“I believe in you.” I covered my mouth with my hand. I couldn’t believe I blurted that out. I didn’t like feeling so comfortable around him. It made me feel too vulnerable.
Miles pressed his lips together, holding back a bigger reaction to my slip of the tongue. “Thank you, Aspen. That means the world to me.” He moved on from it, knowing that’s exactly what I would want. And he gave me something to take my mind off it. “As you know, at the end ofSilent Stones, Isabella has disappeared,” Miles began. “And Dexter, who you think is the villain, is actually her savior. The wrong person has found out that Isabella possesses her father’s journal and it has put her life in danger.”
This was good. I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear more.
“Dexter,” Miles continued, “has been keeping an eye on Isabella for many years unbeknownst to her, afraid something like this might happen. He knows he must act to protect her, but he doesn’t have time to gain her trust. So, for lack of a better term, he kidnaps her, but he makes it look as if she left of her own accord.”
“I bet she isn’t too happy about that,” I interrupted.
“Quite right,” Miles confirmed, “but she does come to trust him enough, or at least enough to begin to wonder ifwhat he’s telling her is true. Her father didn’t kill the Alexanders.”
“I knew it,” I couldn’t contain myself.
Miles smiled, amused. “You are very clever. Can I proceed or would you like a moment?”
“I’ll gloat later; please continue.” I held my hands together, anxious to learn more.
“After some, let us call them unfortunate events that almost get Isabella killed, Dexter convinces her they need to come to America for her safety. He chooses ‘River Cove’, as I’ll be calling it, because of a trip he had taken here once as a boy with his parents. Not even Dexter knows how significant that is until they arrive.”
I wanted him to go into more detail but also didn’t want him to so I could savor the words he had written and would write.
“Dexter and Isabella pose as a couple on holiday in hopes of not drawing any attention to themselves. So, I need you to help me blend in, become a local. Help me see and feel what Isabella needs me to.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding during his captivating synopsis. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“For now.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “What do you think so far?”
“I’m hooked.”
“Music to my ears. So where to?” He faced forward.
“It’s still early; not much is open except places to eat, doctor’s offices, and banks.”
“Where would Isabella eat?”
“Well,” I thought for a moment. “She does love tea and out-of-the-way quiet places.”Just like me. “There is a littlebakery that’s only open in the mornings in the older part of Carrington Cove. My dad used to take me there sometimes on Saturday mornings. The woman who owns it uses old family recipes and, you will be happy to hear, tea leaves, not bags.” Miles had complained that he couldn’t find “real” tea in the grocery store here. Except he called it the supermarket.
“I must meet this woman. Lead the way.”
“Take a left at the next light.”
Bernadette’s had a fair number of customers. Mostly locals who only came in to grab a sweet roll or two and a cup of coffee or tea before they headed off to work. She did have a cute nook filled with an entire bookcase of classics, with limited seating for those who didn’t need to rush off. It was weird how I could picture Isabella and Dexter sitting there making notes or casting furtive glances at each other across the table. Kind of like how Miles and I were doing while we picked at our blueberry scones and he jotted down notes for his book in his leather-bound notepad.
Henry gobbled down his raised donut. It looked as if he had dipped his mouth in a sugar jar.
Miles reveled in his Darjeeling tea with milk. “I may love America after all.”
“You didn’t think you would?”
He set his tea down with a longing sigh. “No. I miss misty mornings and old things. Everything here is so new. Even this place.”
I looked around at the old place that had seen better days and probably hadn’t been updated since the eighties, with linoleum floors and burgundy curtains. To me this was old, but when you lived around architecture and buildings thathad survived for several centuries, I could see his point. “New can have a certain charm.”
“That is true, but we Brits love traditions, even ones that don’t make sense, like putting young Henry in shorts every day.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you if he has any pants. It’s only going to get chillier here.”
“You mean trousers, darling.”
