I pull it off the shelf. It's a flashy cover, with gold cursive lettering and a shirtless, kilted hunk. I flip through the pages, relieved to see that she has a good editor.
The shop door opens, and I glance around. Henry comes in, wearing his boots and weathered jeans. He looks like he's come directly from construction work, given the white specks dusting his curls.
As I walk toward him, he gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry I'm late. I was doing a little drywalling. I was hoping I could get a signed copy of Silent Beauty for Mother."
Book six had been the first stack to sell out. "I'm sorry. They've cleared those out," I say.
Quincy walks our way. "Hi, Henry. Looking for something in particular?" His glance travels between Henry and me, as if trying to figure out the nature of our relationship.
Henry shifts on his feet. "I was hoping to get a copy of Silent Beauty," he repeats.
Quincy gives a brisk nod. "I've stashed a few copies in the back. Let me grab one."
I'm relieved to know that Tilly can get her copy, even if she's still blissfully unaware the author is the same person who invaded her house the other day.
As Quincy heads to the back room, Lori walks our way, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She must be in her twenties, but her eyes are shining as she approaches Henry. I realize with a jolt that she's interested in him, even though he's quite a bit older than her.
"You doing all right, Mr. Basham?" she asks with a smile. "How is your mother doing? I haven't seen her in town lately."
"She's been more bedfast of late," he says.
Her glance rakes over his tall form, lingering on his drywall-dusted curls. "I'm sorry to hear that. You let me know if I can pick up any books at the library for her. Or for you," she adds, giving him a significant look. She turns to me. "Mr. Basham is a real classics reader. What was your latest read—Journey to the Center of the Earth?"
Henry gives a quick nod as Quincy emerges from the back. As he hands Silent Beauty over to me to sign, Lori returns to her conversation with Henry.
"We just got a volume of Poe stories in." She says this as if she's received a shipment of illegal goods. "He's such an unusual writer, wouldn't you say?"
Henry gives another wordless nod, and I try not to grin. Lori's best attempts to draw him into conversation are failing. Besides, "unusual writer" doesn't quite capture the essence of Poe. Maybe something more like the "Poet King of the Romanticized Macabre."
Quincy injects himself into the one-way conversation. "Poe's stories are so unbelievable. I'd recommend The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson over Poe."
"I've already read that," Henry says dismissively. "Talk about unbelievable. All those scary things were just in her head." Under dropped eyelashes, he shoots me a contrite look.
I blink back surprise. Does he feel I'm similar to the protagonist in The Haunting of Hill House? Could he believe that everything going on in the cabin is only in my head?
I hand the signed book over to him. "Thanks for coming. I hope your mother enjoys it." Suddenly weary of everything, I turn to Quincy. "And thank you for a wonderful signing. My agent will be delighted to hear how well it went."
As Lori walks Henry over to ring him up, I realize this might be my only chance to ask Quincy a few questions. "I understand you were friends with Jordan Larson," I say quietly.
He cocks his head, but his look is curious, not hostile. "Yes, we were quite close."
"It's tragic that she died so young," I say. "Did you get to visit with her in the cabin at all?"
His gaze sharpens. "You're asking because you're staying there, aren't you?" When I don't answer, he taps a finger to his lip. "Let's see. I went over for a meal there one night—she'd made a chili-sauce meatloaf, as I recall. I brought sweet tea and a chocolate pudding pie for dessert. This was in early summer, when the bookstore opened." He glances toward Henry, who's still stuck at the counter. "He's the one who found her in that sauna, you know," he whispers. "I hate to admit it, but I'm glad it wasn't me. I would've had a breakdown. She was like a daughter to me."
I hadn't expected that he and Jordan had that kind of dynamic, but it did make sense. After all, she had traveled to see his bookstore opening, so he must've been special to her. "Did she mention any problems with someone bothering her, like a jilted boyfriend?" That would track with the creepy character of Max in The Visitor, although it was odd that she'd served meatloaf to Quincy that night, just like Max did in her book. But maybe she'd just really liked meatloaf.
Quincy sends a covert look toward Henry, who's now walking our way. "There was an issue, but I'll have to tell you later," he breathes.
Henry proudly holds up his book bag. "Mother's going to love this, and I'm sure I'll enjoy it, too." He positions himself by my side. "You two having a good talk?"
SEVENTEEN
"We are," I say quickly. "But I should get back." I don't want to discuss Jordan with Henry, at least not now. Not until I get a better grip on what Quincy was insinuating when he mentioned that Jordan had an issue with someone. "Thanks again for setting up the signing."
"Take care." Quincy's tone is loaded with meaning. Is he telling me to watch out?
I shoulder my bag and head for the door. Henry trails along beside me, like he's not quite sure I want him around. I'm suddenly not sure, either. I've never really considered the significance of him being caretaker when Jordan was there. Had he been interested in her, maybe even had some kind of altercation with her? Could he have been the mysterious older man she'd modeled her creepy character Max on?
He pushes the door open for me, and as I step onto the sidewalk, a red car backs up and edges onto the street. I take a closer look. It's a Tesla.
Did Mariah know I was doing a signing? If so, I'm surprised she missed her chance to publicly confront me. Why didn't she come in?
Henry gives me a questioning look. "Everything okay?"
"Yes. I'm tired, that's all. It's been a long day." And so it has. From the ominous note to the sheriff's dismissal of it to the unsolicited book signing, I've gotten overstimulated beyond all regulation. What I need is to enjoy some good, rich food while watching shows that won't disturb me.
As if intuiting my needs, Henry says, "Cleo's made a ton of pork barbeque and slaw, if you'd like some. I have slider rolls I can bring over, too."
Even though I feel conflicted about Henry's motivations, I can never say no to home-cooked food. It's my Achilles' heel. Trying to let my voice reflect gratitude as opposed to hesitation, I say, "Sure. I'd be grateful if you wanted to share."
He offers the hint of a smile, and I feel strangely pulled toward him, as if he's the only person I could count on if the world suddenly blew up. I've never experienced this feeling with a man before, so I'm guessing it's just illusory, false. How could I ever trust my own judgment after my complete failure of a marriage?
I pull my focus back and unlock my car door, which he promptly opens for me.
"I'll call when I get the food ready." He ambles toward a black truck I assume must be his.
As I make my way onto the darkening, winding road leading to the cabin, I wonder where Mariah shot off to. Is she staying in town? If I see her red Tesla at my place, I'll lock myself in the car and wait for Henry to bring the food over.
