Windswept Way (Hope Harbor #9)(55)
Author: Irene Hannon
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered. Kyle will be along within the hour, after he rounds up a couple of our people.”
Pressure built behind her eyes. “How can I ever thank you?”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Save me a few of your caterer’s fancy treats. I want to take a shot of them and send it to Laura. She thinks all I eat is cereal and frozen dinners.”
“Done. Would you like me to deliver them to your place later?”
“Not necessary. I’ll stop by and pick them up.”
“Okay—but a sampling of appetizers doesn’t come close to compensating you for going above and beyond. Why don’t I pay you time and a half for weekend work?” The extra expense would ding the budget short term, but the longer-term negative economic impact would be worse if her guests left with a bad impression.
“The crew would appreciate that. I’ll comp my services in exchange for the food. I better get rolling, or we’ll still be in cleanup mode when your guests arrive.” He started walking toward the gazebo again.
“Jon.”
Once again, he stopped and turned.
“I hope you know how grateful I am.”
In the murky light of early morning, it was impossible to read his expression. But the warmth in his husky voice wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.
“I’m glad I could help.”
With that, he pivoted and strode across the lawn toward the gazebo.
And even though he was wearing jeans rather than chain mail and carrying a chain saw instead of a lance, in the soft, golden, just-past-dawn glow he looked as heroic and chivalrous as any knight from the fabled Round Table.
The woman was still watching her.
As Rose launched into her final piece to close out the inside part of the open house, she cast a surreptitious glance into the small mirror she’d placed on the piano, positioned to give her a view of the milling crowd.
No one was paying attention to her or her playing. As expected, the guests had been too busy inspecting the house and the artist renderings Ashley had placed on easels in the various rooms, showing how the space could be set up for a wedding or reception or presentation or cocktail party.
All except the fortysomething woman who’d claimed a seat at the entrance to the roped-off drawing room thirty minutes ago and had remained there for the duration, her attention riveted on the piano, the music—and perhaps the pianist.
Rose’s fingers glided over the familiar keys while her mind spun out possibilities.
Could she be a reporter who’d somehow heard about the entertainment and the identity of the pianist, then finagled an invitation? Someone who was hoping to do a follow-up on the scandal? Who wanted to dredge up all the ugliness and shine a spotlight on the woman who’d withdrawn from the world to an isolated seaside estate?
That was possible. Because if she was here to check the place out as a potential event venue, she wouldn’t have glued herself to a chair by the door.
Fortunately, the rope had kept her at bay. And once the musical portion of the event was finished, it would be easy to slip out the discreet door at the back of the room and escape through the kitchen.
Behind her, Ashley began rounding up the crowd in the foyer and shepherding them out the front door, toward the gazebo.
Her audience of one angled toward the activity. After a brief hesitation, she rose.
Moments later, Ashley joined the woman, motioned toward the door, and waited until she disappeared into the crowd before sending a thumbs-up in the direction of the piano.
Rose acknowledged the signal with a nod and kept playing.
Bless that girl for watching out for her.
Less than three minutes later she finished her final piece with a flourish, and once the last note died away, silence greeted her. The hum of conversation in the house had ceased. Everyone was gone. Quiet and privacy had been restored.
A smile playing at her lips, she closed the cover on the keyboard.
Her gig had gone well.
It hadn’t been like the old days, on a concert stage, with everyone paying rapt attention to her performance. But the pressure had also been less. She’d been able to play with all the emotion in her heart, no worries about mistakes or critics or disappointing an audience that was tuned in to every note.
Lips still bowed, she swung around on the bench and rose. A late lunch would hit the spot. Eating prior to a performance, even one like this, had never been part of her routine, and old habits died hard.
She picked up the small mirror and strolled toward the side door.
Ashley would save her a few goodies from the catering fare, but until then, half a turkey sandwich would fill the—
“Excuse me.”
At the summons, she froze. Slowly rotated back.
The blond woman who’d been watching her was in the foyer, on the other side of the velvet rope, a notebook clutched against her chest.
Rose’s mouth flat-lined.
The interloper must have hung back and tucked herself into a corner to avoid detection, planning to swoop in once the house was deserted.
“I believe the gathering has moved outside.” Rose backed toward the door as she spoke, her words stiff.
“I know, and I’m sorry to disturb you. But I wanted to . . . I had to tell you how much I enjoyed your music, and there wasn’t an opportunity while the crowd was in here. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt your playing. It was impeccable—and moving.”
Either the woman was an excellent actress, or the catch in her voice was genuine and her compliment sincere.
Rose slowed. “Thank you.”
“I used to play too. Never like you, but music always gave me comfort.”
Rose stopped.
That sounded familiar. As did the woman’s poignant tone.
Yet earnest as she appeared to be, her praise and emotional reaction could be a ruse. A savvy journalist could wheedle her way into almost any situation. Like the reporter who’d pretended to be a neighbor and come knocking at the door after she and Mark moved to a smaller town in the wake of the scandal. She’d even had the gall to snap a few photos with her cell phone once Rose got suspicious and began to slam the door in her face.
Was this woman in that camp?