Secrets of the Lost Summer

“Parsnip, turnip and apple soup.”

“Ah.”

“It’s seasoned with a dash of nutmeg. I have chopped fresh parsley and grated Parmesan cheese for garnish. It sounds festive, don’t you think?”

He picked up a wooden spoon and dipped it into the pot. “Sure, Liv. I’m game.”

“I’m experimenting with different recipes.”

He tasted the soup and set the spoon down. “Let’s see what it tastes like with the parsley and Parmesan.”

Olivia laughed. “That bad, is it?”

The parsley and Parmesan helped, but not enough. The soup was a little…earthy. Her father helped himself to two hunks of warm oatmeal bread, although he passed on the rosemary jam. “It’s got cranberries in it,” Olivia said. “I made it myself.”

“All right. I’ll try a little. For you, Liv.”

She grinned at him. “Thanks, Dad. You’re my test case.”

“Guinea pig, you mean.” He tried the jam and nodded. “Not bad. If you call it rosemary-cranberry jam, it won’t sound like something out of a feedbag.”

“Good point. I’ll do that.”

He made no protest about dessert, old-fashioned molasses cookies made from his mother’s—Olivia’s grandmother’s—recipe. He took a cookie with him as he stood up from the table. “Let’s have a look at your backyard now that the snow’s melted,” he said.

He’d been through the house last fall, after she’d said she was seriously considering buying it, but not since she’d moved in. He’d inspected the center chimney, the wiring, the furnace, the hot-water heater, any signs of potential water damage. The previous owners had done most of the infrastructure repair and renovation, allowing Olivia to focus on cosmetic changes and any adjustments to comply with local and state regulations in order to open up her house to the public. But the previous owners had thought of most of that, too, since they’d planned on starting their own bed-and-breakfast.

Buster barely stirred when they went out through the mudroom. Olivia left him inside. Her father wasn’t one for gardens and yard work, but he nodded with approval at what she’d managed to accomplish in just two weeks. “It’s a great spot, Liv,” he said. “No trouble with wild animals wandering over here from Quabbin?”

“Not yet.”

He pointed at the old stone wall that ran along the side of her property. “Beyond those woods are eighty thousand acres of wilderness. You’re closest neighbor in that direction is miles and miles from here.”

“I know, Dad. And my closest neighbor in the other direction is an old man from San Diego who hasn’t done a thing to his property in two years.”

Olivia didn’t mention that she’d written to her absentee neighbor. When she and her father returned to the kitchen, Buster had knocked down the mudroom gate and was in the living room, asleep on the hearth in front of the low fire she had going.

“My kind of dog,” Randy Frost said with a grin as he left.

He was on the road with cookies and soup for her mother when she called. “Is your dad still there? There’s freezing rain in the forecast. It’s supposed to be bad.”

“He just left.” Olivia sat on the couch in front of the fire. “He’ll be back before it starts.”

“Right. Good.” Her mother took an audible breath, obviously trying to control her anxiety. “How was lunch? Sorry to miss it, but some things came up here. I suggested we come tomorrow, but your dad—well, it doesn’t matter. Did you have a good time?”

Her mother had been worried about the weather forecast, Olivia realized now. “Lunch was great. Dad didn’t like my parsnip soup.”

“But you got him to try it?” Her mother laughed. “That’s an achievement right there. He doesn’t always like to try new things.” There was no hint of criticism in her tone. “I’ll get out there, Liv. Soon. I want to help you with the place. Jess says you’re raking and painting everything in sight. I can handle a rake and wield a paintbrush.”

“That’d be great, Mom. I know you’re busy planning your trip—”

“California,” she interrupted, almost as if she were gulping. “I’m going. No matter what.”

She made the trip—one she wanted to take—sound like an impending biopsy, but Olivia felt her own throat tighten at the prospect of her parents flying across the country. “I’ve seen pictures of California’s Pacific Coast Highway. It looks beautiful.”

“Yes. Right. I’ll call you later, Liv. Be careful out there alone in this freezing rain.”

“I will, Mom. I’m not that far from town, and I have Buster here with me.”

“You’ve had the vet look at him? He could have worms—”

“Yes, and he got a clean bill of health.”

“Your dad should be walking in the door any minute. Oh—I just looked out the window. I can see the ice forming on my car. Freezing rain is the worst.”

“Do you want me to stay on with you until Dad gets there?”

“No, no. He’ll be here any minute.”

Her mother was close to hyperventilating as she hung up. Olivia took a breath, suddenly feeling anxious and unsettled herself. She jumped up from the couch and went into the kitchen. The freezing rain had ended her raking for the day. She’d clean up the lunch dishes and work on a design project.

She stood at the sink and noticed the raindrops on the window, the glistening film of clear ice on the grass, the gray mist swirling in the woods.

The house was so quiet.

“Buster,” she said. “Buster, where are you?”

She checked the living room, but he was no longer asleep by the fire. She checked the cellar door, in case she’d left it open and he’d gone down there, but it was shut tight.

She called him again, but received only silence in return as she headed back to the kitchen.

She felt a cold draft and went into the mudroom.

The door was ajar.

She grimaced. “Damn.”

Buster was gone, and she was going to have to go out into the freezing rain to find him.

Less than an hour after arriving in little Knights Bridge, Dylan found himself up to his calves in a patch of snow and mud next to a rusted, cast-off refrigerator and face-to-face with one seriously mean-looking dog.

The dog had bounded out of the trees as if he’d been lying in wait, planning his attack on the unsuspecting new arrival to his quiet country road. His wild barking had subsided to intermittent growls.

“Easy, pal,” Dylan said. “Easy.”

Olivia Frost had to be the dog’s owner. Hers was the closest house; in fact, from what Dylan had seen, it was the only other house in the immediate vicinity. Freezing rain was coating everything in a film of clear ice. Prickly vines, pine needles, bare tree branches, exposed grass, last year’s dropped leaves. The old fridge. The mean dog. Dylan.

“You should go home.” Dylan pointed in the direction of The Farm at Carriage Hill. “Go. Go home.”