the scent of decomposing leaves and wet grass teasing at his senses.
Tris wasn’t sure how long he sat on the edge of the graveyard, letting his mind wander and his skin prickle. Spurred by the eerie atmosphere of the graveyard, he carefully constructed the main character of his novel, piece by piece, feature by feature.
He’d begun with a man, but his thoughts kept returning to a woman—a woman with perfect features and silky dark hair, brilliant green eyes and a cupid’s bow mouth. A woman just like Hallie Tyler. He’d never written a book from a heroine’s point of view, but suddenly it seemed like the perfect solution. His mind raced with all the possibilities as he carefully brought the character to life in his head.
The moon had long ago set by the time he had his heroine all worked out. He sensed that the sun would be up in another hour and suddenly he felt the tug of exhaustion—both mental and physical. He levered himself to his feet, then brushed his hands on his thighs.
He was chilled to the bone but he felt good—alive and aware—as if all the clutter in his mind had been swept away and the seeds of his story had appeared in astounding clarity.
It wasn’t the story he’d promised to write. It was better. Both his editor and agent would have no trouble seeing that. Tris started back to the inn, whistling a soft tune. This place would be good for him. Here he’d be able to work again.
A RAUCOUS BUZZ penetrated Hallie’s dreams, drawing her out of a fitful sleep. With a moan, she slapped at the alarm clock, finally silencing the intrusive sound when the clock tumbled onto the plush Oriental carpet.
“Serves you right,” she mumbled, pulling the pillow over her head.
She felt as if she hadn’t slept at all. Her rest had been troubled, frustrated and tormented by strange images and hazy dreams. Several times when she’d wakened, she could have sworn there was someone in the room with her. Holding her breath, she had listened for any sound, but all she’d heard was the wind outside, the soft hiss of rain against the old panes of glass and the gentle whisper of the lace curtains as they’d fluttered against the drafty window.
It was as if someone had invaded her sleep and slipped silently into her dreams. Pinching her eyes shut, Hallie tried to put a face to the vague images that had haunted her thoughts. Midnight-black hair…aquiline nose, a firm, sensual mouth…and pale blue eyes.
Hallie groaned and threw her arm over her face. She’d been dreaming about Edward Tristan. Strange, disturbing dreams filled with hazy longing and bewildering desire. Good grief, the man was a complete stranger. What had gotten into her?
Sitting up in her bed, Hallie rubbed her eyes. She was simply overtired. She’d dreamed about the man because he was the last person she’d talked to before she’d fallen asleep. There was nothing more to it. It wasn’t as if she harbored some secret sexual fantasy about him.
Sure he was handsome. To be truthful, he was downright sexy. But she had to admit, he was also just a little bit odd. All that black and those strange, unearthly eyes, and his unsettling detachment. He reminded her of a caged panther, restless and dangerous, always watching with a perceptive and predatory gaze.
Hallie tumbled out of bed, determined to put Mr. Tristan out of her mind. She clumsily pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, then padded to the bathroom in her bare feet to brush her teeth and comb her hair.
A few minutes later, after turning on the lights and unlocking the front door, Hallie headed for the kitchen, ready to begin her day. It was 5:00 a.m., at least an hour away from sunrise. Breakfast was served between seven and nine. She usually took care of the work in the kitchen, with Prudence and Patience handling the service to guests and the cleanup.
She put the coffee on first, then opened the huge stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a bag of wild blueberries that she’d defrosted the night before. As she began to assemble the ingredients for her famous Widow’s Walk muffins, she had the sudden eerie feeling that she wasn’t alone.
“Is it too early for breakfast?”
Hallie spun around to find Edward Tristan standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest, his shoulder braced on the doorjamb. “Mr. Tristan!” she cried. Her heart leapt into her throat and she blinked in shock. Good grief, the man had an uncanny knack for sneaking up on her. He could enter a room without a sound!
“Tris,” he said, gazing distractedly around the kitchen. “You should call me Tris. Everyone does.”
“What are you doing up at this hour?”
“I haven’t gone to bed yet,” he replied in a matter-offact tone. “I’m kind of a night person.”
She frowned. “Where were you?” she asked. “You’re all muddy.”
He glanced down at his clothes, then stared at his hands, turning them over in front of his face as if his disheveled appearance surprised even him. “The graveyard,” he said.
“You were at the graveyard?”
“Yes. It’s a very nice graveyard as graveyards go.” He slid onto a stool at the end of the trestle table and watched her openly.
“Have you visited many?” Hallie asked.
A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “A fair number. It’s very old, your graveyard.”
“It’s not mine, it belongs to the Episcopal Church in Egg Harbor. And, yes, it is old.”
“Mmm,” he replied, his attention caught by the eggbeater. He slowly turned the handle and watched the beaters spin ’round and ’round. “Would you have any coffee made?”
“Regular or decaf?”
“Decaf,” he replied. “Regular will keep me up all day long.”
Hallie raised her brows, then decided not to question his bizarre sleeping habits. She grabbed a mug from the tall, glass-fronted cabinets, poured him a cup and placed it in front of him. He held the coffee mug in both hands, breathed in the steam, then set it down without taking a sip. “It’s chilly outside,” he murmured.
She gave him a shrewd glance. “So, I guess you’re one of those vampire watchers, huh?”
His gaze snapped back to hers and he stared at her, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “Vampire watchers?”
“You’ve come to Egg Harbor to search for my uncle Nicholas, the Tyler family vampire, haven’t you?”
“And I thought I had a strange family,” he said. He chuckled, an intoxicating sound that washed over Hallie in waves. “A vampire? This is very…interesting. Tell me more.”
“I don’t believe the story,” Hallie said defensively, waving a wooden spoon in his direction. “There are no such things as vampires.”
“What makes you so certain?” he challenged. “This world is filled with strange and fantastic creatures. Why not vampires?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t know about Nicholas,” she said. “That’s why the inn is booked, you know. Everyone’s come to Egg Harbor, hoping to run into a real live vampire.”
“Dead,” Tris said.
“What?”
“A real dead vampire,” he corrected.
Hallie smiled. “Whatever. It’s just that Egg Harbor has always been a nice, peaceful little town. I’d rather it weren’t suddenly overrun with tourists. Especially the type who are only here to see a real dead vampire.”
Tris slowly twisted his coffee mug between his palms. “But wouldn’t more tourists be good for your business?”
“I have enough to live on now. I don’t need more, especially at the expense of this town. This is one of the only places on the coast that hasn’t been spoiled and I’ve worked very hard to keep it that way. Egg Harbor is almost unchanged from the way it was when I was a child.”
“You’ve lived in this house your entire life?” Tris asked.
Hallie nodded. “Except for college and six years in Boston. The house has been in my family since the late nineteenth century. My great-great grandfather built it in 1883 as his summer residence. He was a shipping tycoon in Boston.”
“This is a long ride from Boston,” Tris said.
“He and his family used to sail here every summer on one of his clipper ships. They dropped anchor in the harbor and rowed ashore.”
“So was he the vampire?”
Hallie grabbed the eggbeater laying in front of him and began to mix the ingredients for her muffins. “Actually the vampire was Lucas’s son, Nicholas. My great-great-uncle. He died in 1923. My great-aunts, Prudence and Patience, know more about him than I do. They both live here at the inn. They’re responsible for the New York Times’s review.” She glanced up. “You don’t really believe in vampires, do you?”
Tris shrugged and slipped off his stool. “The jury’s still out on that one. But I wouldn’t write off the possibility.”
Hallie stared at him and shook her head in disbelief. She spread the muffin tins out in front of her and began to fill the cups with batter.
“I always try to keep an open mind.” He wandered over to the refrigerator. “Could I get something to eat?”
Hallie nodded. “Don’t open that tuna salad,” she warned. “I’m waiting for it to walk out on its own. There’s leftover meatloaf and rolls for a sandwich.”
He stood at the refrigerator, staring into it for a long time as if waiting for something appealing to call out to him. Hallie put the muffin tins in the double oven, then plopped down on a stool and sipped her coffee.
She braced her chin in her palm and yawned, watching him as he picked through the contents of her refrigerator. Slowly her eyes fluttered shut and she allowed her thoughts to drift for a moment.
She wasn’t sure when she dozed off, or how long she slept. But when she opened her eyes she could see the sun peeking above the horizon, its first rays shining through the window over the sink. The aroma of baked blueberry muffins filled thekitchen and she drew a deep breath. She closed her eyes and nestled her head into the crook of her arm that rested on the trestle table.
Her eyes popped open. “Damn!” Hallie bolted upright, stumbled off the stool and raced to the oven. But when she pulled the door open, she found the oven empty. “Where are my muffins?” She shook her head, certain that she’d put the muffins in the oven.
Hallie spun around, then noticed the six muffin pans lined up on the tile countertop. Frowning, she looked back inside the oven, then over at the counter. Realization slowly dawned and she smiled.
“Tris,” she murmured. She let the sound of his name drift off her lips on a whisper. An image of him flashed in her mind and she closed her eyes and enjoyed it for a brief moment.
“Asleep on your feet?” Hallie’s aunt Prudence stood in the doorway to the dining room, a tiny figure dressed in a pretty flowered dress, her white hair tucked into a knot at her nape, pearl earrings and a necklace completing her ensemble. Prudence and Patience were nearly eighty years old, but the aunts sometimes looked as fresh-faced as teenagers.
“Just resting my eyes,” Hallie said. “I didn’t sleep much last night. Where’s Patience?”
“She’s flirting with that Mr. Markham, our overly bold egg man.” Prudence shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You know he’s been married three times. And he is a younger man.”
Hallie gave her aunt a sideways glance. “He’s seventy-six.”
“And that’s too young for a woman of her advanced years. Sister positively melts when the man appears, batting her eyelashes and throwing herself at him like some…painted hussy. Our poor departed mother must be turning over in her grave at such brazen behavior.”
Hallie giggled. Her aunts had never married, though she suspected there had been many suitors along the way. But Patience and Prudence were devoted to each other and their many social causes. Raised in the Puritan atmosphere of small-town New England, they had become the social conscience of Egg Harbor.
“We have a full house,” Hallie said. “You and Patience better be ready for a rush at breakfast.”
Prudence poured herself a cup of coffee. “This is so exciting. I saw Mayor Pemberton downtown yesterday and gave him a copy of the Times’s review. He plans to discuss our sudden tourism boom at the village board meeting Thursday night. He’s always been high on tourism.”
“Prudence!” Hallie cried. “I told you that I didn’t want you pushing this vampire stuff. It’s not true. And I don’t want you talking to Silas Pemberton.”
“How do you know it’s not true?”
Hallie sighed. “I suppose I’m going to have to go down to the meeting and put an end to all this silliness.”
Prudence reached over and patted Hallie’s hand. “Whatever you want, dear. But I think all this vampire business could be good for our business.” With that, Prudence grabbed her coffee mug and bustled out of the kitchen.
Hallie stared after her and shook her head wearily. There were definitely days when running a lovely inn on the idyllic coast of Maine was not all it was cracked up to be.
