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little Cape and had taken note of the rambling pink roses on the white picket fence, the terra-cotta pots of wispy flowers, the spikes of pink and yellow and white and orange in gardens all around the old house, and the trim, pretty shed that served as her studio. To live and work out here by herself had to require a certain courage and independence, something he wondered if her brother Andrew recognized in his little sister.
    Well, it wasn't his problem.
    He could smell the sweet scents of his own flower gardens. He distinguished honeysuckle and wisteria among them, and for a moment he might have been home, not in Nashville, but in the Cumberland hills where Irma Bryar's honeysuckle and wisteria grew in unmanageable tangles. Spring came late to New England and lasted only a short time, unlike the long, slow, fragrant spring of Tennessee. Cape Cod was foreign territory for him. The locals had little interest in celebrity, none at all in his particular brand. He grimaced at the thought of his unsmiling face on a recent cover of a slick Nashville magazine touting him as one of the chosen new architects of the growing, changing city. He's rich, he's successful, he's respected... So why isn't Clate Jackson smiling?
    A dumb-ass headline if he'd ever read one.
    He tore his gaze from the hedges. To have his place on Cape Cod be what he wanted it to be—what he needed it to be—he would have to keep the locals at arm's length, Piper Macintosh most especially.
    She'd looked preoccupied standing by her bicycle, looking out at the water. Troubled.
    The rattle of a truck engine interrupted his unwelcome thoughts. Company? More Macintosh men to warn him off? He headed around to the gravel driveway and garage at the side of the house.
    A big, muscle-bound man stepped out of a rusted pickup. He looked about thirty, give or take a year, and had tawny, curly hair, a tawny beard, and a meaty, friendly face. "You Clate Jackson? Hi. I'm Tuck O'Rourke. Figured I'd stop by, see if you could use someone to take care of your place here. I can do pretty much whatever you need doing. Cut grass, prune, trim, odd jobs. Don't matter."
    After less than twenty-four hours up north, Clate was having his doubts about tales of standoffish Yankees. "You have references?"
    "Yeah, sure. You got a minute? I can look around the place, see what needs to be done, and maybe we can work something out. Probably should have called, but I didn't know if you had a phone yet."
    He did. The number wasn't listed. But hiring a caretaker was on his to-do list, and he supposed he should look upon Tuck O'Rourke's visit as a convenience rather than an intrusion. He motioned for the big man to go on ahead of him, and they walked around to the back yard together, Tuck explaining that Jason Frye had employed his father as a caretaker. "When Jason died, Mrs. Frye let Pop go. She never liked the idea of someone else doing work on the property."
    "She did it herself?"
    "Or didn't do it at all."
    Added insight into the Macintosh personality. Clate let Tuck take him around the lush, old yard as he pointed out its many problems. Rotted trellises, bees' nests in inappropriate places, brick that needed replacing, cracked stone, washed-out spots along the foundation, a robust crop of poison ivy vying with grape vines off along the far edge of the yard. When they finished, they returned to the stone terrace, which was in danger, apparently, of eroding and washing down into the marsh.
    O'Rourke shrugged his massive shoulders. "Sorry for all the bad news. I guess Mrs. Frye didn't keep up the place that well."
    "Did she decide to sell because upkeep was getting out of hand?"
    "I don't know. I just heard it had to do with one of her spells."
    "One of her what?"
    "Spells. She's a witch." He spoke in that blunt, Yankee manner, then grinned at Clate's mystified look and rubbed his short beard. "You didn't know, huh?"
    "No, I didn't." Although the skull and crossbones in the enclosed herb garden