The Stroke of Winter(51)

Tess took a quick breath in. “My dad?” she squeaked out.

“No,” Kathy said. “Not your dad. His brother. Grey.”

“What?” Tess said, looking at Wyatt and shaking her head. “I had no idea.”

“There’s no way you could have known,” Kathy said. “This is ancient history. Way, way before your time. Daisy and Grey were high school sweethearts. She wound up marrying Frank—a huge mistake—and broke Grey’s heart. But I know for certain they never stopped loving each other. I was right there. I was her best friend.”

Tess’s thoughts were racing. “But, if she loved Grey, why did she marry Frank?”

Another sigh from Kathy. “You might know,” she said. “It feels like I’m opening the barn door and letting all of the horses out, but . . . this was a long time ago.”

“Pregnancy?” Tess asked, wincing.

“Yep,” Kathy said. “You got it. She and Grey had broken up, and Frank swooped in. Nobody could understand it. I couldn’t understand it. He was a high school jock. Football star. Popular and handsome, but we all knew he was an egomaniac and sort of a jerk. As it turns out, worse than that. I think Daisy was just going with him to make Grey jealous. But by the time Daisy realized what a bastard Frank really was, and how much she still loved Grey, she was trapped.”

Something was scratching at the back of Tess’s mind. “Grey went missing, too,” Tess said, drawing out the words, reaching to try to remember the circumstances. “I think it happened around—”

“The Fourth of July,” Kathy finished the sentence. “They disappeared at the same time. I hope I’m not talking out of school, here.”

“Mom, do you think they went away together?” Wyatt jumped in.

“I really don’t know, honey,” she said. “This is terrible to say, but I’ve had two thoughts about it all of these years. Like I said before, part of me thinks Frank killed her and Grey left town out of grief. But part of me has held on to the hope that maybe they left together. Maybe they’ve been living happily ever after somewhere, in some little town halfway across the country. Or halfway across the world.”

Tess and Wyatt held each other’s eyes for a moment. “Mom, thanks for all of the info,” Wyatt said. “You’ve been really helpful.”

“Okay,” Kathy said. “I should go and start dinner for your father. And by start dinner, of course I mean make reservations.”

Wyatt chuckled. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Wyatt clicked off his phone. And that was that.

The knot in Tess’s stomach told her that Daisy and Grey did not have the kind of happy ending Wyatt’s mother hoped they did.

Her mind was racing, and everything—all the weirdness of the past few days—was coalescing into a dark miasma of ugliness.

Her grandmother Serena shutting up the studio abruptly, never really explaining why. The strange paintings that seemed to Tess to be a sort of unhinged confession. Of stalking. Of looking in people’s windows. Daisy’s windows. Daisy and Grey disappearing at the same time.

What did it mean? Why had Sebastian painted that sad portrait of his son’s love?

Tess thought about her disturbing dreams. The scratching, only at night. The red slash across the wall in the studio that hadn’t been there before.

It seemed to point to only one thing. La Belle Vie was haunted by the ghosts of the past. And Tess had the sinking feeling she was starting to discover just who those ghosts were.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



They drove in silence for a bit. Tess noticed the sky melting into the purple and pink hues of Wharton’s spectacular twilight. The lake shimmered in the distance as the sun itself seemed to soften.

As magical as it was outside, Tess knew it would be but a fleeting moment until darkness fell. And she was growing more and more anxious at the thought of the strange happenings inside her own house.

As Wyatt rounded the corner into Wharton, she turned to him.

“I suppose you have to get back to the dogs . . . ?” she said, a hopeful lilt in her voice.

“It’s getting to be about that time, isn’t it?” Wyatt said. “I’m sure they’re circling their dishes wondering where I am.”

Tess managed a smile. Wyatt narrowed his eyes at her and smiled.

“Why don’t you come with me? They can enjoy their supper while you and I enjoy a drink, and then I can walk you home with them. I live just a few blocks from you—you probably didn’t know that.”

“Oh, what a relief,” Tess said, exhaling. “Not about you living close by, though that’s nice, too. I really wasn’t excited about facing the house alone right now. Not after what we learned today.”

“I figured as much,” Wyatt said, pulling into his driveway. “I don’t blame you.”

As Tess got out of the car, she saw that Wyatt’s house was typical of the grand homes in Wharton: a Queen Anne Victorian with a curved turret, dramatically angled rooflines, and a wraparound porch. The exterior was painted a smoky green, accented with a red-tiled roof and multicolored stained-glass windows. She knew this home well.

“I’ve always loved this house!” Tess said, smiling up at it. “My dad calls it the mayor’s house. That’s because it literally was, right? Joe lived here?”