Mark shrugged. “It was a hell of a story. Anyone who could string a sentence together would have won an award with it.”
“I don’t think so. I read the article,” Bailey argued. “It was brilliant, Mark. You took the story of a seventy-fiveyear-old tragedy and made it fresh and gripping, I was crying for the poor twins long before I finished reading your account of what had happened to them, and the unwarranted damage that had been done to their reputations ever since. I felt such satisfaction that you vindicated them. You really should consider writing a book.”
“Maybe I will someday,” Mark murmured. “But not about that. Dean has made me promise I’d let that story drop now that we’ve cleared the twins’ names.”
Bailey wondered why Dean was so adamant about letting the story be forgotten. It really was an interesting tale. “I guess he’s reluctant to involve Anna,” she said.
Both Mark and Mae seemed to stiffen.
“What do you mean, Bailey?” Mae asked.
Mark only watched her, his eyes searching her face in a way that made Bailey wonder what on earth she’d said.
“I only meant that since the twins were distant relatives of hers, curious people might annoy her with a lot of questions. Or maybe Dean’s afraid the inn will
be invaded by a mob of New Age types hoping to contact the twins’ tormented spirits or some garbage like that. Why? What did you think I meant?”
Mae and Mark exchanged a glance. To Bailey, it seemed as though they were both trying to decide how much the other knew. She wished she had even the faintest idea what lay behind their odd behavior.
Not for the first time, she had the feeling that there was something about this inn and its history that everyone knew except her. She felt very much the outsider at that moment.
Would she, like Dean, ever find a place where she truly belonged? she wondered with a wistfulness she tried to hide from her dinner companions.
Mark stayed late, talking in the sitting room with Bailey and Mae. Bailey suspected that he was hoping Cara would join them eventually, but she never did. When Mark had delayed returning to his lonely apartment as long as he could, he stood with a sigh. “Guess I’d better go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Bailey offered, rising. “I need to finish writing my résumé tonight.”
“I hope you find a job close by,” Mark said with a warm smile. “We would all enjoy having you here.”
She returned the smile, knowing that her brother’s friend had become hers, as well. It was nice to make new friends—whether she could help them with their problems or not.
Bailey kissed her aunt’s cheek on the way out. “Good night, Aunt Mae. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, dear. Don’t work too late on your résumé. There’s no great rush, is there?”
Bailey smiled, moved by the loving concern in her aunt’s voice, a poignant reminder of her childhood. “I won’t be too late,” she promised.
It was starting to drizzle when Bailey and Mark walked outside, a cold mist laden with the promise of winter. Bailey burrowed into the baseball-style jacket she wore with her sweater and jeans. “The weatherman said we’d have this rain last night. Looks like they were about twenty-four hours too early.”
“The weather’s a lot like a woman—very hard to predict.”
Bailey laughed and slid her hand beneath his arm. “The old country philosopher,” she teased.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become the next Mark Twain.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being Mark Winter.”
He sighed. “Tell Cara that.”
“Maybe I will.”
He stiffened. “I didn’t mean that literally,” he assured her hastily. “Don’t get involved in this, Bailey. It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Maybe not,” she said, her chin lifting stubbornly. “But someone should do something. The two of you are both so obviously miserable, it makes me itch to get involved.”
“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the thought, I just want to try to handle this myself, okay?”
“Fine. When were you planning to start?” she asked politely.