More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way

And she could hear laughter coming from the back of the house, toward the guest cottage.

Women’s laughter. Unrestrained, spirited laughter.

It was so infectious, Jess couldn’t help but smile as she made her way up a stone walk to the side entrance, where an enormous stone urn of four or five different colors of petunias greeted her. There was also—of course—a Welcome sign featuring a raspberry vine.

She thought of O’Malley’s rat hole apartment. How had he picked this charming, cheerful place?

She sighed. “Because he got shot in the head yesterday.”

A forty-something woman in hiking shorts, a tank top and sports sandals came from behind the house. She had short, curly brown hair streaked with gray and a smile that matched the buoyant mood of the B and B. “May I help you?”

“I’m Jessica Stewart—”

“I thought so. Welcome! I’m Marianne Wells. Please, come inside. Make yourself comfortable. I can help you with your bags—I just need to say goodbye to some friends.”

“Don’t let me interrupt. I’m in no hurry.”

“Oh, we were just finishing up. We meet every week.”

As Marianne turned back to rejoin her friends, Jess noticed a faint three-inch scar near her hostess’s right eye. A weekly get-together with women friends—it wasn’t something Jess took the time to do. Given her busy schedule, her friendships were more catch-as-catch-can.

The side door led into a cozy sitting area decorated cottage-style, with an early-twentieth-century glass-and-oak curio filled with squat jars of raspberry jam, raspberry-peach jam and raspberry-rhubarb jam, all with handmade labels. There was raspberry honey in a tall, slender jar, and a collection of quirky raspberry sugar pots and creamers.

“I’ve told all my friends no more raspberry anything,” Marianne Wells said as she came into the small room. “You should see what I have in storage. It can get overwhelming.”

“I have an aunt who made the mistake of letting people know she collects frogs. Now she’s got frog-everything. Frog towels, frog soaps, frog statues, frog magnets. Frogs for every room. She even has a frog clock.”

Marianne laughed, the scar fading as her eyes crinkled in good humor. “I know what you mean. It’s fun to collect something, though. You must want to see your room. Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

As she started down the hall, following her hostess, Jess noticed a bulletin board above a rolltop desk with a small, prominent sign on it:

The Courage to Click. Shelternet.ca.

Shelternet can help you find a link to a shelter or a helpline in your area.

From her experience both as a police officer and a prosecutor, Jess immediately recognized Shelternet as a resource for victims of abuse, one that Marianne Wells obviously wanted people coming through her B and B to know about.

Instinctively Jess thought of the scar above Marianne’s eye and guessed she must have been a victim of domestic abuse at one time, then reminded herself that she didn’t know—and shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

But Marianne paused on the stairs and glanced back at Jess. “Clicking on Shelternet helped save my life.”

“I’m a prosecutor in Boston. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just couldn’t help noticing—”

“I’m not uncomfortable. If that sign prompts just one person to take action—well, that’s why it’s there. If a woman in an abusive relationship walks into this inn, I know that she’ll walk out of here with that Web site address in her head. Shelternet. ca.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she seemed to mean for it to. “I don’t mind that you noticed it. Not at all. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve been through. I used to be, but not anymore.”

Jess smiled back at her. “I hope you’ll tell me more about Shelternet while I’m here.”

“Gladly.”

They continued up the white-painted stairs to a large, airy room overlooking the water. The decor was Victorian cottage, with lots of white and vibrant accents, nothing stuffy or uptight. There was a private bathroom—with raspberry-colored towels—and upscale scented toiletries that surely would be a waste on O’Malley.

Marianne pointed out the television, how to work the windows, where to find extra linens. “My friend Pat comes in to clean every morning. Her grandmother lived in this house before I bought it. I’ve made a lot of changes, but Pat approves. You’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jess said.

“There’s one other guest room on this floor and a room on the third floor in what was once the attic. A long-term guest is staying there. Brendan O’Malley will be staying on this floor. He’s not here yet. I thought you two might have made arrangements to arrive together.”

Jess felt a twinge of guilt. When she’d called back to make a reservation, Marianne had recognized her voice from her previous call about O’Malley. “Uh, no.”

Marianne frowned. “But you are friends, right?”

“Yes. Yes, definitely.” Which, Jess thought, didn’t mean he’d jump up and down with joy to see her. But as a survivor of abuse, Marianne Wells would be sensitive to such matters—and properly so. “We’ve known each other since I was a police recruit.”

“You’re a former police officer?”

Jess nodded. “And O’Malley—Brendan is a detective.”

Her hostess seemed satisfied. “Is there anything I can get you right now?”

“No, nothing. The room’s lovely. Thank you.”

“We serve afternoon tea at three, on the back porch if the weather’s good, and a full breakfast in the dining room starting at seven. If there’s anything special you’d like to request, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Jess debated warning Marianne that Brendan O’Malley wasn’t expecting to find her here, but decided there was no point in complicating the woman’s life just yet—or stirring up any old fears. O’Malley would behave. It wasn’t as if he’d be really irritated that Jess had followed him.

On the other hand, he’d had a rotten week. Everything might irritate him.

After Marianne left her to her own devices, Jess unpacked, opened the windows and took a bath to the sound of the ocean, listening for O’Malley’s arrival.

O’Malley waited in the hall while Marianne Wells pushed open the door to his second-floor room. The place was nice, a little quaint, probably, for his tastes, but maybe the bright colors would improve his mood. At least Marianne—she’d already told him to call her by her first name—was dressed for climbing on the rocky coastline. And the other guest, the one in the attic, was a guy.

The scar on Marianne’s face looked like it was from a knife wound, but Brendan figured he was in a frame of mind to come to the worst conclusion. She could have slid off a sled as a kid and cut her face on ice.

He noticed the pink towels in the bathroom.

Pink. It was a grayed pink, but it was still pink.

He wondered if the guy in the attic got white towels.

“Your friend from Boston is in the room across the hall.”

His experience as a detective kept him from choking on his tongue. “Jess?”

“That’s right. You seem surprised.”

And she didn’t like his surprise. He could see it in her body language. She straightened, narrowing her eyes on him, and moved to the doorway, ready for flight.

O’Malley relaxed his manner, not wanting to get his hostess mixed up in whatever he and Jess had going on. “I’m just surprised she beat me here. I thought I had the head start.”