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CHAPTER ELEVEN

“A nyway.” Brooklynn cringed at her too-perky tone, trying to brush off her father’s words as if they were irrelevant. As if the hurt they’d caused was a thing of the past.

Which wasn’t even close to the truth. Twenty years later, she was still trying to prove she was more than just a nuisance to society.

She tapped the next person in the photo. “This is Arthur’s wife, Lois. She’s a good friend of Mom’s, and after Arthur died, she took over as my mentor. She’s not a photographer herself, but she used to run Arthur’s gallery, and she’s given me a lot of business advice.”

Ford leaned in. “She was younger.”

“Almost twenty years. Lois was his second wife.” Brooklynn pointed to the chubby, curly-haired man beside Lois.

“That’s Hollister Briggs. He’s an accountant.

” Even though she and Hollister had been in the Chamber together for more than a year, he’d hardly said more than hello to her.

She got the sense he wasn’t quiet so much as just… listening. Watching everything.

“And this”—she moved on to the next person—“is Maury Stratton. She’s a Realtor.

” Brooklynn looked up at Ford and rolled her eyes.

“Not just a real estate agent, but a Realtor . Apparently, there’s a difference.

One piece of advice—don’t ask her the difference because she will explain in excruciating detail. ”

Though he didn’t smile, there was a tiny quirk at the corner of his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Maury used to be married to Lois’s brother.

He moved away years ago, but those two are close.

She runs the Shadow Cove Historical Society.

She’d be a good resource for you. She has her hands in everything.

” Brooklynn pointed to the next person, a stocky man in his thirties at the time the photo was taken.

“That’s Leo Taggart. He’s the police chief now. ”

“Taggart? As in your stalker?”

“Lenny’s not a stalker, just…persistent.”

“Brooklynn.” The way Ford said her name had her looking up. His brows were lowered, his lips pursed. “Someone who’s so persistent they follow you even after you tell them to go away? We call that person a stalker.”

Right. Well…

She knew that. She knew Lenny had pushed it too far. She wasn’t sure why she still balked at the term.

“Speaking of,” Ford said, “your friendly neighborhood cop was staking out the house when I left this morning.” He explained how Lenny had pulled him over and illegally searched under the tarp on the bed of Ford’s truck. “I got a video of the whole thing.”

Despite the guilt his words brought, Brooklynn didn’t share that she’d also searched his truck—and the garage, and the Cadillac.

“He was looking for you, obviously,” Ford said.

Her guilt dissipated, and fear crept in. She shouldn’t be afraid of Lenny. He’d never hurt her, but he’d been so hard to get rid of the first time. The thought that she might have to go through it again…

“He knew you might be hiding from him ,” Ford said, “which tells me everything I need to know about this guy. You need to stop making excuses for him and come to terms with the kind of person you’re dealing with.”

Obviously, Ford felt passionate about this. And very irritated, considering all the sentences he’d strung together.

“You’re right. I used to have feelings for him, so it’s hard.”

“I threatened to report him to the police and send the video, but if the chief is his dad?—”

“Leo would take it seriously,” she said. “I think, anyway. Lenny left me alone when I threatened to report him. He respects his father.”

“Maybe. But that didn’t keep him from sitting outside my house or pulling me over.”

“He’s worried about me, that’s all. He says he still cares about me.” She was embarrassed to say what Lenny claimed.

That he loved her. That they were meant to be together. That they were soulmates.

It was laughable, considering how he’d manipulated and belittled her when she dated him. She’d had to threaten to get a court order to get rid of him. And now that she was in danger, he could claim he had no choice but to hunt her down.

To protect her.

To possess her, more like.

“I’m sorry he gave you a hard time.” Brooklynn worked to keep fear out of her voice.

If Ford’s skeptical expression could be believed, he didn’t buy the way she played down the problem.

“That’s why I went out this morning, to see if he’d stop me, and to warn him off if he did.

If you want to go somewhere, as long as you stay hidden in my truck so he doesn’t see you—assuming he’s still staking out the driveway—he won’t dare pull me over again. You should be safe.”

A wave of affection for her grouchy host rolled over her. And then she realized what it really meant. That he wanted her to leave. That she was too much of a nuisance. “I can find a place to go. Alyssa said?—”

“I don’t want you to leave.” He sounded annoyed. “I mean, I don’t care if you stay. I just want you to have the choice.”

“Oh. Okay. That was really clever, and thoughtful of?—”

“But no more snooping.” He looked around the office, then shook his head. “That’s the deal.”

Brooklynn could’ve denied she’d been snooping, but it would be a lie. And she could’ve assured him she wouldn’t do it again.

But that would probably also be a lie. She was too intrigued by the mysterious mansion.

“Tell me about Lenny’s father,” Ford said, as if the matter were closed.

“He seemed nice enough when Lenny and I dated. I think he’s a decent guy. And he’s a good cop.”

“Did his father own a business?”

She looked at the photo again. “If he does now, I’m not aware of it, but maybe he did back then. Or maybe he was invited to speak to the group on behalf of the police department. We have speakers sometimes.”

She continued to the rest of the people in the picture, but she either didn’t know them or they’d moved or passed away. When she finished, she sat back. “I can go through the rest of the album and see if there’s anyone else I recognize. I mean, it’s not like I have anything else to do.”

“Actually, you do.” Ford stood and lifted the box he’d carried into the office with him. “I got a computer for you.”

“Are you serious?”

Her disbelief had his smirk turning to a frown. “I told you I would.”

He’d said that, but she hadn’t expected him to do it, certainly not within a couple of hours.

She opened the box and spied an Apple laptop. “This is perfect. It’s okay if I get online?”

"Just be careful that you can’t be tracked here.”

“Of course. I’ll call Alyssa and get it connected to a VPN. This will be so helpful. Thank you.”

The tiniest hint of a smile crossed Ford’s face, and he quickly turned away. He was working very hard to hide his real self behind that grumpy demeanor.

He might not be Forbes Ballentine—though he looked an awful lot like the little boy in the photos she’d seen—but he was keeping secret his connection to this family, a connection she’d already guessed from the fact that Marie Ballentine’s car was in the garage.

The question was, why?

And if he learned she’d discovered his lies, would he boot her from his property?

Or worse?

* * *

A few minutes later, Brooklynn was setting up the laptop at a small writing desk in the family room when Ford stepped into the doorway.

“I wanted to ask who the other people were who looked for you or called you at your shop yesterday morning?”

“Let’s see.” Brooklynn thought back to her conversation with Jewel. “Ian Prescott. He’s the mayor.”

“Tell me about him.”

She wasn’t sure what Ford wanted to know. “He’s about my height and always wears a suit, even in the summer.”

By the way Ford crossed his arms, that wasn’t the sort of information he wanted.

Not that she could offer much more. “He’s an attorney. His parents were solidly middle-class, but he’s got a lot of money.”

“From where?”

“His work, I assume. Maury—historian, Realtor—told me he paid full price for a house on the hill.”

“Which hill?”

“You know, that hill overlooking town. I always call it Sam’s hill because my cousin Sam lives up there. The houses up there have great views, and Maury said Ian bought one of those. I get the feeling he has higher political aspirations than to be the mayor of a small town.”

“Why?”

“I guess because he’s already the mayor, but he still acts like he’s campaigning. Lots of handshaking and baby-kissing, you know?”

“What did he want?”

“To ask me about Old Home Days.”

“That project’s keeping you busy.”

“You have no idea.” It was killing her. The committee had nominated her to organize the booths, and she’d been foolishly pleased, as if it meant they trusted her.

Now, she understood it wasn’t that at all.

Nobody wanted to deal with the booths because it meant dealing with every single business owner in town.

“What did he want to know?” Ford asked.

“No idea. I called him back this morning, but he hasn’t returned my call.”

“Is he always so involved?”

She couldn’t figure out where this conversation was going. “This is the first time I’ve ever worked on the event, so?—”

“I’m asking if he’s called you a lot this year?”

“This was the first time.”

Ford nodded. Maybe his frown deepened a little, but it was hard to tell, seeing as how he was always frowning.

He was a handsome man. How much more handsome would he be if he’d ever learn to smile?

“Anyone else?”

“Owen Stratton.”

“Stratton? Isn’t that the real estate agent’s last name?”

“Maury. Yeah.” Ford had a good memory. “Owen’s her grandson. He’s dating my sister, Delaney, and I guess he heard I was in trouble.”

“How did he hear? Your call to the police was anonymous.”

“He’s a volunteer EMT and has friends in the police department, so maybe he heard from one of them. Besides, it’s all over town.”

“Is Owen friends with Lenny?”

Why did Ford keep coming back to Lenny? “They know each other, but if they’re friends, I’m not aware of it.”

“What’s Owen do for work? Aside from the volunteer thing?”

“I think he works on the docks? I’ve seen him down there a few times with Shane.”

“The fisherman or lobsterman.” At her nod, Ford said, “Does everyone know everyone?”

“It’s a small town.”

He acknowledged that with a grunt. “I can make dinner.”

“I plan to, unless you want to cook.”

“I don’t. Help yourself.” He tossed out a “thanks” and then walked away.

He was back in seconds. “No snooping.”

“How about cleaning?”

Lips pressed closed, he glanced down the hallway. “The other wing. Not the family’s rooms.”

“Fair enough.” He started to walk away, but she called him back.

“Ford?” When he filled the doorway again, she asked, “Can we turn on the heat? It’s getting chilly.

” Clouds had moved in, and though she hadn’t stepped outside all day, it was obvious by the cool air seeping through the old windows that the temperature had dropped.

“This house still has electric heaters.” Ford adjusted a thermostat near the door. “Feel free to turn it up in your bedroom too.”

“Thanks.”

He walked away, and this time, he didn’t come back.

The room filled with the scent of dust from the heater but warmed up pretty quickly. She checked her weather app. Rain was coming, and the temperature was supposed to dip even more, down into the fifties.

Thank goodness for heat.

Brooklynn got caught up on paperwork for the gallery, spent an hour trying to organize the booths for Old Home Days, which was much more complex than it sounded.

She should’ve listened to Lois and refused the job.

She hadn’t because she’d thought, seriously?

How hard could it be to manage fewer than a hundred vendors?

In retrospect, the answer was— incredibly hard.

She wanted to get it done so she could focus on more important things like the Arthur Whitmore contest. Arthur had been a top New England photographer, his photographs featured in newspapers and on national magazine covers.

Because he’d been a Shadow Cove local, the contest would take place the weekend of Old Home Days.

All the entries would be displayed in the Whitmore Gallery booth.

Lois oversaw the contest but had professional photographers judging all the categories. Brooklynn wanted to win the landscape category, and one entry would win the grand prize.

That was the prize that came with money—five thousand dollars. It wasn’t a huge amount, but it would make a world of difference to her business.

The winning photograph would be announced at the Whitmore booth at the small-town festival, of course.

But because of how well-known the Whitmore prize had become, the winning photographer would be written up in newspapers all over New England—and in photography journals all over the country.

If Brooklynn won, it wouldn’t just be a boon to her name and her work.

It would mean free publicity for the Light and Shadows website.

As much as she loved the walk-in business that came with seasonal tourists, she needed more sales if she was going to keep the lights on twelve months a year.

And she wanted to prove to her father she could support herself with her work.

To prove she wouldn’t be a drain on her family’s finances for the rest of her life.

She checked the entry requirements carefully, then ordered the photograph to be printed in various sizes at her favorite lab.

It was done. She’d either win or not win, but she was out of time.

If Arthur were still alive, he’d ask if she’d done everything she could. Knowing she had, she could practically hear her old mentor telling her to trust God with the outcome.

Capturing His beautiful world is reward enough. If people want to buy your photos, that’s just icing on the cake.

Translation: Don’t worry. Much easier said than done when you had a mortgage to pay.

If she shared her fears with Lois, she would remind Brooklynn of how talented she was.

If the judges don’t see that, then they’re fools.

Maybe not fools, though. Beauty was subjective. She might get the best shot of her life, but that didn’t guarantee the judges would even like it.

Lord, You know how much it means to me. Please, let my photograph win. Save my business, my dream.

Either He would or He wouldn’t. Now that the prints had been ordered, it was out of Brooklynn’s hands. She needed to quit fretting about it.

She closed her laptop, grabbed the Pledge and the rag she’d found earlier, and headed down the hall. She had time to get some cleaning done before she needed to start dinner.

And if she happened to find something interesting along the way, who could blame her for doing a little snooping?