Page 114 of Here & There

“I don’t know any of that,” I say, unable to keep growing hopelessness out of my voice. “My mother refused to tell me anything about her, except that her mother was one of those ‘free spirits who didn’t bother giving her daughter a proper education or upbringing.’”

“So she was a hippie.”

“I think so.”

“And your mother’s anything but.”

“Exactly.”

“Have you tried asking at Widow’s Walk?”

I frown. “The B&B?” It was on the list of options when I was looking for a place to stay, but from everything I’ve heard, it seemed a little removed, up on the mountain. And a little creepy—its upper turrets can be seen all the way from the beach.

“Mm-hmm. Elizabeth’s what you might call one of those.”

“A hippie?”

Bea wrinkles her nose. “Yes.” She says it with the same disdain as my parents. “And she’s lived here for several decades.”

“Thank you, Bea. I appreciate your help.” I head for the door. I’m going to go there right now.

“Wait!” she calls. “What about your library card?”

I hold upMo Cridhe, grinning. “I’ll grab one when I’m finished with this.”

“All right. Oh, and if you do speak with Lizzie, tell her to sendOrlandoback my way. She’s had it for years.”

I don’t understand this, but I promise I will. By the time I walk out the door, Bea’s already got another romance novel open in front of her, this one even racier-looking thanMo Cridhe.

I wonder if she realizes she called Elizabeth by what sounded like an affectionate nickname. I also wonder if she knows what STFUATTDLAGG means.

Okay, now I’m thankful for Mac’s truck. The road up to Widow’s Walk is barely more than a dried riverbed. How the heck are guests supposed to get up here in rental cars?

Still, I can’t keep down the excitement of finally getting a lead on Shelby, flimsy as it is.

It’s a rough road, and it’s comprised almost entirely of steep switchbacks. But when I reach the property, I gasp out loud. The harrowing drive was 100 percent worth it.

The old Victorian house, with its turrets, peaks, and, of course, the eponymous wrought-iron-fenced widow’s walk up top, has been gorgeously maintained. It’s painted a deep purple with all the trim in glossy black. The colors should be garish, but it works.

But the house pales in comparison to the view. The building is set on a large open property that slopes down the hill. But half of it is covered with a stunning gated English garden already in full spring bloom. The coup de grâce is that although the whole property is surrounded by thick evergreen forest, we’re high enough up the mountain that the views are stunning. From here you can see the whole town of Redbeard Cove, the shoreline, the beaches—even the Rusty Dinghy. And, of course, the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

I’m so absorbed with the view I don’t notice the rumble of a vehicle until an ancient battered Land Rover pulls in behind me, parking next to Mac’s truck.

I smile politely, even though I can’t see who’s getting out of the truck. It could be a guest or the proprietor, though mine was the only vehicle up here.

They slam the door, and suddenly I see who it is: the woman I nearly ran over in the crosswalk downtown.

My heart leaps.Shelby?

I tell myself to cool my jets. According to literally everything, Shelby’s not here.

Still, I wave like Forrest Gump. “Hello!” I walk over to her, my heart pounding.

“Ah,” says the woman. “Came up to finish the job?”

I laugh. I like her already. “I’m really sorry about that. I’m still getting used to driving that beast.”

“You’re a friend of Alasdair’s, then?”

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