Secrets of the Lost Summer

“You beat up that Montreal defenseman—”

“It was a clean check. He should have gotten an Oscar for that fall.”

“What about the ten stitches?”

Dylan hung up. He didn’t care what was on the internet about him. He wondered if Olivia Frost had looked him up by now, or had even thought to, considering the condition of the property he owned in Knights Bridge.

He glanced at her Facebook picture again. It was more of a close-up than the one at the awards ceremony. Her eyes weren’t green, he decided. They were hazel, a fetching mix of green and blue flecked with gold.

He shut off his laptop and called his assistant to book a morning flight east to Boston.

Three

Olivia raked the last of the fallen leaves from the raised herb bed by her back door. The overcast sky and chilly temperature didn’t bother her. The snow had melted out of her backyard, if not in the woods, and signs of spring were everywhere. She loved finding shoots of green under their cover of sodden leaves. The physical work gave her a burst of energy. She was ready to head up the road to Grace Webster’s old house and start hauling junk. Naturally its owner, Dylan McCaffrey, hadn’t responded to her note.

What had she expected? After two years of ignoring his property in Knights Bridge, why would he care?

Elly O’Dunn, who’d provided McCaffrey’s name and address, remembered meeting him when he’d stopped at the town offices. She told Maggie, who’d then told Olivia, that he was a good-looking man in his seventies, with thick white hair and intense blue eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him, and she couldn’t fathom why he’d wanted to buy Grace Webster’s house.

Olivia couldn’t, either. She took her rake with her to the front yard, just as her father pulled up in his truck. She’d almost forgotten she’d invited her parents to lunch. As he stepped onto the dirt driveway, she noticed he was alone. Randy Frost was a big, burly man who had transformed his father’s struggling sawmill into a profitable enterprise, all while serving on the Knights Bridge volunteer fire department since his teens.

“Place is shaping up,” he said, walking around to the front of his truck. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and his fleece jacket was open over a dark blue sweater.

Olivia held onto her rake. “It is, isn’t it?”

He glanced past her at the woods beyond the strip of yard on the garage side of the house. The area had been farmland before World War II, but hardwoods and evergreens had reclaimed much of the land, old stone walls that had marked fields now lacing a forest that stretched to the shores of the reservoir. Any open land was behind her house and up the road toward Grace’s—Dylan McCaffrey’s—house.

“Snow’s almost gone,” her father said, then sighed, turning back to his elder daughter. “This place is in the middle of nowhere, Liv, even by Knights Bridge standards. Do you really think people will come out here?”

“I do, Dad. No question in my mind.”

“Maybe your sister can be your guinea pig.”

Olivia almost dropped her rake. “She and Mark have set a wedding date?”

“No. She’s waiting for him to come up with a ring. She’s a romantic, but Mark…” Randy Frost ran a callused palm over his salt-and-pepper hair. “None of my business.”

Olivia had graduated high school with Mark. She remembered him sleeping in the back of algebra class, but he’d gone on to become an architect. After ten years going to school and working in Boston and New York, he moved back to Knights Bridge a year ago and had no interest in living anywhere else ever again.

“If Jess had wanted a Byron-esque soul,” Olivia said, “she and Mark Flanagan wouldn’t be together. He’s a great guy, though.”

“Yeah. I guess. What have you been raking?”

“The herb beds. The lavender survived the winter. It’s in a warm spot by the back door. I’ve decided to host a mother-daughter tea as a way to kick things off and get out the word that The Farm at Carriage Hill is up and running.”

“Your mother told me. She says she and Jess are coming. You’re not asking for money?”

“Right. It’ll be like an open house.”

“Makes sense. Then your guests can go home and decide to book their own event.”

“I’ll have meals catered and focus on smaller events at first—teas, bridal and baby showers, meetings.”

Her father studied her a moment. “You sound excited. That’s good.”

“I’ve been dreaming about transforming this place ever since I learned it was up for sale. It’s happening faster than I expected, but so far, so good.”

“I don’t have to tell you it’ll be a lot of hard work. What kind of food are you offering?”

“I thought I’d base the menu on herbs.”

“Herbal hors d’oeuvres, herbal bread, herbal soup, herbal dessert? Like that?”

Olivia grinned. “Yeah. Like that. People can wander in the gardens and woods, and I’ll offer books and lectures on various aspects of herbs—cooking, drying, using them in potpourris and fragrances.” She grabbed her rake and flipped it on end, pulling off wet leaves stuck on the metal tines. “I have lots of ideas. Right now I’m concentrating on cleaning out the gardens. You’re staying for lunch, right? I thought Mom was coming, too.”

“She’s home planning her trip to California. She wants to do the coastal highway.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“She’ll never go, but don’t tell her I said that.” He seemed to give himself a mental shake and nodded toward the house. “How’s Buster?”

“Staying. He refused to be persuaded not to dig up the lavender.” Olivia was relieved at the change in subject. Buster, a large mix of German shepherd and who-knew-what-else, had shown up at her house unaccompanied by owner, collar or leash, and for the past ten days had gone unclaimed. “I was thinking in terms of getting a friendlier dog. A golden retriever or a chocolate Lab, maybe. Buster looks like he could chew someone’s leg off.”

“Good. Keep Buster. I’ll feel better about you living out here alone.”

She felt her father scrutinizing her again as she set the rake against the garage. “I should have worn gloves. My hands are cold, and they’ve taken a beating since I moved out of the city.”

“It’s only been a couple weeks. You got enough money in the bank, Liv? You’re not betting everything on this place, are you?”

“I have time to make it work before I go broke.”

“A business plan?”

Sort of. She didn’t like discussing her finances with anyone, including her well-intentioned father. She smiled at him as she headed for the kitchen door. “Blood, sweat, laughter and tears. How’s that for a business plan?”

“Liv—”

“I’m still freelancing. Jacqui Ackerman gives me as much work as I can handle.” Olivia pulled open the door. “Come on in. Lunch is ready.”

“Where’s Buster?”

“Cooling his heels in the mudroom. You’re safe.”

Not, clearly, that her father was worried. Olivia led him into the kitchen. She had set the table for three and felt a pang of disappointment and frustration that her mother had bailed on lunch. She probably was home planning her trip, but if she couldn’t get herself out here for a visit, how was she going to get herself to California? After two weeks back in Knights Bridge, Olivia still hadn’t seen a sign of her mother on her doorstep. So far, any contact was at the mill, her parents’ house or her mother’s usual haunts in the village.

Olivia watched as her father quietly stacked up the extra place setting and set it on the butcher-block island. Randy and Louise Frost had known each other since kindergarten and had been married for thirty-two years. Olivia was confident that whatever was going on between them—if anything—would sort itself out. After her experience with Marilyn Bryson, Olivia was resisting the temptation to help anyone, much less her parents. She was essentially working two jobs as it was with her freelancing and her efforts to turn her house into The Farm at Carriage Hill.

“What’s that, Liv?” her father asked, pointing at the pot of soup simmering on the gas stove.