Elinor pulled the key out of the lock and tested the door. It was locked, just as she remembered leaving it.
Fingers trembling, she unlocked the door and reached in, lifting the fragile flower to her cheek. A deep, clinging scent drifted up to enthrall her. She held the flower, staring down at the scroll.
A few seconds later, curiosity compelled her to tug the ribbon loose. The papers sprang open in her hands.
Safety reports on all of Whittier Incorporated's seven manufacturing plants.
Cole lifted the coffee cup and set it back down. It had been twenty-four hours since Elinor had found his peace offering.
The silence was getting hard to take. By his best estimate, she should have volleyed back a shot by now. He moved the coffee cup aside in disgust. The art of negotiating had always been his long suit. Until Elinor. Nowadays his nerves of steel seemed more like steel wool. Then again, he'd never contemplated marriage before.
The woman left him feeling itchy and unsettled. He wasn't accustomed to failure, but that wasn't the biggest blow. Apparently, he was losing more than his shirt on this one.
The phone rang, drawing his attention back to his makeshift office. He'd accepted the mayor's offer of office space more out of politics than anything else.
Cole stretched an arm out to snag the receiver just as the phone rang again.
"Whittier."
"Sir?" Brinkman's voice seemed tentative.
"Yes." Cole leaned back in his chair. He'd almost forgotten. Today was Elinor's deadline. Brinkman must have heard from her. "What's the word, Brinkman?"
"It's not good, sir." The broker sounded disgusted.
"She turned it down?"
"Actually, sir, we've hit a snag and she's not going to give us an answer for another few weeks."
"What snag?" Cole frowned as his fingers tightened on the receiver. The longer this thing dragged out, the harder it would be to pull off.
"The old man died this morning."
"What?" Cole bolted in his chair. "Daniel Prescott died?"
"Yes, sir. I just got a call from the old man's servant." Brinkman's voice was laced with nothing more than irritation. "It looks like we're going to have to give the granddaughter a few days to bury the old guy."
"I'll get back to you, Brinkman." Cole reached for his jacket. "Don't do anything. Don't bother Ms. Prescott in any way."
"Of course not," Brinkman said, sounding aggrieved. "I do have some finesse."
"Good," Cole responded before hanging up.
Rushing out of the office, he pulled on his jacket as he went.
Elinor had come back to Bayville to be close to her last living relative. And now Daniel Prescott was dead.
Cole knew his presence might be more of an irritant to her, but there was no way he was going to let Elinor deal with this alone.
He drove through the familiar streets, lined with tall live oaks that filtered the afternoon sun, his mind struggling to grasp the reality. Daniel was dead. Even though he'd known the old man was in ill health and had witnessed his attempt a few days ago to make peace with the past, it still didn't seem possible.
Leaving the blacktopped road, Cole turned up the drive to Oakleigh without hesitation. He knew Elinor would be there.
He rounded the long driveway and pulled up in the old carriage yard next to a late-model car he didn't recognize.
The old plantation house looked worn and sad in the waning afternoon light. Silent and abiding, it seemed untouched by human misfortune.
Cole walked across the uneven turf to the steps, wondering in what condition Daniel had left his affairs. Would Elinor be overwhelmed with the debts of her grandfather's untidy life? More importantly, would she let Cole help her with it?
The front door stood open, revealing the great empty hall. Cole stepped inside, his gaze drawn to the right, to Daniel's room. From the hall, he could see the curtains drawn back and the windows thrown open as if the room had been scrubbed clean.
On the other side of the hall, Cole heard voices from the study. The door opened then and he saw Elinor inside, her face somber and intent as she conferred with Charlie. Her eyes never lifted from his face, and Cole knew that she hadn't realized he was there.
The old man said something in a low voice and Elinor nodded several times. When she turned back and addressed someone else in the room, Charlie stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
"Mr. Cole," the old man said, his step firm and his face empty as he crossed the dull, marble floor.
"I'm sorry, Charlie." Cole reached out, grasping Charlie's strong, thin one in his.
"He was a tiresome, worn-out old man with a wicked temper," Charlie said, his dark brown eyes damp. "The devil will have too much trouble with him to keep him long."
A low laugh rippled out of Cole, his grip tightening on the older man's hand. "You're probably right, Charlie. You're probably right."
"Miss Elinor's in there with the undertaker makin' die funeral arrangements. He's promised her to have Mr. Prescott ready for the funeral tomorrow afternoon."
"I'm sure it will be a relief to get everything taken care of," Cole responded.
"Yes, sir. It will. And there's lots to take care of. Miss Elinor's hands are full."
"Don't worry about Elinor," Cole said. "I'll stay and walk her home."
"You do that." Charlie nodded. "I have some things to do."
After Charlie left, Cole strolled through the open doorway onto Oakleigh Is gallery. An ancient bench sat to one side of the door, its once-white paint now grayed and flaking.
Brushing off the surface grime, Cole sat down on the bench to wait for Elinor. The deep gallery possessed a shaded coolness that he remembered from younger days. Its comfort seeped into him as the shadows from the great columns slowly crept across the gallery's stone floor.
Eventually, he heard a door open inside the house, and recognized Elinor's voice as she walked the undertaker to the door.
"Yes, I believe we discussed everything." Her pleasant tone was unfailingly polite.
"I'm sure it will be a lovely service," another voice said in a deeply reassuring manner.
Elinor stepped through the doorway, her back to Cole as she ushered the funeral director out.
A small, nattily attired man, he took her proffered hand with reverence. "Miss Prescott, I wish to offer once again my deepest sympathy. Your grandfather was a tremendously important man to our community. His loss will be greatly felt."