and kill his wife. Cornelia hadn’t been any more responsible than the prosecutor or the defense attorney, neither of whom asked for greater bail. Still, she blamed herself. Soon after, she moved to Devon.
That total absence of wrinkles that I had speculated about? Definitely genes.
A movement caught my eye—a flash of beagle and the rustle of grass. Jonah was chasing a rabbit. The snap of my fingers brought him back, but it also woke Edward. He called Jonah’s name in a groggy voice, which was probably what settled the dog under the hammock again. Did Jonah like it here? Honestly, I think he would have liked it anywhere Edward was. He had become man’s best friend, which wasn’t fair, since I was the one who rescued him in the first place, but there it was.
The cats, bless them, were all mine. Had we dared let them out, they would have been up here on the hammock, tucked against my body as I was tucked against Edward’s. I had waited until two weeks ago to move them here, fearing either that they would escape through ever-opening doors, or that the construction noise would freak them out. Now, even with kitty condos placed in strategically sunny spots, I knew that if I craned my neck and looked back, two cat faces would be at the glass sliders, waiting for us to come in.
Edward’s arm around my middle pulled me in deeper. “Feeling okay?” he murmured, still sleepy.
“Totally.”
“Why am I so tired?”
It might have been that being an innkeeper was more time-consuming than he’d expected. The same addiction to the possibility that had made him a successful venture capitalist hadn’t just gone away. It manifested itself in how he had dealt with the hacking crisis with an umbrella approach involving technology, personnel, and client incentive. As soon as the books showed stability, he started seeing other things in town that he could improve. There were three mansions on Cedar that, with renovation, could be turned into boutique B&Bs for large family groups. There was a mountain behind the current ski slope just begging to be developed. There were the elementary school, which needed a new playground, and the high school, whose tech lab was obsolete.
For all that, his group needed money. So Edward Cooper, as leader of that group, was now, again, heavy into client development. That meant entertaining investors at the Inn, basically putting on full day show-and-tells. Exhausting? For sure.
But Edward loved his work. I appreciated that. So I gave the exhaustion a different cause. “Uh, maybe because you were binge-watching The West Wing until two in the morning?”
“Mmm.” His breathing lengthened again.
I matched mine to it for a bit, but, me, I had slept right through Netflix. Sleep was easier for me these days, now that my probation had ended and the future was free. I still had the occasional nightmare, but with Edward close, they had lessened.
Still, late this Sunday afternoon, I should have been tired. We’d had two weddings at the Inn this weekend, and although Ronan Dineen was now a regular, I liked doing weddings. I had worked both days. I had certainly earned the right to doze in Edward’s arms before the night air sent us inside. But I was wide awake.
Raising the phone, I swiped again, landing this time on a slightly hilarious shot of my mother and brother. I had taken it at the cabin, where Liam continued to live, not that he spent much time there, now that his restaurant was open. A marketing team had named it Basquaise, after the simple elegance of the French Basque cooking with which he had grown obsessed. Thanks to cross-marketing by the Inn and word of mouth, its first two months were a huge success. I had pictures on my phone of opening night, of glasses of rustic reds from the southwest of France and trays of Basque-style tapas.
But the restaurant was closed Mondays. So, on the Monday of this shot, Edward and I had been invited to the cabin for dinner. Liam was cooking the entrée, Margaret baking the dessert. I should have known that one kitchen was too small for them both. Liam was Margaret’s boy, as authoritative at Basquaise as she was at The Buttered Scone. A disagreement over the use of clarified butter had them arguing, which was the moment I snapped my shot—and hadn’t Margaret turned on me then? And what do you find so amusing? she had asked archly. All