Close to You

to
her.”
    “ Maybe I should go talk to
her.”
    She shook her head. “It’s my problem.
I’ll do it.”
    “ But there’s—”
    “ It’s okay. I’ve got it
covered.”
    His brow furrowed as if he didn’t
understand.
    She reached up and touched his face.
“I appreciate the concern though. It means the world to
me.”
    He kissed her palm. “Let me know if
you need anything?”
    “ Yes.” She wrinkled her
nose. “It may be in the form of a drink and a hug.”
    “ That can be arranged.” He
kissed her hand again. “That, and more.”
     

Chapter Sixteen
     
    Margaret hated this room.
    It wasn’t hers. Yes, she slept in it.
She had every night since Harry had left her. When she’d first
decorated it for guests, she’s thought it was enchanting. Wrought
iron bed, rosy walls, antique wardrobe.
    But since she started sleeping in
here, the bed had made her feel like she was behind bars. She hated
the damn lacy curtains. Overgrown doilies was what they
were.
    A Victorian prison.
    The familiar anger began to choke her
again. At the curtains she hated. The resentment and fury swelled
inside her like a sinister wave. She clutched the covered to keep
from jumping up and ripping the curtains down.
    Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she
lost the house.
    She gasped, taking the thought back.
Harry would have been so hurt if he’d heard her.
    But Harry was dead, that dark voice
inside her said.
    Margaret jerked to sitting. She
needed…
    She didn’t know what she
needed.
    The night closed in around her, and
she struggled to breathe. Scrabbling for the lamp on the bedside
table, she managed to turn it on.
    The light did nothing to dispel her
panic.
    She reached for the phone, picking up
the business card next to it. She’d call Grant.
    But she couldn’t. It was too late, on
so many levels. She put the card back.
    She couldn’t call Treat. He’d called
her yesterday and left a message, saying he needed to talk to her.
She hadn’t called back because the tone of his voice had scared
her. And then she’d seen his truck had been parked outside Grounds
for Thought.
    He suspected.
    That perky girl and her croissants
were stealing everything.
    Margaret pushed her temples. She just
wanted things back to the way they were when Harry was alive. When
everything was safe and secure.
    That was never happening.
    A sob broke the night’s silence, and
it startled her to realize it’d come from her. She reached for her
pearls, fighting for control, but they felt as cold and distant as
everything else.
    She needed to do something. She needed
to move.
    Pushing the covers aside, she got out
of bed and put a sweater on over her pajamas. Slipping into her
tennis shoes, she walked out into the night.
    She hadn’t planned on going anywhere
specific, so when she found herself on Sacramento Street a couple
blocks from Crumpet, she was almost surprised.
    She slowed. Maybe there was something
she could do. She couldn’t let that girl just take everything she
had. Because Treat may have insisted he was going to seal her café
from flood damage, but Margaret had seen the look he’d gotten in
his eyes. It was the same look Harry got when they’d first
met.
    Flood damage.
    She stopped abruptly. A little water
damage would distract the girl, and Treat didn’t do that sort of
work. He’d be free to work on renovating Crumpet, and Eve would be
out of the running for the Daniela Rossi event.
    Her heart pounded. It was
wrong.
    No one would know.
    She’d know.
    She touched her pearls. What recourse
did she have? Sit around and wait for that girl to take everything
from her?
    How would she do it? It was an
impossible idea. She didn’t have access, and how would she simulate
a flood?
    She began walking, headed to Grounds
for Thought. She’d just look around and then go home. She wasn’t
committing to anything.
    The storefront was dark except for one
soft light close to the register. Margaret stared inside. Even
without people the shop looked so inviting.
    Her anger surged again. She looked at
the lock on the door. Maybe she should have looked up how to pick
them. The Internet was a wondrous thing.
    She walked around the corner of the
building. Treat said there was a back courtyard.
    There it was, only there was a high
fence protecting it.
    She glared at the fence and walked up
to it. She could reach the top, just barely.
    She hadn’t climbed anything in
years.
    How hard could it be? She grabbed the
top of the fence and hauled