Читать книгу The In-Between Hour - Barbara White Claypole - Страница 17

Nine

Will woke to bright moonlight and the howling of coyotes. And a pair of delicate nails poking out of his skin. So, Hannah hadn’t been some ghostly mirage created by his burned-out mind. He felt—Will concentrated—okay. The headache had retreated into an echo of pain. Staring up at a full moon, he eased out the first needle, then the second.

How long had he been asleep? Jesus.

Will jumped up and tugged open the front door, gagging on the smell. The old man was stretched out on the futon, asleep and drooling. The new bottle of Wild Turkey, a quarter empty, pinned a note to the coffee table. “Dinner in—” indecipherable scribble. Oven? Oven!

Running into the kitchen, Will stopped to glance around for a fire extinguisher. As expected, Hannah was a woman with her shit together, a woman who placed a small fire extinguisher on the wall and a smoke detector on the ceiling. The green, blinking light suggested it was fully operational.

Will made a quick check through the glass door of the oven. Good, no flames. And the knob was turned only to two hundred degrees, probably because the old man couldn’t see without his glasses. Who knew what had happened to those.

What other details had Will missed? On a rock face, he never doubted his ability to protect lives, and yet here he was—spectacularly inept at looking after one octogenarian. Was he supposed to remind his dad to change his underwear, brush his teeth, wipe his ass—Will eased open the oven door—take the plastic wrapping off the lasagna before heating it?

No wonder Hawk’s Ridge charged exorbitant rates. The staff earned every cent.

A large mug of black coffee and an internet search later, Will had compiled a list of local assisted-living facilities and researched another leg of Freddie’s trip. Will laced his hands behind his neck and stretched. Rediscovering the joy of in-depth location research was invigorating. As with every aspect of his writing, he’d grown lazy, choreographing action around backdrops rather than exploring the psychological impact of setting on character. After all, a patch of forest could brand you for life.

The scar on his knee itched; he ignored it.

Freddie and Cassandra were in Vienna. They’d spent the evening before at the Prater, riding the Giant Ferris Wheel, and the morning at the Augarten Park. Fortunately, they’d avoided Hitler’s anti-aircraft flak tower, a concrete monument to evil.

If only Will could figure out how to use that Nazi behemoth in his work, incorporate it into a hate crime Agent Dodds could stumble into while on vacation. Except his hero was still suspended from the helicopter. Besides, Agent Dodds didn’t do vacations. Didn’t do downtime. Sex was rushed, desperate and usually with someone’s wife; A.A. meetings were an excuse for Dodds to check email. The only time Dodds unplugged was when he visited his paranoid schizophrenic mother in the nursing home surrounded by razor wire.

Will pushed back from the kitchen table and wandered into the main room. He should try and get his dad upstairs to bed. Or maybe not. Life was so peaceful when the old man was out cold. It was the relief of watching a sleeping toddler after a crazy-ass day of playground supervision. It was also the writing hour—or would be, if he had a story worth telling. Something other than the Great European Adventure.

He eased the cotton throw off the back of the futon and tucked it around the old man. A walk in the moonlight might unlock a little inspiration. Will refused to think the word muse, which resonated with literary pretension and angst. Of course, he’d always dissed the phrase writer’s block, too. Cosmic payback was one sick bitch.

Five minutes—Will tiptoed onto the porch—he’d only be gone five minutes. Long enough to take a look at the mare that was always tearing up grass with her teeth. Didn’t want the old man waking to an empty house.

A large buck with a trophy rack appeared on the edge of his vision, then glided back toward Saponi Mountain. Will turned his head away from the siren song of the forest. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to set foot in there before returning to New York.

Tree frogs croaked a concerto, and snuffling came from the compost pile. The raccoons were out in force. Above, an expanse of night sky shimmered with stars. Man, he’d forgotten the glory of Southern nights—how he was drawn to the stillness, the raw energy. As a kid, he’d loved reading or writing in the middle of the night. Unless there was a storm to whip up her craziness, terror tended to come with the light, when his mom was awake.

On the ground floor of the main house, a figure moved behind closed curtains. His temporary landlady was still awake. Temporary was such a wonderful word. It didn’t hold you to a thing.

And was that running water? Curious, Will changed direction and headed toward the beam of artificial light illuminating the far side of the main house. Too late he remembered what Hannah had said about an outside shower. He swallowed a huge, painful gulp.

Poppy was standing under a jet of water, and she was full rearview naked.

If she were ten years younger—and he hadn’t stopped dating when Freddie was old enough for sleepovers—Poppy would have been a classic Will Shepard babe. Curvaceous, wild, outspoken, she was fire inside and out, a woman who dazzled with a good-time guarantee and the knowledge that she could lose interest and vanish. Great sex, no future. But thinking with his dick had only ever led to disaster, and dealing with his dad was enough of a calamity.

He should turn away. Really. Because to stay meant crossing the line into being a sicko, a total perv. He should look away, but like a twelve-year-old with a stack of porn magazines, he couldn’t.

Poppy rinsed her hair, tilting her head from side to side.

Eyes up, Will, eyes up.

But his eyes, unable to heed the message from his brain, trawled lower. What was it about women’s butts that made him behave like a kid confronted with a wall of jelly beans in every flavor you could imagine and some you couldn’t?

Grab and eat your fill.

Then a door opened, and Will sprinted for the camouflage of the forest.

* * *

Had anything ever felt quite so divine? The buzz from a bottle of wine—minus Hannah’s one teeny-weeny glass—and the cool water caressing Poppy’s body. No wonder Hannah liked to shower in the moonlight. This was bliss. At least, it was until Hannah started cawing like trailer trash.

“Poppy!”

Poppy hummed loudly.

“Poppy!”

She should have plied Hannah with more wine, but her friend had stopped drinking after droning on and on about being on call. ’Course Hannah didn’t do drunk, didn’t do mad, and she hadn’t had sex in forever. What was her problem?

Stupid, stupid, s-t-u-p-i-d for a woman in her prime to say she wouldn’t date because of her sons—neither of whom even lived at home anymore. If she put in the smallest effort, Hannah would be a red-hot babe. And the boys wanted their mom to get it on with someone so they didn’t have to worry about her being home alone in the middle of nowhere. Well, that was Galen’s take. Liam’s motivation was more along the lines of “So she’ll, like, stay out of my business.”

Poppy had only kept one secret her whole life: that when Liam was sixteen and wasted, he’d asked Poppy to be his mom. Well, maybe she’d kept more than just that one secret.

The water stopped, and Poppy shivered.

“What?” She swallowed a belch. “I’m recycling water for your plants.”

She was thrust into a warm, fluffy white towel.

“You mean you’re hoping Will Shepard notices you recycling water for my plants while you’re standing out here naked.” Hannah raised her eyebrows.

“That, too.”

“Making goo-goo eyes at my new tenant is the worst idea you’ve had in a series of worst ideas. He’s got issues. It’s written all over his face.”

“I’m more interested in his body....”

“Which is barely out of diapers.”

“Yummy. Everything all firm.” Poppy snorted a laugh. “Dang, girl, you don’t have a hankering for him, do you?”

Hannah sighed. “I’m old enough to be his mother.”

“Bull crap, he’s older than he looks. Only a few years younger than me.” Eight. She’d done the math.

“Suppose it had been Jacob? You could’ve given him a heart attack. Although—” Hannah’s mouth did that cute little twitchy thing it did when she was thinking “—he would’ve died happy.”

“Ah. Didn’t consider that.”

“Exactly. No more outside showers while I have tenants.”

“Yes, mama dearest.” Poppy hiccupped.

“Are you drunk?”

“Yup.”

There was definitely movement by the tree line. Man-size movement. Poppy sashayed her hips as she followed Hannah and the dogs back inside. The trap was set and sprung. Now all she had to do was reel in that hunk of an author. Game on.

* * *

Branches snapped all around him, and Will glanced over his shoulder, half expecting a pack of saber-toothed tigers to leap from behind the oaks and shred him with six-inch razor fangs. Reduce him to gristle and bone.

Less than two days in Orange County, and he was back in the forest. It was nothing more than a Pandora’s box of the past, and unlike his dad, Will wanted that part of his life to remain in storage.

The memory assaulted him, anyway: his mother grabbing him by the hand after his first day of kindergarten, shrieking, “Let’s celebrate with an adventure! Slay the beast of Occoneechee Mountain!”

There had been a time when her grandiose schemes had sucked him in. Even after they’d imploded in a flurry of excess or fizzled as her attention darted to something else, he’d allowed himself to believe that next time, next time, things would be different. But by then he’d learned better. Five years old and already he was skeptical. As she pulled him deeper into the woods that day, he had cried to go home, and he never cried as a kid. Will rubbed his arms. The memory crawled under his skin, wormed into his cells, returned in stereo surround sound.

All morning in school, he’d been anxious, waiting for the other kids to tease him for being a runt, for not having a lunch box, for wearing secondhand clothes. His fears were realized at recess, until the little girl in a hot-pink tutu knocked down the bully who’d stolen his swing. Ally got in trouble for that, but she didn’t care. And he was smitten. No one had ever stood up for him before. No one had ever put him first. He jumped off the bus, eager to invite his new friend over to share his stash of library books. But his mom had other plans, and she wouldn’t let go. She held tighter and tighter until she dragged him over the rusty animal trap that sliced open his knee. It was the first time—maybe the only time—his dad got angry with his mom; it was the first time Will fantasized about escape.

He touched the scar through his jeans. The itchiness from earlier had gone. Once again, it was numb.

Waiting until the outside lights on the main house switched off, Will crept back to the cottage and picked up the plastic bag Hannah had left on the porch swing. What did she say? It should help you sleep.

Better pilfer one of those orange capsules from his dad—add a temazepam chaser on the off-chance dried feverfew wasn’t strong enough for total blackout.