The Girl From Summer Hill Read online

  Next was a file labeled RACHAEL. In it was a video of her talking to someone off camera.

  “It was the worst thing I ever did,” Rachael said. “And he wouldn’t even pay me! That night he came by the hotel and tried to get me to go to bed with him. I slammed the door on his hand and I hope I broke his fingers.”

  Rachael looked at the camera. “Casey, if you’re seeing this, I’m sorry. I’ve never met Tate Landers and I lied about him. The gossip around L.A. is that he’s a really nice man. And as for that story about the publicity stunt, I don’t know anything about it. Haines gave me the photos and said he’d pay me to do some acting. I thought it was all a joke—until I saw your face. Devlin Haines is a real bastard.”

  Rachael glanced over at the interviewer. “Sorry. I know you used to be married to him.”

  “I’ve called him worse,” said a woman’s voice. “Anything else you want to say?”

  Rachael looked back at the camera. “Casey, you’re not fat. Haines told me to be sure to say that. And again, I’m very sorry for lying to you.”

  Casey closed the file and got up to make herself a cup of tea. As she reached for the mug, her hands were shaking.

  It took hours to go through all the folders. Whoever had put them together—probably Nina—had done a thorough job. The mother of the little boy on the roof had been interviewed. She got very angry when she was told that someone had said the whole thing was a publicity stunt and that the child wasn’t hers. Her language became quite colorful!

  The man who took the photos of the rescue was interviewed, and he told how he’d been paid twenty grand for them. He had no affiliation to any news media and no one had hired him to take the pictures.

  It seemed Tate had told Nina about Devlin’s gift to Casey, for there was a sales receipt for the recent purchase of an antique chocolate mold. “So much for his grandmother,” Casey murmured.

  At eight, she made herself a sandwich and poured a large glass of wine. There was one more file. TO BE SAVED FOR LAST was the name on it.

  Casey didn’t know how much more she could take. What kind of person did the things that Devlin Haines had done? The lies, the twisting and turning of facts and history, were beyond what she could comprehend.

  She drank half the wine before she opened the remaining folder. What horrible thing had Nina saved for last?

  But what she saw on the video was her own house, and what she heard was a little girl giggling.

  Casey leaned back on the pillows, pulled the computer onto her lap, and watched Tate Landers put on a silent movie of his war with a peacock.

  By the time he got to the pajamas on the floor, Casey was laughing. Tate’s pantomimed throat-cutting made her laugh harder.

  She heard his stomach growling and saw him scoop up the pie with a big spoon. The look on his face at the taste of the pie she’d made was possibly the most honest, heartfelt compliment she’d ever received.

  When she saw herself enter the kitchen and start bawling Tate out, Casey was holding her stomach from laughter. She was like the straight man in a comedy routine. The anger on her face when she saw Tate’s shirt hanging from the roof sent her into spasms. And Tate’s innocent expression when he asked if she could sew on his button nearly did her in.

  It was late when she closed her computer and went upstairs. She needed time to think about all she’d learned.

  How do you recover from embarrassment so deep that you never again want to be seen in public? Casey wondered.

  The next morning, at barely daylight, she was outside in the herb garden. It was Sunday, so rehearsals wouldn’t start until two—and she didn’t know if she could bear to go.

  How did she face Tate after seeing what she had? What could she possibly say to him? “I’m sorry”? That’s what you said when you accidentally stepped on someone’s toe.

  What words could adequately apologize for the things she’d said? For all that she’d accused Tate of? There were none that could cover it.

  Last night, after she’d recovered from her laughter over the Peacock War, she returned to reality and saw her part in the…well, the evil of Devlin Haines. Why hadn’t she seen through him? Why hadn’t she checked out his story? Some of the clips on the drive had been from YouTube, so she could have found them. When Devlin told her Tate had ruined his show, why didn’t she look online to verify that?

  The answer was, of course, that normal humans weren’t used to people who lied on the scale that Devlin Haines did. And there was Casey’s assumption that a man who was a movie star must be out for whatever he could get. She had dismissed Tate’s talk of staying together, but she’d believed every lie Haines had told her.

  Before she went to bed, she’d sent an email to Gizzy: I WAS WRONG ABOUT EVERYTHING. THE RESCUE WAS REAL. I AM AN IDIOT. WE HAVE TO TALK TOMORROW.

  She didn’t tell Gizzy about what was on the flash drive and knew she wouldn’t. So much of it was private. Nina had entrusted those personal documents to Casey, and they weren’t to be shared.

  She picked some parsley and put it in her trug. Tate’s sister and niece had arrived, and she planned to cook them the best food she’d ever made.

  As she moved to the little patch of chives, she thought how Nina knew everything. She knew Casey had believed every word Haines said and had assumed that Tate was lying. How was Casey going to face the woman?

  At worst, Casey imagined, Nina would sneer at her, curse her, tell her what she thought of her. And Casey deserved it all. She—

  “Hello.”

  She turned to see a pretty little girl with dark hair and eyes that were exactly like Tate’s. She had on pink tights, a pink-and-white dress, and sparkly pink shoes. “You must be Emmie.”

  She nodded. “Uncle Tate said it was okay for me to visit you. Can you really cook? He says you can make dirt and rocks taste good.”

  “I can,” Casey said. “My secret is that I put fried worms on top. I tried red ants but they were too crunchy. I didn’t want to compete with the rocks.”

  Emmie blinked a few times, then smiled exactly like Tate did. “I like sand better than rocks.”

  Casey laughed. She looked like her uncle and she had his sense of humor. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” Emmie said.

  “Then come inside and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  Inside, Emmie peered around the kitchen. “Did you really put jam in those jars?”

  “I did.” Casey was looking in the refrigerator, trying to decide what to cook for this child, who she’d heard was a picky eater.

  “I saw the jars when Uncle Tate chased the peacock. He hates that bird! Mom let me buy him a big mug with a peacock handle. It’ll make him laugh.”

  “Has he seen it yet?”

  “No,” Emmie said. “What’s that?”

  “Pie dough. I made it yesterday. You wouldn’t like to help me make some tiny pies, would you? We can fill them with bacon and cheese, or blackberries, or we can make up a filling. Pizza is nice, or I have some South Carolina peaches we can use.”

  With every word Casey spoke, Emmie’s eyes grew bigger. It took a few minutes to get hands washed, aprons on, and hair tied back before they were ready to begin. Casey showed her how to use the round biscuit cutter to shape the dough and how to put the filling in the middle.

  Throughout it all, Emmie kept up a steady stream of talk about everything. Her mother was asleep, Uncle Tate was reading, and Uncle Jack had left the house early that morning. “It was still dark,” Emmie said. She said she’d thought about climbing into bed with her mother, but instead she got dressed and went in search of the “food lady.”

  She and her mother had arrived late the afternoon before. “I wanted to come see you then, but Uncle Tate said no, that you were busy. Do you cook a lot?”

  “Lately, I’ve cooked too much,” Casey said. She was putting the first batch of the little pies in the oven. “I thought I’d make a big breakfast and take it over there. When do you think your mother wi