Man Trouble Read online

  There was total silence in Cottage Five on Thursday morning, when Molly finally told Carter what had happened with Jake. She had delayed as long as she could, but Carter had awakened her with grand plans for Sandra's day, and she had been forced to confess the truth.

  It was an agonizing, drawn-out silence, so heavy with gloom that it seemed to darken the sunshine around them. Molly stood, wrapped in her bathrobe, twisting her hands together as she waited for Carter to react. He sat on the couch, staring at her with the expression of a prisoner who had just been condemned.

  “Carter,” she said finally. “Say something. Please.”

  His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “I don't understand,” he croaked. “What do you mean, Jake Berenger found out that Sandra St. Claire is you?”

  “I'm sorry,” Molly said anxiously. “It was an accident.”

  “Sorry? Accident? Last night, you told me that the picnic went well.”

  “It did go well,” Molly said. “Relatively speaking. Jake was very nice about the whole thing, once he understood that I wasn't from the press. He said…uh…he said…” She stopped. She couldn't actually recall what Jake had said after she'd confessed to being Sandra. Her memory was still fuzzy from the trauma.

  “I knew he was smart,” Carter said hollowly. “I knew that. I could have told you that it would be too risky for him to spend time with both Molly and Sandra. Especially in the space of a few hours. You should have told me. We could have changed the plan. Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I'm sorry,” Molly repeated. “I don't know why I didn't tell you. I just didn't think it would be a problem. Sandra is so different from me, and I didn't think Jake would ever guess—”

  “Different!” Carter exclaimed suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He looked accusingly at her. “Sandra is you. She's not different at all! Sure, she has different hair, and wears different clothes, and actually talks to men instead of typing dialogue, but she is you, Molly. It's obvious if you look closely. He wasn't supposed to get a close look at both of you!”

  Molly burst into tears. “Stop yelling at me!” she yelled at him. “How was I supposed to know that he would figure it out? You should have warned me—”

  “I didn't think I needed to warn you, because it was so obvious! I never thought you'd be stupid enough to—”

  “Children!” The bedroom door slammed behind Elaine like an exclamation point, and she appeared before them, imperious as an Olympian goddess, the robe of her black and red negligee swirling around her like smoke and fire. “What on earth is happening here?”

  Molly and Carter stared at her, dumbstruck. Her hair was hidden under the giant pouf of a satin shower cap, and her face was covered with a shiny, viscous substance. Attached to her forehead, her cheeks, and her chin were six flat white discs the size of quarters. A thin wire protruded from each disc, joining below her chin into one thick wire that ran down to a small white box that she held in her hand.

  “Well?” she asked impatiently. “I'm afraid that I wasn't able to hear the exact details through the walls of my room.”

  “What's that stuff on your face?” Carter said finally. He looked horrified, as if he had just discovered that his sister was a cyborg.

  “Conducting gel,” Elaine said. “Electrical stimulation of the facial muscles for twenty minutes every morning firms the jawline and softens wrinkles. Except when one's relaxation time is interrupted by one's travel companions screaming at each other like chimpanzees. Would someone kindly explain this to me? Why is Molly crying?”

  “I'm not crying,” Molly said. She wasn't, anymore. Elaine's sudden appearance had shocked the tears right out of her. She sniffled, wondering how Carter had managed to upset her so much. Everything felt different these days—more intense, and more real, which made no sense to her. Her real life was at home, in Belden, and she would be back there soon. She sighed, thinking about it. Even that life was starting to feel like just another role to play. Sandra is you, Carter had said, as if he were speaking to an idiot. Fine, Molly thought. Sandra is me. I am she. And who am I, again?

  The tension between Molly and Carter hadn't improved by the time that they sat down to breakfast. After breaking the momentum of the fight, Elaine had returned to her bedroom and reemerged a short time later as her usual well-groomed self, a relief to Molly, who couldn't shake off the mental image of Carter's sister looking like a mutant clone in a science fiction movie. It was chilling, although she had to admit that Elaine's jawline did look firm.

  Carter settled into a brooding silence, punctuated only by resentful glances at Molly, who was trying to ignore him. She was reading the letter that had arrived that morning from the director of the Museum of Antigua and Barbuda. She'd phoned him the previous day, in an attempt to gather information about the plantation ruins. Many of the original documents from colonial Antigua had been relocated to the Public Record Office in London, but Molly had hoped that the museum's own collection might contain something useful.

  The only lead was a map of Cane Island from 1798, the height of the sugar trade. There had been several estates on the island at that time, the director wrote, and Molly had apparently visited the ruins of a plantation once called “Dyer's Fortune.” He knew of nothing in the museum's archives that connected the old estate—or the island—to Mary Morgan, although he, too, had heard the stories.

  He had enclosed a copy of part of the old map, and Molly recognized the signature shapes of the western coast and the salt ponds. Two crosses marked the location of the two windmills, and next to them the name “Dyer's Fortune” was written in spidery script.

  “Hmm,” she said, frowning. It was a common sort of name for an old colonial plantation, similar to “Betty's Hope,” on Antigua. She had been hoping for something more definitive, like “Morgan's Rest” or “Bonny Mary's House.” Still, the use of the word “fortune” was provocative. During her pirating days, Mary's ship had been called the Lady Fortune. Was it just a coincidence, or could there be a link?

  “What's that letter?” Carter asked.

  “Just some research on the old sugar estate,” Molly said absently. She needed more information—the kind that was probably buried in an archive in England. But her contact at the National Maritime Museum was on vacation, and wouldn't be back in the office until January second. And her friend at the British Library hadn't returned her call, which suggested that he was also missing in action. It was only a few days before Christmas, after all.

  “Sugar estate?” Carter repeated. “You mean, that place where you talked to Jake and ruined my chances of—”

  “Carter!” Elaine said sharply. “Please.”

  “I was simply going to ask why Molly is doing research on an old sugar estate. And why Jake Berenger was there, too. I think I have a right to know, considering that this was what shattered my only hope of ever—”

  He broke off at Elaine's warning look. Molly sighed and explained the story of Mary Morgan, the golf course, and the plantation ruins. As Carter listened, his expression slowly shifted from gloomy to pensive to hopeful.

  “This could be good,” he said. “If that plantation did belong to Bonny whatshername, and we can find proof, then Jake's golf course is in trouble. We could go to the press with an exposé about Berenger Corporation ruthlessly bulldozing over a local heritage site. Yes! We can use this.”

  “Use it how?” Molly asked suspiciously.

  “In case you haven't noticed, Jake isn't in any position to take any more negative publicity. And relocating a golf course can't be cheap. I'll bet he'd be willing to negotiate…”

  “Are you saying that we could threaten to cause a scandal unless he agrees to help you with your book?”

  Carter nodded eagerly. “Right!”

  “Wrong!” Molly exclaimed, appalled. “I can't blackmail Jake Berenger. Even if I were willing—which I'm not—there are two serious problems with your idea. First, I don't have proof that the plantation belonged to Bonny Mary. An
d second, Jake could just as easily blackmail me, now that he knows…the truth.” She glanced warily at Elaine, who sat nibbling on her croissant.

  “Don't mind me,” Elaine said. “Molly, dear, I've known for days that you really are Sandra St. Claire. You two aren't nearly as clandestine as you think you are.”

  “Oh, terrific,” Molly said. She tossed the papers onto the table and took a deep breath. “Elaine, I'm sorry for everything rude that I've ever said to you. I'll do whatever you want in exchange, but please, promise that you won't—”

  “Don't be silly,” Elaine said. “Of course I won't tell. I am not the sort of person who ruins other people's lives for fun. Or profit, despite what my ex-husbands might say. Discretion is essential to my work, and although you aren't exactly a client, I consider you a friend.”

  “You do?” Molly asked, taken aback.

  “Yes,” Elaine said. “Although, as a friend, I have to say that I can't understand why you prefer to keep teaching at that stuffy college rather than taking the credit for—”

  “Okay, okay,” Molly said. “Thank you. You sound just like Carter, and he already knows my position on this.”

  Carter nodded. “She doesn't want to talk about it,” he explained.

  Elaine shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Molly, listen,” Carter said urgently. “This thing about Jake knowing that you're Sandra isn't a problem. He won't use it against you if he thinks that you've got something to use against him. It'll be a standoff. You have to make him think that you have the proof, and then mention my book. It's not blackmail, it's just…a business discussion.”

  “I'll try to talk to him,” Molly said reluctantly. She dreaded the thought of seeing Jake again, but she felt that she owed it to Carter. “But I'm tired of lying. I'll tell him that I'm still working on linking Mary to the ruins, which is true. And I'll bring up your book, and try to persuade him to work with you. That's the best I can do. All right?”

  “I guess so,” Carter said. “Call the manager's office and tell them that you have information on the old plantation, and you have to see Jake today.”

  “Not so fast,” Elaine said. “Molly can't meet with him until tomorrow. Or Saturday.”

  Carter looked alarmed. “But we leave on Sunday morning. If he'll see her today, then why not—”

  “Tomorrow,” Elaine said firmly. “If Molly is going to be meeting with Jake Berenger, then I owe it to her—and to myself, as a professional—to make a few adjustments first.”

  “Adjustments?” Molly asked.

  “Yes,” Elaine said. “Molly, dear, you and I will be spending the rest of today at the Gold Bay salon and spa.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “I am so, so excited to finally learn to scuba dive,” Amanda said over breakfast on Friday. “Jake, you are so totally sweet to offer to teach me.”

  Offer? Jake thought dryly. He didn't need to look at Cora. He could feel her warning look burning into the side of his face.

  “I've wanted to learn ever since I was really little,” Amanda continued. “I used to be crazy about those Thoreau specials on TV. I still watch them sometimes, on the Discovery channel.”

  Jake frowned. To his knowledge, Henry David Thoreau had never scuba dived in Walden Pond. True, Amanda had a college degree and he didn't, but he was fairly sure about that.

  “I think you mean Cousteau, darling,” Cora said. “Jacques Cousteau? The famous underwater naturalist?”

  “Oh, right,” Amanda said. She laughed. “Oops. I always get those French guys mixed up.”

  Jake bit down hard on a piece of toast and said nothing. It wasn't that he didn't like Amanda. He did. He had known her since she was a toddler, and he had always liked her, more or less. But having her force-fed to him was making him surly, and everything that used to seem cute about Harry's daughter had now become irritating. It was a serious tactical mistake on his mother's part. She should have known better, but she was obviously getting desperate to marry him off. For a normally sensible woman, Cora Berenger was unreasonably pigheaded about this issue. Her rightful place, as she saw it, was as the grand matriarch of the Berenger dynasty, and if her errant son would only get with the program, things would work out as Fate had intended.

  “I'm going to go get ready,” Amanda announced, standing up. “Can I wear a bikini? I didn't bring anything else. For swimming, I mean. I don't need a wet suit, do I?”

  “Nope,” Jake said. “We'll manage.”

  “Good,” Amanda said. “I only asked because when I was at the beach the other day, I saw you talking to that woman, Sandra St. Claire, and she was wearing a wet suit.” She wrinkled her nose. “It wasn't very flattering. It made her thighs look big, don't you think?”

  “I didn't notice,” Jake said. He hadn't been looking at her thighs. At the time, he had been more focused on what he now knew to be a large quantity of foam rubber, and the whole subject of Molly Shaw aggravated him. After the fiasco at Falcon's Point, he had called Sonny Carmichael, the chairman of Leighton House, publisher of Pirate Gold. Sonny was a family friend and a Berenger client, and Jake hoped that he would be able to clear up this mystery. So far, he hadn't heard back from Sonny, and he had spent the past thirty-six hours bracing for some kind of lunatic explosion. Molly Shaw didn't know it, but the Gold Bay security staff had been directed to keep a close eye on her.

  “Oh,” Cora said suddenly, as if she'd just remembered something.

  “What?” Amanda asked.

  “Nothing, dear,” Cora said. “Go and change into your swimsuit. Jake wants to get started right away.”

  Amanda disappeared into the house, and Jake looked inquiringly at his mother.

  “Sandra,” Cora said. “Or Molly Shaw, I should say. Amanda just reminded me. Sonny called this morning, and our professor is legitimate.”

  Jake stared at her. “Are you serious? Molly Shaw was telling me the truth? She really is Sandra St. Claire?”

  “You wouldn't believe what it took to get the information out of Sonny,” Cora continued. “He said that he didn't call back right away because even he didn't know who Sandra really was. He had to call her editor, and then the company's lawyers, and then he told me that if we weren't such old friends, and if he didn't trust me so completely, he wouldn't dream of saying a word. And then, after all of that, he made me swear on my life not to tell anyone. You're also bound by my oath of silence.”

  “She must be making a hell of a lot of money for Leighton,” Jake said, reluctantly impressed. “And they must be hoping for more. But what's with all the secrecy?” He remembered the anxiety on Molly Shaw's face when she asked him—begged him, in fact—not to betray her. She had said something about losing her job, hadn't she? It made no sense to him.

  “I haven't a clue,” Cora said. “Perhaps you should ask her yourself. She called my office yesterday, and left a message saying that she urgently needs to speak with you about the old sugar plantation.”

  “What about it?” Jake asked apprehensively. That wasn't good. After Wednesday, he had relaxed, assuming that the dramatic story of Mary Morgan the Pirate Queen was just another invention of Molly Shaw's twisted mind. But Molly's mind was beginning to sound less twisted, and if Mary Morgan was actually real, then trouble still loomed on the horizon.

  He exhaled in frustration. Trouble, indeed. Molly Shaw was causing him no end of it, at a time when he didn't need any more complications in his life. “Invite her to the house this afternoon,” he said. “Early. I'll find out what she wants, and deal with her.”

  If nothing else, it would be interesting to see who showed up, calling herself Molly Shaw. The dowdy professor? The bombshell blonde? Or someone else entirely?

  “I still don't feel like…me, exactly,” Molly said, staring at her reflection in the vanity-table mirror. It was Friday morning after breakfast, and Elaine was busily sorting through the Sandra St. Claire clothes, picking out pieces that could be adapted to fit into Molly's new, improved wardrobe. The rejects
were tossed unceremoniously onto the floor. Out went the pink wet suit, the tight white bustier, the fuchsia cocktail dress, the white hot pants, the double-D bras, and all of the platform heels. Also cast aside were most of the things that Molly had brought in her own suitcase, including a shapeless beige cardigan sweater, two boxy men's T-shirts, a long India-print skirt, and a pair of old Birken-stock sandals, which Elaine had handled with a grimace, as if she were disposing of a dead rat.

  The survivors were laid on the bed: the pink and white Hermès scarf, the gauzy white button-down shirt, a peachy pink cocktail dress, a simple silk camisole, and the silver sandals. From Molly's own collection, Elaine included a pair of faded jeans, a simple white cotton sweater, and a pair of loose navy linen pants.

  “Don't worry,” Elaine said briskly. “You'll be fine. It always takes time to adjust to change. And this was a rather dramatic change.”

  Molly had to agree. The previous afternoon, under Elaine's direction, a stylist at the Gold Bay salon had layered Molly's hair into a softly tousled style that fell just below her shoulders. Shorter pieces in the front accented cheekbones that Molly hadn't realized that she owned. After the cut, she had been handed off to a woman who took one look at her and said briskly, “Highlights. Butterscotch and gold. Here, and here. And here.”

  Elaine was nodding approval, but Molly balked. “Just a minute,” she said, “does that mean blond? I don't want to be blond.”

  The colorist looked shocked. “But you're perfect for it. Lightening your hair would lift your whole look.”

  “No blond,” Molly said stubbornly. “Do something else. How about auburn?”

  “No, no, dear,” Elaine said. “Not with your skin tone. Red wouldn't suit you. If you don't want blond, we'll do a lighter brown, nothing drastic, just a little warmth, a little depth, as if you've been out in the sun.” She turned to the colorist. “Caramel,” she said decisively. “Not butterscotch.”