Page 23 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Where are my manners? What would you like? I could open a bottle of wine.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll try the non-alcoholic approach for now. Some of that fresh orange juice sounds fine.”

“I also have fresh lemonade.”

“Of course you do,” Rowan said with a grin. “Don’t mind me. I’m slightly envious. While I’m still settling in, dealing with a ghost that’s dropped a mess in my lap, you’re all cozy and normal, making lemonade.”

He grabbed glasses from the cabinet, opened the fridge, and took out a pitcher. After filling it with cold liquid, he handed the glass off. “I’ve been here longer. As for the photos you found, let’s not go down the rabbit hole just yet.”

“How can I not? It’s obvious I’m not that kid in the photos. There’s somebody in that grave with my name on it. Or, more likely, she was here first, and I’m the outsider.”

“Look, even if the rabbit hole keeps getting bigger and bigger at this point, let’s get more evidence before we take that leap. The first order has to be a DNA test. Period. You’re just spinning your wheels until you find out definitively. You know it’s true.”

She drained her glass of lemonade. “Sure. But how do I accomplish that without going into court?”

He cocked a brow. “Do you have anything lying around with Gran’s DNA on it?”

Her lips puckered, trying to remember. “I boxed up some of her things when I was here last May immediately after the funeral. I’d planned to finish going through her stuff in December. Obviously, that didn’t happen like it was supposed to. Is it true that all you need for DNA is a hairbrush? Because I think hers is still in a box.”

“If there’s a root on any of the hairs, that’s a goldmine. You find the hairbrush and I’ll call in a favor with Brogan and Lucien. They use a lab in San Sebastian that has a quick turnaround. And that same lab has access to genealogy.”

“Without having to go to the cops and have them tell me I’m a whack job? I like that plan better,” Rowan said, pouring herself more lemonade.

“If we get DNA and it doesn’t match with yours, then you’ve got something to take to Brent that won’t make you sound like a whack job.”

“You know what, bring on the food. I’m suddenly a lot hungrier than I was.”

Daniel removed the salad from the fridge. After adding soy sauce and sprinkling in sliced almonds, he tossed everything together—chopped green and purple cabbage, fresh cilantro, grated carrots, mandarin oranges—and served it up with cold grilled chicken. He drizzled a sweet and tangy Asian sesame vinaigrette dressing on top for the finish.

“Yum. It’s good, really good,” she said, sampling her first bite. “Where did you say you learned to do this?”

“Glad you like it. It’s a quick and simple meal. Jordan Harris taught a class out at Promise Cove last January—five dinners in under thirty minutes—it was a big hit, standing room only. Jordan used fresh chicken. But this is bagged stuff I picked up in Murphy’s refrigerated section.”

“Nothing wrong with bagged. Does she do that often? Give lessons.”

“A couple of times a year. Last fall was her dessert class.”

“Ooh. What’s for dessert?”

“Ice cream.”

Rowan perked up. “Lavender?”

“What’s with all the women in town asking for lavender? It’s definitely a gender thing. The guys go for rocky road or the basic chocolate and vanilla while the women prefer the more seasonal flavors, especially during spring and summer.”

“I don’t know about them, but it’s the light and creamy texture for me. It offers the best of both worlds. And the color reminds me of spring lilacs. I love lilacs.”

Daniel made a mental note of that and got up to refill their glasses.

“Did your grandmother make lavender ice cream when you were a child?”

He eased back in his chair and thought of his grandmother on his father’s side. “Maureen Albritton Cardiff—everybody calls her Mamie—even her kids and her grandkids. She has a slice of French Cajun in her ancestry. She was a whiz in the kitchen, including whipping up her own simple but delicious recipe for ice cream.”

“And your mother? You never mention her.”

“My mother—Valerie Cardiff—is a piece of work. She seems to adore my sisters, dotes on them. That’s probably why they get along so well. My mother has always seemed distant where I’m concerned.”

“And your dad?”

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