Wayworn Lovers Read online

  “You don’t have to use your tent.” Giselle pointed to the left of her house. “Up there is a guesthouse. You can stay there for a few nights. Then you have to find something else. This is just temporary.”

  “All right! Thank you!” Tierney carefully extended her hand. “This is awesome.”

  Pulling herself together, Giselle took Tierney’s hand for a few seconds. “Good. I hope you have a driver’s license?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” Walking back toward the house, Giselle called over her shoulder. “The key to the guesthouse is under the flowerpot by the door. Once you finish putting your things away, you can make us some omelets.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Giselle reached her front door and stood there watching while Tierney hoisted her backpack and entered through the gate. A beeping noise next to her showed that the alarm worked, and Giselle punched in her code to mute it. All the entrances to her property were connected to the alarm system. Was letting a perfect stranger inside the alarm’s perimeter an even bigger mistake than she feared?

  Chapter Three

  Tierney found it odd that Ms. Bonnaire merely left her to her own devices. She walked along the long flagstone path to the guesthouse that lay nestled against a large group of maples. As her new employer, well, of a sort anyway, had said, the key to the house, which was bigger than the last apartment Tierney had stayed in, was hidden under a flowerpot. She unlocked the blue door and stepped inside. Gawking, she forced herself to close her mouth. This had to be the cutest, most Goldilocks-inspired house she’d ever seen. Who was she kidding? She’d never even come close to seeing something like this cottage in real life.

  With pine floors covered in pink and white rugs, white furniture, and geraniums in the windows, it was beyond adorable. Tierney picked the bigger of the two bedrooms that boasted a queen-size bed with a lilac quilt as a bedspread. Opening the two closed doors outside the bedrooms, she found a family-style bathroom. An antique five-feet-long hip bath, something she recognized from historical movies, looked inviting. The small washer-dryer set was even more enticing. She hadn’t had time to wash her clothes in a couple of weeks, and with this setup she could at least start out with clean stuff when Ms. Bonnaire didn’t want her there anymore.

  As she went back for her backpack and pulled out her dirty clothes, she focused on the woman up in the big house. Giselle Bonnaire wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but she sure was striking. Her white-blond hair reached her collarbones, and she was wearing it pulled back from her face with a blue hairband. Dressed in light khaki pants and a white golf shirt, she looked like a thoroughly preppy woman. Her frame was slender, and if it hadn’t been for wiry, defined muscles in her arms, she would have seemed frail. Tierney guessed Giselle was in her late thirties. Piercing blue eyes seemed to scrutinize the person she was talking to and had made it impossible for Tierney to pull her usual happy-go-lucky routine. What had worked effortlessly on the two women in town wouldn’t go down well with Ms. Bonnaire. Of that Tierney was certain.

  After changing from her dusty pants into her last clean pair of jeans and donning a white T-shirt, Tierney pulled her sneakers back on. She checked the washing machine to make sure it was set to the correct cycle, locked the door to the guesthouse behind her, pocketed the key, and headed back toward the main residence.

  The garden was indeed like a small park. A vast lawn stretched between maples, birch trees, and copper beeches. Flowerbeds with perennials ran along the paths in front of the house. Now, as the sun was out, the golden light rendered the garden a fairy-tale ambiance, much like the guesthouse had.

  After Tierney knocked on the front door, she opened it and stepped inside. She was going to have to find her own way around Ms. Bonnaire’s home, and her most pressing concern was to make some French omelets. At one point, she had to search for the elusive woman, and her curiosity spiked when she thought of why she was nowhere to be seen. Was she hiding?

  The kitchen turned out to be located to the left of the front door. It was meticulously kept, which suggested that either Ms. Bonnaire was a neat-freak or she didn’t cook. Tierney rummaged through the fridge and decided on the latter. She found eggs, milk, vegetables, but no meat. The freezer contained four microwave-ready meals and some ice cream. The bottom shelf contained a few packages of frozen pet food. It certainly looked like the dog and the cat ate better than their owner.

  Tierney started the coffee brewer and used a lemon to make a fresh jug of water, which she placed in the fridge. After she cracked two eggs, she added water, salt, and pepper, poured them into a skillet, and barely stirred the mixture as it cooked. Soon she had two omelets and a salad ready and went to look for Ms. Bonnaire. She passed the foyer and entered a large living room. Rectangular, it held a dining area over by the window and a sofa group in the inner part of the room. A fireplace made from flat stones created an ambiance of formality. Did Ms. Bonnaire have a separate TV room? She didn’t see an entertainment center in this one. No doubt this was the posh room meant for entertaining. It looked pristine to a fault. Did her temporary employer do much, if any, socializing?

  Walking farther into the room, she spotted a closed door at the other end at the far-left side. Only when she neared it did she hear faint piano music. Was Ms. Bonnaire in there listening to music, or perhaps playing? She didn’t recognize the melody, but it was beautiful. She knocked on the door and waited for a response. Not hearing anything, she was just about to knock again when the door opened. Ms. Bonnaire stood there, her expression even more reserved, no, downright haughty, than before.

  “Lunch is ready, Ms. Bonnaire. Where would you like me to serve it?” Tierney folded her hands behind her, a habit since her childhood whenever she felt uneasy. Not a smart idea to let anyone see her fidget.

  “For heaven’s sake, call me Giselle. And the kitchen is fine. You will eat too, yes?” Giselle strode past Tierney and headed for the kitchen.

  “Sure. I made plenty.” She was starving. Tierney hadn’t eaten anything but very cheap cheeseburgers in the last week. If she didn’t come across a hamburger within the foreseeable future, that would be fine with her.

  The kitchen had a nice breakfast nook, and the windows boasted yellow curtains. The sunny atmosphere they gave the room contrasted with its owner’s sullen expression. Or perhaps not sullen but more like darkness tinged with frustration. Tierney was blessed, or cursed, with a powerful radar for other people’s emotional states, and Giselle sent out her exasperation on full volume.

  “You’re a musician?” Tierney asked as she carried the food over to the table, wanting to break the silence.

  “Yes.” Giselle sat down and served herself some of the omelet and the salad. “This looks nice.”

  “I hope you like it.” Tierney wanted Giselle to elaborate about the music, but her employer seemed interested only in the food. Tierney ate in silence for a few minutes, but then she couldn’t stand her own curiosity. “Concert pianist?”

  Giselle flinched. “God. No. Composer.” She gripped her utensils harder.

  “Oh. That’s fantastic. What genre?”

  “Different ones.”

  Tierney leaned forward, curious now. “Please. I love music. Always have. What genres? Pretty please? I’m dying to know if I’ve heard any of your compositions.”

  “Fine.” Giselle scowled, clearly thinking Tierney was a nuisance. “Soundtracks for films. Musical numbers. Occasional pop songs. A few jazz or blues pieces.” She shrugged.

  Tierney knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help herself. “For whom?” she asked, then realized that this question was too intrusive. It sounded like she doubted the truth in Giselle’s words. “Sorry. Now I’m being too forward.”

  “Oh, well.” Giselle waved her hand dismissively. “Noelle Laurent. The Maddox movies. Right now, I’m working on several pieces for Chicory Ariose’s new album. Those are the best known ones. I’ve worked with some local choirs and jazz orchest
ras as well.” She still spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were recounting her grocery list.

  “That’s impressive. Do you enjoy composing?” Tierney had forgotten about her food, but now she scooped up some of the fluffy omelet.

  “I do.” Giselle put her fork down and shifted her gaze to the bay window. “Music is such a savior, honestly.” She looked out toward the garden for several moments.

  “I agree. I’ve used music as a pick-me-up ever since I was a little kid.” Tierney wasn’t sure why she felt she could tell Giselle that. Normally, she kept such things, no matter how trivial, to herself. If someone needed to know something personal about her, she had no qualms about making it up. She was an excellent liar.

  “Most people can claim that. The look in your eyes suggests that it means more to you than just a way to meditate.” Tierney’s noncommittal response clearly didn’t impress Giselle.

  “All right.” Tierney held her fork tight enough to make a permanent indentation in her hand. “I’m an orphan. Someone left me in a hospital bathroom when I was a few months old. Growing up in the system made music my number-one escape.”

  “Tierney.” Giselle closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry I pried.”

  “Hey. I started the prying, so no big deal.” Wanting Giselle to relax again, she donned her broad smile. “So, music it is. The more the better.”

  “What kind?” Giselle returned her blue gaze to Tierney.

  “Most kinds, though I have a tough time stomaching too much accordion.” Tierney smirked.

  “I’m like that too,” Giselle said, now smiling faintly. “Though I find the concertina quite charming when played by a virtuoso.”

  “What’s a concertina?” Tierney ate the last of her salad and reached for her glass of water.

  “A small, hexagonal accordion that has a very special tone. I think it reminds me of my childhood, as its tone is quite happy. My grandfather played it.” Frowning now, as if she’d caught herself saying something personal and regretting it, Giselle stabbed a piece of lettuce with her fork.

  “Do you play any instruments other than the piano?” Tierney hoped to distract Giselle, which was baffling. Why did she care if Giselle was in a bad mood? Sooner, rather than later, she would be on her way. She just had to make some money first. Once she reached Boston, she hoped to find something that lasted a little longer. Sure, East Quay was nice, unless you counted Leanne and Daphne, who had strange ideas about how you helped someone.

  “Not at the same level, but I can play the guitar and the violin fairly well. And you?” Giselle asked. “Play any instruments?”

  Surprised that Giselle really wanted to know anything about her, Tierney blinked. “Piano, very amateurish. Guitar, very badly, if you mean the classic way. I prefer to play it percussion style.”

  Giselle’s eyebrows did a detour toward her hairline. “Percussion style?”

  “Yes. Slapping on the front and on the strings.”

  Giselle looked reluctantly intrigued. “Perhaps you can show me. I mean, before you leave.”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind me beating the shit out of your guitar.” Tierney smiled broadly, and she could sense the expression being genuine rather than her manipulative grin, which she normally used.

  “I doubt you would damage an instrument. At least if you truly love music as you say you do.” Giselle stood and placed her empty dish in the dishwasher. “I’m going to return to work. When you’ve dealt with the dishes, I need you to drive to town and buy enough food for Charley and Mister for three months.”

  “And how do I pay for it?” Tierney also rose and began straightening up after them.

  “I have an account there. If you give the owner my name, he’ll give you exactly what I need.”

  Tierney hesitated. “You know, I’m not exactly known around here. They have no reason to trust me. For all they know, I could be scamming them for pet food.” She shrugged awkwardly. “Perhaps you want to tag along? I’m sure it’ll be a quick trip.”

  Giselle pressed her lips together until they paled. “Not an option. I’ve got to work. They have my cell-phone number. I dislike being interrupted, but if there’s a problem, they can call me, and I’ll verify that you’re working for me, if only temporarily.”

  “All right. Thanks. I won’t be making any money dog-walking in East Quay if they think I’m a thief.” Tierney placed the rest of the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and stood, pushing her hands into her jeans pockets. Why had Giselle gone gray and fidgety when Tierney had asked if she wanted to join her?

  “Good. Car keys are in that cabinet, marked Jeep.” Giselle pointed at a small, white metal cabinet. “It’s an automatic.”

  “Okay, though I’m quite good at driving a stick shift.”

  Nodding, Giselle walked toward the hallway. “I trust you, Tierney.”

  A pleasant buzz erupted at the sound of her name from Giselle’s lips. Her alto voice was stark and cropped, but the way she spoke her name, pronouncing it properly, was…well, strange, somehow. Some people called her Tinny, while others dared to pronounce it Timmy and, worst of all, Turney. Some kids she’d shared a foster home with had heard their foster dad say that to her and kept changing it to Turkey. “I do have a license, and it’s up to date.” This was true. She’d managed to renew it during a very brief return to her home state. It had taken her quite the finagling to have it delivered to her last address since she had to keep watch over the new tenant’s mailbox to get it.

  “Well, then.” Giselle merely turned and returned to her music room.

  After taking care of the kitchen, Tierney removed the keys to the Jeep and walked to the garage south of the main house. She saw what looked like a brand-new, forest-green metallic Jeep sitting there looking spotless. After she climbed behind the wheel, she started the car with ease and drove down the driveway. The gate went up automatically, but she spotted a remote on the visor that she surmised would open the gate from the outside.

  Driving into town took only twenty minutes. Walking from East Quay to Giselle’s place had taken Tierney two and a half hours with her large backpack and tent. Humming to the radio, she let her strong voice fill the car along with Noelle Laurent, who was singing her latest hit song. Tierney had admired the charismatic and beautiful singer for a decade, and when Noelle had begun singing her own material, Tierney would have done just about anything to be able to do that. She had several notebooks filled with her own song lyrics. She was good with words but found it hard to come up with original and catchy melodies to accompany them.

  The pet-food store was located on the outskirts of East Quay, close to the new mall. She didn’t see many cars in the parking lot and hoped to complete her errand quickly. She grabbed a shopping cart and pushed it through the doors. The place was huge. She’d been to many pet stores, but this was one of the biggest, perhaps the biggest. As she looked around for someone who could assist her, she didn’t pay attention to where she was going. She bumped her cart against someone else’s and winced.

  “I’m so sorry,” Tierney said in a gush. “I should watch where I’m going.”

  “I would say the same, but that would be wishful thinking,” the woman holding onto the other shopping cart said, sounding amused. “No harm done.” She was blond, curvaceous, and wore very dark sunglasses. And held a white cane. Shit.

  “Vivian?” a younger voice said, and a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in black jeans and a blue chambray shirt appeared. “You okay, sweetheart?” She placed her arm around the middle-aged woman’s waist and kissed her on the temple.

  “I’m fine. This young woman apologized profusely.”

  “Only right,” Tierney said. “I was too busy looking for a staff member. Glad I didn’t actually hit you, ma’am.”

  “Oh, good Lord. Do call me Vivian.” The blond woman smiled warmly. “I think Mike was doing the same thing. Did you find someone, darling?” She turned to the other woman, who had to be this Mike.

  Wait…Vivian? Mik
e? Tierney’s mind whirled. As in Mike Stone and Vivian Harding? For a few seconds, Tierney contemplated pretending she hadn’t recognized either of them, but perhaps this thing of being up front with Giselle was becoming a habit. “I’m Tierney. I admire your music, Vivian, Mike, and listen to it often.” She almost added that their music was very good to take one’s mind off having to sleep outdoors, barely sheltered from the rain.

  “Ah. That’s wonderful.” Vivian nodded regally. “Now, if you and Mike could scare up a staff member so I can buy the special food the vet recommended for my boys, I’d be happy to sing for you.”

  Mike snorted. “You’ll get us in trouble if you teach those parrots over there to sing one of your arias.” Turning to Tierney, she motioned for her to come along. “Leave the cart with Vivian. I thought I heard someone in the back.”

  Still stunned, Tierney followed Mike to the back of the store, where they finally found a stocky, thin-haired man hauling large sacks of dog food from the fork lift. Mike asked for a special brand of food, which he quickly guided her to.

  “And you, miss?” the man said politely, looking curiously at her. He had clearly known who Mike was but now regarded Tierney as if she was a rare entity.

  “I’m currently employed by Giselle Bonnaire, and she asked me to pick up three months’ worth of food for her cat and dog. And charge it to her account.”

  The manager’s eyebrows slanted down toward the bridge of his nose as he gave her an apprehensive look. “How would I know you’re who you say you are? Normally Frances shops for Ms. Bonnaire.”

  “Frances is in Europe. I’m filling in for a while.” A long while, Tierney hoped. “You can call Ms. Bonnaire and double check. She said you have her cellphone number.” This wasn’t going well. Tierney could feel a major déjà vu from her teens. Back then, if something was amiss in any way, the foster kid got the blame. The one without parents, without a real home to call her own, and the one who had every reason to shoplift or steal something from someone at any given time had to be guilty.