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Confusion swirled in Jo’s mind. Marnie Wilson? Why would she be interested in the cottage? Could Garvin be mistaken? She couldn’t dismiss the thought that maybe, just maybe, the old man was going senile.
“Are you sure it was Marnie?” she pressed, seeking clarity.
“As sure as I’m standin’ here,” he asserted, clear eyes meeting hers.
Garvin’s eyes narrowed as he considered her question. “Why Marnie Wilson would want that cottage, I couldn’t say. But I do know that property is valuable, and I’m not sure I’m ready to let it go.”
Jo nodded, respecting his sentiments. “I understand, Mr. McDaniels. But if you ever do decide to sell, I hope you’ll consider me. I’ve poured a lot into making that cottage my home.”
He looked around his own cluttered living space, where the weight of memories and collected odds and ends pressed against the walls. “You know, it’s not all about money,” he said softly, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
“I agree,” Jo said earnestly. “For me, it’s about the home I’ve created there. I don’t even know the property’s worth, to be honest. But it’s invaluable to me.”
Garvin met her gaze, his eyes softening a touch. “Well, I can appreciate that sentiment. I’ll think on it, but as I said, I’m not ready to sell just yet.”
“I respect that,” Jo said. As she turned toward the door, an idea sprang to mind. The piles of yogurt containers, the crackers, and the peanut butter—all signs of a man missing home-cooked meals and, perhaps, companionship. “If you don’t mind, Mr. McDaniels, maybe I could stop by sometime with some baked goods. My sister makes a mean pie.”
His eyes brightened for a moment. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”
Jo smiled as she left Garvin’s house. If apple pie and occasional company made him more inclined to sell the property to her, so be it. One thing was for sure—Marnie Wilson was not likely to engage in such a grassroots campaign. Sometimes, the little things did count for more.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Bridget was perusing the shelves at a cute local cooking shop called Gourmet Haven when her phone pinged. It was Jo.
“I sort of volunteered you to make a pie,” Jo said.
“What?” Bridget frowned as she turned down the center aisle. She was on the hunt for saffron threads. She had stumbled upon a recipe for a decadent saffron risotto on the internet and the dish looked too good not to try.
“I just came from Garvin McDaniels’s place, and he doesn’t want to sell. But all he had were crackers and peanut butter, and his eyes lit up when I mentioned pie, so I figure I can try to worm my way into his good graces with pie.”
Bridget chuckled. “If it helps you get closer to owning that cottage, then consider that pie baked. I’m living there, too, after all. But hopefully, not for long. I really want to find my own place.”
“No rush on that. I love having you with me.”
“I know, but sooner or later, it will be time for me to fly on my own.” Bridget loved living with her sister, but the place was small, and it wouldn’t be long before they started getting in each other’s way. Jo’s house was a great place to get on her feet again, but she didn’t want to ruin their close relationship by overstaying her welcome.
“Before I let you go, do you want to meet up with Sam, Mick, and me at Holy Spirits around five thirty?” Jo asked.
Bridget brightened at the mention of Holy Spirits. “Sounds like fun.”
“You sure?” Jo’s voice was tinged with concern. “It is a bar, after all.”
Bridget sighed. “You don’t have to baby me, Jo. Alcohol was never my thing. Don’t worry, I’m not about to spiral.”
Jo let out a relieved breath. “I didn’t think so. Just double-checking. Oh, and can you touch base with Holden? Invite him too. We can talk more about Tammy’s case. Have you made any progress on finding out more about Eve’s family?”
“Not yet,” Bridget admitted, “but I might have something to discuss tonight.”
“Okay, great. See you tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Bridget snagged the jar of saffron and headed toward the register.
Purchase in hand, Bridget exited into the sunny day. She was meeting Reese at the local diner and was excited to see what the other girl had dug up on Eve Duchamp and her family.
Bridget walked down the street, her thoughts drifting to the pie. Apple was probably best. Or maybe she should bake a few different kinds and let Jo decide. She was already savoring the wafting aroma that would fill the kitchen, the crispness of the crust, and the gooey sweetness of the filling, when suddenly her thoughts were shattered. A sensation crept up her spine, an old intuition she hadn’t felt in years. When she lived on the streets, this gut feeling had been her guardian angel. Her heart tightened. Her breathing felt like dragging air through a narrow straw.
Turning, she caught sight of a man—a tall figure all in black, a figure strikingly similar to someone from her past. Panic surged through her veins like hot lead. Without another thought, she darted into the nearest alley, back flush against its rough, brick walls. She clenched her fists and waited for him to find her. Each second felt like a lifetime, but minutes passed, and nobody came.
