Free Dearly Beloved by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

relaxed.
    For some reason, she can’t seem to let go of a nagging sense that something isn’t quite right.
    A walk on the beach will probably help clear her mind though.
    She pulls on her heavy down jacket as she walks down the stairs. She’s dressed for the damp, chilly New England morning: her oldest, softest, most faded jeans; rubber L.L. Bean boots; a thick navy cable knit sweater.
    “Good morning, Laura,” a voice says as she rounds the landing.
    Startled, Jennie glances down to see Jasper Hammel standing in the front hall. He’s holding a feather duster, which looks out of sync with his clothing: an expensive-looking black turtleneck and pleated dark-gray corduroy slacks.
    “Oh . . . good morning.” Jennie walks down the last few steps, fumbling with the zipper on her jacket.
    “There’s a continental breakfast set up on the sideboard in the dining room,” Jasper informs her, flicking the duster over the carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “Nothing elaborate . . . just coffee and danishes. Feel free to help yourself.”
    “Um, no thank you.” Jennie hesitates. “I was just going to go for a walk on the beach.”
    “I’m afraid it’s not a very nice day for that,” he says, glancing toward the window. “According to this morning’s radio forecast, there might be a storm on the way. Quite a nasty one, for that matter . . . but don’t be alarmed,” he adds quickly, catching sight of her expression. “The weather on Tide Island is always unpredictable. For all we know, the nor’easter will pass us by and blow right out to sea.”
    “I hope so,” Jennie murmurs, tugging the zipper on her jacket up to her chin.
    “Just the same, I wouldn’t advise you to wander too far, Laura. The island may seem small and easy to maneuver, but there are some remote patches, and you wouldn’t want to get lost.”
    “I won’t,” Jennie assures him, and heads for the door.
    As she steps out into the windy, rainy morning, she tries to ignore the little voice inside her head . . .
    The one that’s warning her to leave the island—before the storm rolls in and strands her here.
    Before it’s too late, the voice adds.
    And though she tries not to acknowledge it, telling herself it’s just paranoia again, Jennie can’t help wondering . . .
    Too late for what?
    “D amn, damn, damn.”
    Liza jerks the black silk stocking back down her leg and tosses it across the room, scowling.
    How can she have been careless enough to give herself a run when she only brought one pair with her?
    Just to be sure, she gets up and walks over to the bureau drawer where she put her clothes when she unpacked last night. She digs through the neatly folded stacks carelessly. Nothing but two pairs of black knee-highs and one pair of tan pantyhose.
    Now what’s she going to do?
    Feeling frazzled she stands in the middle of the room and contemplates the situation.
    It’s no wonder she ran her stocking, after the way things have been going this morning.
    She’s been feeling out of sorts ever since she forced herself to get out of bed an hour ago. Her head is pounding and she can’t seem to wake up. She got out of the shower and was drying off when she remembered that she’d forgotten to shampoo her hair, which meant she had to get back in and wait again for the ancient plumbing to groan into action. And she’d dropped her favorite compact on the floor of her room, cracking the mirror and breaking the pressed powder into crumbly chunks.
    I hope this isn’t an omen for how my meeting with D.M. Yates is going to go.
    Liza glances at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She smooths the soft cashmere fabric of her well-cut black suit, with its three gold buttons on the jacket and the skirt that’s just long enough to be professional, but short enough to show off her long, firm legs.
    Legs that, right now, are mismatched—one clad in the un-run black stocking she’d put on first, the