On Fire

Flaming jerk, she amended, mentally putting another quarter in the jar.

He was rich, he was handsome and he was convinced her grandfather should be in jail for negligent homicide. “Emile’s criminally responsible for my father’s death. Admit it.” Sig didn’t want to admit anything. She wanted Matt to work through his anger and grief and accept that they just didn’t know what had happened aboard the Encounter. No one did. The boat was at the bottom of the North Atlantic. The official investigation was inconclusive.

No, she thought, don’t go there. Thinking about the Encounter and her father-in-law’s tragic death—the tragic deaths of the four crew members—spun her around in circles. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing Matt could do, only he couldn’t accept that, at least not yet and maybe not ever.

She just wanted to bury herself in a heap of quilts and stay out here all night, pretend she was ten again, sleeping out at Emile’s with her sister. She’d felt so safe at ten. Whatever her family’s oddities, she’d never felt anything but safe with them. Now here she was, thirty-four, pregnant, estranged from her rich husband, a failure as an artist and about to be a failure as a mother.

Sig glanced over at her worktable, where another of her abandoned paintings was still taped to her large board. The porch didn’t go with the rest of the house. It had been added in one of the various renovations over the past century or so, and her mother wanted to get rid of it. She wanted a dooryard garden. Well, it made a lousy studio. The light was bad, and there was no heat. Sig knew she couldn’t work out here much longer. It was time. She had to figure out her life.

What would she do with twins?

They’d be Granger twins. She shuddered. It wasn’t as bad as bearing the Prince of Wales, but it was damned close. Maybe she just wouldn’t tell Matt about his babies. Spare him the torture of explaining to the rest of Beacon Hill that not only had he married Emile Labreque’s granddaughter, he was now providing the murderous madman with great-grandchildren.

The door from the kitchen opened, and Riley said in an unusually small voice, “Sig? Mom thought she heard you.”

“I’m here wallowing in self-pity. Come on out. Mom send tea?”

“And raisin toast.”

“Good. I’m starving.” Eating for three. She eyed her younger sister, who looked so damned tiny and smart—and something else. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

“It’s a long story. I’m okay.”

Riley set a tray on an old gateleg table their mother had found at a yard sale and painted creamy white. Sig had messed it up with watercolor spills. Splatters of cobalt and lemon, dots of purple, one big splash of crimson. She loved spills.

“You don’t look okay,” Sig said.

Riley ignored her comment and sat on the other end of the studio bed. Sig was tall and leggy, like the St. Joes. When they were kids, Emile had called his granddaughters Big Dog and Little Dog until Mara told him to stop it, he’d give them a complex. Emile didn’t understand things like complexes.

Sig blinked back sudden tears. She hadn’t seen her grandfather in a year. Not since the Encounter. “You’ve been to see Emile, haven’t you?”

Riley poured tea and placed a triangle of toast on the side of each saucer. Mara had gotten out the good china. Definitely something was up. Sig shifted uncomfortably, her voluminous dress drawing across her swelling abdomen. She realized her mistake, but too late.

Riley gasped, nearly dropping the teapot. “Sig—you’re pregnant!”

Sig managed a wry smile. “The trained scientist speaks.”

“When—how—” Riley blushed furiously, bringing much needed color to her cheeks; for a woman consumed with the doings of sea beasts of all kinds, Sig was amazed at how downright prudish her sister could be. “I mean, how far along are you?”

“A little over four months. I can feel them move.”

“Them?”

“I found out on Friday I’m having twins. I’ve been trying to absorb it ever since.” Saying it out loud didn’t make her feel any more in control of her situation. “I haven’t told a soul.”

“Mom—”

“She doesn’t even know I’m pregnant, never mind having twins. Neither does Matt. I haven’t seen him in…well, ages.”

Riley handed her tea and toast. “Looks as if you saw him within the last five months or so. He’s on Mount Desert Island. I ran into him. He made a brief appearance at one of Caroline’s dinners. He managed not to mention his vendetta against Emile.” Riley picked up her tea again. “He was staying on his boat. I would think he’s still there.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s so eaten up with anger and grief over what happened to his father….” Sig waved a hand, dismissing Matthew, all the upheavals of the past year. “I just don’t care anymore.”

The color had drained back out of Riley’s face. Sig silently chastised herself. There was no point in bringing up past horrors when obviously some new one had her sister in its grip. Bennett Granger was dead. He was one of the finest men Sig had ever known, and he and Emile had been friends and partners for fifty years. That his death had led to more tragedy and pain only compounded her sorrow.

“Where’s Mom?” she asked.

“She’s slipped off to the market. She insisted I stay for dinner. She’s cooking lobster.” But Riley didn’t seize the opportunity to proceed with her own problems. “She knows, Sig. You know she does. She’s just waiting for you to say something. You can talk to her—”

“She never wanted me to marry a Granger.”

“That’s because she was afraid you’d end up living in his shadow and indulging his whims. When she realized Matt’s a regular guy, she came around.”

“He’s not a regular guy. He’s a goddamned blueblood with too much money and not enough common sense.”

“You sound as if you hate him.”

“I wish I did. My life would be so much easier.” Sig quickly sipped her tea and bit into the raisin toast; her mother had slathered on the butter. “I said ‘goddamn,’ didn’t I? That’s another quarter for the mason jar.”

“You’ve quit swearing again?”

“I was doing pretty well until I found out I’m having twins.” She inhaled, unable to concentrate on anyone’s problems but her own. “I want these babies, Riley. I want to be a good mother.”

“You will be. You just won’t be conventional. You haven’t started smoking again, have you?”

“Not a chance. And how’re your vices?”

Her sister grinned, and some of the usual spark came back into her dark eyes. “I have no vices.”

“Ha. You’re like Emile and Dad. The seven seas are your vice.”

“My passion,” Riley amended.

“Same difference. Now, are you going to tell me why you look like absolute shit?” When Riley didn’t answer, Sig winced. “I’ve really fallen off the wagon this time. I’ve been swearing like a sailor.”

But Riley had shut her eyes, and she squeezed back tears.

“Riley…”

“I found a dead body and almost threw up on John Straker.”

“Holy shit,” Sig said. “No wonder Mom’s making you lobster.”

Three

S traker didn’t settle quickly back into his routines. He heated his stew and took a steaming bowl of it onto his porch. It was early for lunch, but he didn’t care. The police had packed up late yesterday and left, at least for now. The island was quiet again, the waves, wind, gulls and familiar putter of lobster boats the only sounds. The return to solitude didn’t have the impact he’d expected. A few days ago, the quiet had soothed his soul. Now, twenty-four hours after Riley St. Joe and a dead body had violated his tranquility, it was getting on his nerves.

He spotted Lou Dorrman’s boat making its way across the bay toward the island and went down to the rickety dock. The sheriff tied up, jumped out and greeted him with a curt nod. It was as if Straker’s old life had reached into his new life to remind him there was no escape. “What’s up, Sheriff?”