Читать книгу Copper Lake Confidential - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 8

The instant the front door closed behind Stephen on his way to get the pizza, Macy grimaced. The last thing she wanted tonight was to have dinner with a stranger and his dog, even if it was a Luigi’s pizza.

No, the last thing she wanted was to be alone in this house. And with this being their third visit in one day, Stephen wasn’t exactly a stranger anymore. If he were a homicidal maniac—like Mark—he’d had enough chances at her already. And she liked his dog. Scooter was sweet and cuddly, and the Lab neither suspected nor cared that she was apparently delusional.

Her gut tightened, her stomach heaving so violently that she pressed one hand to her abdomen, the other to her mouth. Had she really seen someone in the guesthouse? Was she crazy? Was she already losing the balance she’d fought so hard to recover?

Since there was absolutely no sign of anyone having trespassed on the property, she couldn’t have seen someone, but she preferred to think she’d overreacted rather than imagined a threat. She was anxious about being here. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be?

She’d let memory get the best of her and made a fool of herself, but now it was over. At least she’d had the luck to find Stephen driving past and not one of the neighbors she knew, and enough control to stop him from calling the police. She didn’t know if her months in the psychiatric hospital were common knowledge in Copper Lake, but she didn’t intend to give anyone reason to doubt her sanity. No panicked calls to the police about nonexistent intruders. No more fodder for the town gossips.

And she could look on this dinner as therapy. If she and Clary were ever going to have a normal life, she had to learn how to socialize again. Small talk, no anxiety attacks, just a well-adjusted woman sharing a pizza with a man who’d done her a favor.

The front door clicked, signaling Stephen’s return, and she moved to the cabinets, taking out plates, glasses and napkins. An earlier check of the refrigerator had revealed that Robbie Calloway—or, more likely, Anamaria—had had it stocked with the basics, so she removed a jug of iced tea, a couple of bottles of water and a couple of bottles of her favorite pop.

The enticing aromas of the pizza entered the kitchen a few seconds ahead of Stephen and Scooter. For just a moment, Macy felt light, eagerly anticipating the pleasure to come. It was a fleeting sensation, one she’d almost forgotten, and it left an ache when her usual uneasiness replaced it.

“I should have asked…do you mind having Scooter inside? I can run him home if you’d prefer.”

She thought of all the things the dog could damage—antique rugs peed on, wood floors scratched, delicate porcelain broken with a swipe of his tail—and a smile blossomed across her face. “No, he’s fine. Nothing in here is that important.” Not to her, at least. Anything he did damage would just be one less thing for her to find a home for.

They settled across from each other at the small dining table that separated the kitchen from the family room. Scooter took up a position exactly between them, looking excitedly from one to the other.

“He’s a beautiful dog,” she commented. “I’m thinking of getting one for my daughter and me.”

“Your daughter?” Stephen stood and crossed the few feet into the kitchen. “Knife?”

She nodded toward the block on one counter pushed far out of reach of little fingers. “Clary. She’s three. She’s in Charleston with my brother and his wife. They’re coming up Friday to help.”

Returning with a paring knife, he cut a slice of pizza into Scooter-sized pieces, fed one to the dog, then took a bite of his own slice. “You have any particular breed in mind?”

The one time she’d broached the subject with Mark, he’d listed the breeds he would find acceptable—in other words, very expensive—before giving a flat refusal. She had been disappointed by both responses but hadn’t really expected anything else. After all, an over-the-top belief in their own superiority was a defining characteristic of the Howard family, and Mark liked order. A yappy puppy would have upset that.

With those expensive, purebred animals in mind, she replied, “Something without a pedigree. One that needs a home and is good with kids.”

“There’s a no-kill shelter just outside town. Unfortunately, they have plenty that meet your requirements.”

Macy chewed her first bite, and the pleasure she’d briefly anticipated bloomed through her. It was almost enough to make her moan. After swallowing, she asked, “Is that where Scooter came from?”

“Nope. A client bought him sight unseen, didn’t do any training, then wanted me to put him down because he didn’t behave. He’s been with me ever since.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised, but my husband’s grandmother generally turned down visits with her only great-grandchild because Clary refused to be merely seen and not heard.” Miss Willa had had no patience for the baby, just as Mark would have had no tolerance for an exuberant dog. He’d killed people for no more reason than he wanted to. It was doubtful he would have spared a dog that was less than perfect.

Revulsion rippled through her, her fingers gripping her glass until the tips turned white. She took a couple of deep calming breaths and was grateful to hear Stephen go on talking, though for a moment the words were dampened by the hum in her ears.

“—is afraid she’s never going to get grandkids, much less great-grandkids,” he was saying when she could focus. “I tell her she should have had more than just the two of us. I doubt ‘procreate’ even makes Marnie’s list of things to do in this lifetime, and I—Well, gotta have a wife before I have kids.”

“You’re not married?”

“Not for a long time. Sloan and I met in vet school, graduated together and both got jobs in Wyoming. I did small animals, she did large. I hated the winter, she loved it. I didn’t want to stay, and she didn’t want to leave.” He shrugged as if his marriage and divorce had been that simple. No sign of regret in his voice. No heartbreak in his eyes.

She gave the obligatory I’m sorry, and he shrugged again, a loose, easy movement.

“Sometimes things don’t work out. She’s happy there. I’m happy here.” He reached for a second slice of pizza. “What about you? Is there an ex-husband somewhere?”

Her hand trembled, and a chunk of onion fell to her lap. She set down the pizza, grabbed a napkin and wiped the spot it left on her dress while her mind raced. Wouldn’t it be okay to lie, to simply say, “We’re divorced. He’s out of the picture”? It wasn’t as if she were staying in Copper Lake or would even see Stephen again once she left next week. Not every person who asked was entitled to the truth about Mark. It could be her little secret.

Her dirty little secret. Just as Mark had his.

He’d wound up dead because of his.

She took a drink to ease the dryness in her mouth, then folded both hands together in her lap, out of Stephen’s sight, and opened her mouth to tell the lie. But the wrong words came out. “No. He’s an ex only in the sense that he’s not around. He, um, died a year and a half ago.”

That was the first time she’d said the words out loud. She hadn’t had to tell her family when it happened because the sheriff did it for her. She hadn’t had to tell Clary because her daughter was too young to ask. Everyone else had found out through the media or the very efficient gossip network.

Granted, she’d told the bare minimum just now. She didn’t mention that he’d been trying to kill his cousin, Reece, and Jones, the man she’d married soon after, after they’d unearthed a bone from one of Mark’s and his grandfather’s victims. She didn’t try to find words to say that he’d shot himself in the head when his murder attempt failed. She couldn’t even imagine telling anyone that she’d been married to a cold-blooded sociopath.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Stephen said in a quietly comforting tone, the one he likely used when he had to deliver bad news to his patients’ owners. “That must be tough.”

“It would be tougher if I still loved him.” Immediately she clapped one hand over her mouth. Oh, God, had she actually said that out loud? To a stranger?

Shoving her chair back with a scrape, she jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen, face burning, palms sweaty. Her stomach was knotted, making her hope she wouldn’t have to dash for the bathroom. She damn well needed practice at this social interaction thing if she couldn’t even control the words that came out of her mouth.

A low whine came from Scooter, followed by a soft word from Stephen, then the sounds of the dog enjoying another bite of pizza. Macy stood in the middle of the kitchen, back to them, hugging herself, wondering what to do next.

Deal with it. You made the comment. Now stop acting like a nut job and go back to the table.

Grabbing a handful of napkins they didn’t need, she slowly retraced her steps and sat down. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say—I don’t normally bring that up in conversation.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t repeat it to anyone.” He slipped another bite to Scooter, then changed the subject. “I haven’t been to Charleston yet. Is that where you’re from or did your parents move there later?”

Her breathing slowed, her fingers slowly unclenching. “I’ve lived there all my life, except for here and in college. My parents bought my grandparents’ house after they passed, so there have been Irelands living in it for more than a hundred years.” Her smile felt crooked, though she gave it her best. “Mom and Dad are celebrating their fortieth anniversary with an extended tour of Europe. It seemed as good a time as any to take care of things here and—” She considered choices: start living again. Put the past behind us. Get away from the shame and the scandal. “—move on.” That was bland enough.

“Do you think you’ll stay there? Just get a place of your own?”

“I think I might close my eyes really tight, point to a spot on a map and go there.” She didn’t see herself in Charleston five years from now, or even five months from now. Emotionally, she needed her family close, but emotionally she needed distance. Yes, she needed their support, but too much support made her dependent. Even now, when she was adamant about getting back to her life, she hadn’t been able to give much thought to where she wanted that life to play out. She had to start relying on herself, making decisions and standing by them. She needed to take control again.

“Pick a spot in the southern half of the country. It gets danged cold above the Mason-Dixon line.”

Again her smile was weak. “I kind of like cold.”

“Says the woman who’s lived all of her life in the South. Spend a winter in Wyoming. It’ll change your mind.”

“Where did you grow up?”

He offered her the last slice of pizza, then, when she shook her head, moved it to his plate and sprinkled it with mozzarella and red pepper flakes.

“Here and there. My mother was restless. She’d wake up one morning and say, ‘Start packing, kids. We’re going someplace new.’ I was born in California, went to four grade schools in Arizona and New Mexico, two middle schools in Louisiana and two high schools in Texas.”

“Makes it hard to put down roots.”

He shrugged. “My family is my roots. Mom lives in Alabama now, and Marnie and I both wound up here. She’ll stay. Me, I don’t know. When I came, it was only supposed to be for four months, but I’m still here.”

“What about your father?”

“He never left California. He wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t stay.” After a moment he ruefully added, “Like Sloan and me.” He took one last bite, then offered the rest to Scooter, who removed it delicately from his hand. “He still asks about her every time we talk. He wants to know if she ever wanders back to California.”

“So he can try to win her back? Or so he has sufficient time to go into hiding?”

“I don’t know.” Stephen wiped his hands on a napkin then leaned back comfortably. “I got over wanting them to get back together a long time ago, but I think he actually misses her. He never remarried, never seemed at all interested in another woman.”

A security light at the far side of the backyard came on automatically, drawing Macy’s gaze outside. The settling dusk had escaped her notice, but now a faint shiver rippled through her. It was okay, she counseled herself. So the sun had set. No big deal. Dangerous things were dangerous, whether it was daylight or midnight.

Stephen stuffed the used napkins into the pizza box then crushed it in half as he stood. “I’d better head home. You must be tired or ready to get some sorting or packing done.” He went into the kitchen, automatically opening the cabinet under the sink to toss away the trash, then pulled his wallet from his hip pocket as he turned to face her again.

“‘Home’ is the first house to the north. It’s the one with the fence that can’t keep Scooter in.” For a moment he hesitated, then held out his hand. “And here’s my card. It’s got my cell phone number on it. If you need anything…”

Macy accepted the card, murmuring thanks for the dinner and everything else as she walked with him and the dog to the front door. As soon as they reached their car, she locked the door, set the alarm, then leaned against the door frame. Slowly she uncurled her fingers from the white cardstock and stared at it.

Stephen Noble, DVM.

As the emptiness of the house closed in around her, she felt a little bit safer. A little bit less alone. Just a little, but she would take what she could get.

“Dr. Noble, if you have a minute, Peyton’s here. She’s got something to show you.”

Stephen looked up from the chart he’d just finished, automatically checking the clock on the wall. Five minutes to eight, and he’d already seen five patients. “I always have a minute for Peyton. Tell her I’ll be right out.”

He’d learned early in life that there were four kinds of people: those who liked dogs, those who liked cats, those who liked both and—the ones he couldn’t relate to at all—those who preferred neither. Peyton was definitely in the first group.

So was Macy Howard.

Not liking animals was a deal breaker for him. Not that he was looking for anything with Macy. She was pretty, sure, but she had a child. She had been recently widowed. At least, a year and a half seemed recent to him. Not nearly enough time to deal with the emotional upheaval.

But she wasn’t still in love with her husband.

Before he got any further with that thought, he walked into the lobby, where nine-year-old Peyton was waiting. Her face lit up and she called, “Dr. Noble, did Penny tell you I had a surprise?”

He didn’t need a guess to identify it as the dog standing beside her wheelchair. He crouched in front of her. “A surprise, huh? Do you have new glasses?”

“No.”

“New sweater?”

“You’ve seen this before,” she chided. “It’s my favorite sweater. I wear it all the time.”

He pretended to study her, from the top of her blond curls all the way down to the toes of her sneakers, then raised both hands in surrender. “I give up. You’ve stumped me.”

Laughing, Peyton leaned over to lay her hand on the dog. “I got my service dog! Her name is Sasha, and she’s just for me, even though she has to be friends with everyone. Isn’t she beautiful?”

The golden retriever turned gorgeous brown eyes on him as if understanding the question and waiting for the compliment. “She is,” Stephen said. “Almost as beautiful as you. Has she learned all your lessons?”

“Yup.”

“Have you learned all her lessons?”

Peyton’s head bobbed. “Mom and I spent two weeks at the center where they trained her. And I wasn’t scared of her at all. Not even the very first time we met.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be. Has she gone to school with you yet?”

“Today’s the first day. All the kids in my class are gonna be jealous because Sasha can come and their pets can’t. But their pets wouldn’t behave, and Sasha will be a very good girl ‘cause she’s been taught.”

“And if we’re going to be on time, we need to go now.” Audrey King, Peyton’s mother, left the counter where she’d been chatting and joined them. “Thanks, Dr. Noble. This is going to make a big difference in her life.”

“No need to thank me.” All he’d done was locate the service dog group. Audrey and Peyton and generous donors had done the rest.

“We’ll bring Sasha back so you can get acquainted,” Peyton announced as she wheeled her chair around. “After all, you’re gonna be her new doctor and her new friend. See you.”

Two new friends in two days. He was on a roll. Would Macy mind being categorized with a retriever? He didn’t think so. She wanted a puppy for her daughter, and she’d been very tolerant of Scooter. She hadn’t barred the door to him or objected to his sharing their dinner.

Was her daughter as pretty and delicate as Peyton? Did she have her mother’s blue eyes, her mother’s silky brown hair? Was she friendly or shy? Did she have any comprehension of the fact that her father was dead?

No, not at three. At eighteen months, she would have known Daddy, but now she wouldn’t have any memory of him. She wouldn’t know that he had played with her, fed her, rocked her to sleep—if, in fact, he’d done any of those things. Judging from Macy’s remark last night, he hadn’t left her many fond memories. Even if he’d loved his daughter, that knowledge was gone forever for Clary.

At least Macy had her daughter. When he and Sloan had split, everyone had told him how he was lucky they hadn’t had kids. He hadn’t quite seen it. He’d married with the intention of staying together forever, of having at least three kids. And they’d divorced with nothing. No kids, no love, no hope.

Of course, he’d come to understand his friends’ and family’s meaning when he’d packed up to leave Wyoming. If he and Sloan had had a child, he couldn’t have done it. He could leave her and the state behind without ever looking back, without regret, but not his child. He’d grown up seeing his dad only on holidays and summer breaks, and he wouldn’t have done that to his own kid. He’d still be in Wyoming freezing his butt off half of every year.

As he returned to the exam room, where a beagle was waiting with its floppy ears and soulful eyes, he wondered how Macy had gotten through the night. He’d kept his phone on the nightstand—though he always kept it on the nightstand. Being a vet wasn’t a nine-to-five job, or in his case, six to noon three days a week plus every other Saturday.

She’d been pretty upset when he’d seen her in the driveway, and he wondered again why she’d refused to call the police. Was it some sort of innate distrust of authorities? Did it have something to do with how her husband had died?

How had he died?

Stephen could ask his boss. Yancy Yates had been in Copper Lake forever. He’d married into the Calloway family, Copper Lake’s version of royalty, right out of school. Anyone or anything he didn’t know, his wife did.

Or he could do a Google search on Macy. The internet left few secrets.

But as he began examining Clarence—yes, the name fit—he decided against doing either. Macy had made it clear she wouldn’t be around long. If she chose to tell him more, great. If she didn’t…well, he could find out the rest after she left.

Clarence heaved a sigh as Stephen lifted one of his ears to look inside.

“It’s undignified, isn’t it, buddy?” he murmured. “We just poke and prod everywhere, and you don’t even get asked.”

Another reason he wouldn’t actively try to find out more about Macy. Technology aside, people were entitled to some dignity, some privacy.

After finishing Clarence’s exam, Stephen returned the dog to the run, where he would wait to be picked up later by his owner. He stayed busy the rest of the morning, finishing up the last of his charts exactly at quitting time. His usual routine was to grab lunch from a fast-food restaurant, take it home and write through the afternoon.

Would he stick to it today, or would he be tempted by his neighbor?

Let’s see. An afternoon with Lucan, Sa’arca and Tu’anlan, wreaking mayhem on everyone, or being neighborly and making sure Macy was doing okay.

He was no fool.

Or maybe he was, because he picked up two burgers and two orders of fries at the SnoCap and, instead of driving past the Howard house and out the gates into the Lesser of the World, he pulled into the driveway beside the minivan.

Bag in hand, he rang the doorbell, the deep sepulchral tones raising gooseflesh on his neck just for a moment. The place had cost more than he’d made in his vet career, but it couldn’t begin to reach the level of homeyness that his little house had, secondhand furnishings and all.

He didn’t hear any footsteps through the solid door. It just suddenly opened to reveal Macy on the other side. She wore a pair of red shorts that could have been a whole lot shorter and a tank top that couldn’t have been much snugger. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her feet were bare and there were faint shadows under her eyes. A hesitant smile curved her mouth, though it wasn’t directed at him.

“No Scooter?” she asked instead of greeting him.

“Not this time. I was on my way home from the clinic and I thought you might like to take a break.”

He held up the bag, and she eyed it while taking a deep breath. “SnoCap?”

“Of course.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and he looked, too, seeing stacks of boxes down the hall, taped and labeled in a neat hand. She’d been busy. She’d already packed more stuff than he even owned, but he would bet she hadn’t made a dent in the job.

Since she was clearly wavering between her options, he said, “Hey, you’ve got to eat. And if you’d feel more comfortable with Scooter, we can take it to my house or I can go get him.”

Another moment passed before she smiled tautly. “Let me get my shoes.” Leaving the door open, she went to the kitchen, then returned almost instantly wearing flip-flops and carrying her cell phone. After locking up, she slid her keys into one pocket, the phone into the other, before climbing into the front seat of his car.

Lunch with a pretty woman. Maybe he wasn’t a fool, after all.

Macy wasn’t sure, but she might have drooled just a little when she caught the first whiff of the hamburgers. Greasy burgers from a drive-in hadn’t been Mark’s thing. When he wanted a burger, he’d gone to the country club restaurant and paid a ridiculous price for an Angus burger that didn’t compare in taste.

She and Clary both loved SnoCap burgers.

As they drove through the gates that signaled the perimeter of Woodhaven Villas, she felt lighter. In such a short time, she’d become used to the smothering sensation in the house. Now that it was lifted, she could breathe easier.

“While you were away, the Villains tried to put up security gates at this exit that would have kept out those of us who live down here,” Stephen said. “It didn’t endear them to us.”

“The Villains?”

His cheeks flushed. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, but…you know, like Texas and Texans. Georgia and Georgians. The Villas and Villains.”

A laugh escaped before she’d even realized it was building. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good description for most of my neighbors.”

“This street is the only access to the houses down here, but they didn’t want the riffraff driving past their houses, though they claimed it was for security reasons. They even offered to build a new street to the north to solve the access problem, but it would have tripled the distance to anywhere we needed to go.”

Macy wished she were appalled or even surprised, but she wasn’t. Like Mark, some of her neighbors had a deep appreciation for exclusivity. “I assume you and the rest of the riffraff protested.”

“We did, but it wasn’t really necessary. The town council didn’t even consider their proposal.” He gave her a sidelong look before turning into a driveway. “I assume you wouldn’t have joined forces with them.”

She smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t have. But Mark…he would’ve been leading their charge.”

Stephen’s gaze stayed on her so long that she realized at last they weren’t moving, or else they would have crashed by now. She shifted uncomfortably then unbuckled the seat belt.

“Mark was your husband,” he said finally, once again using the soothing tone that had probably calmed and comforted untold pets and their owners.

“Yes.”

The silence stretched out again, quickly becoming unbearable. He broke it by opening his door and picking up the bag of food, swinging it gently in her direction. “We should eat before the food gets cold. Prepare yourself for an exuberant greeting. Scooter’s not very familiar with the concept of company since we don’t get it very often.”

“I’ll brace myself.” As she got out, she took a quick look around. The house and the yard were small, almost doll-sized compared with their counterparts in Woodhaven. Everything was neat, though: the white paint and green trim fresh, the sidewalk edged, the picket fence faded to a soft gray. The front porch was big enough for a couple of rockers and a half dozen baskets of brightly colored flowers, though it stood empty now, and the door was painted a rich russet that welcomed guests.

Scrabbling sounded inside as they climbed the steps, accompanied by excited panting. By the time Stephen opened the door, Scooter was beside himself with anticipation. For an instant, it seemed he didn’t know which deserved his attention first—Macy or the bag of burgers—but the burgers soon won out. She couldn’t blame him. At the moment she was more interested in the food, too.

Then she sneaked a glance at Stephen and felt the need to confirm that. She really, really was.

“Welcome to my castle,” he said on the way to the kitchen. “Which is probably just a little smaller than the master bedroom in your palace.”

Probably, she admitted. The house was compact: small square living room, double doors opening right into the kitchen with its dining table, bedroom visible from the living room, second room—office, apparently—visible from the kitchen. It was cozy and snug, the shine long since worn off the wooden floors, the walls a nice neutral buff, the furniture well-worn and actually inviting. She always felt as if she should perch on the edge of the antiques in her house, but this sofa and chairs welcomed lounging.

The place reminded her of old times, before she met Mark Howard of the Georgia Howards.

She took a seat at the kitchen table as Stephen emptied the bag. He didn’t bother with plates or napkins other than what had been tucked inside at the drive-in, discarding the greasy outer ones. He sat across from her, pinched off two bits of burger to stick Scooter’s pills in and gave them to the dog, then took a hearty bite for himself before fixing his gaze on her. “How’s the packing going?”

“Slowly.” She savored her first bite—a year and a half since her last SnoCap fix!—then swiped a crispy fry through ketchup. “It’s easy to figure out what I want.” Nothing. “I’m saving some stuff for Clary, but all the antiques, the family heirlooms…”

“Does your husband not have a family that wants them?”

“His mother’s in North Carolina, but she has enough family heirlooms of her own.” And Lorna blamed the Howard family for everything her only child had done, including his suicide. She didn’t want anything associated with them. “There’s a cousin, Reece, but she doesn’t want any of it, either.” The family had cost her too much, as well.

“So what are the options? Estate sale and invest the money for your daughter?”

Macy took her time chewing. The locals probably knew she and Clary had more money than she could ever spend, but there was no need for her to admit that. So far, Stephen had treated her pretty much like a normal person—albeit needy and a tad jumpy. But money changed people’s perceptions, and she needed to be treated like any other woman.

“Probably,” she agreed, though the thought of expending even that much time on Mark’s possessions soured her stomach. “Or make some museum donations.”

He blinked and his brows arched. “Huh. I wouldn’t know a museum-quality piece if I stepped on it. And you let Scooter in the house not once but twice?”

At the sound of his name, the dog lifted a hopeful gaze, then lowered it again when Stephen snorted. “Hell, you let me in? I’m not exactly known for my dainty feet and grace.”

“They’re just things,” she said with a lift of one shoulder. Hating the sound of herself callously dismissing priceless treasures, she gestured to the room on the right. “I wouldn’t have imagined a vet could do a whole lot of work at home.”

Not that it looked much like a vet’s office. There were tons of books, but even at this distance it was obvious they weren’t textbooks. Dry-erase boards competed with movie posters for wall space, and she wasn’t sure what kept the desk from collapsing from the weight of the mess on it.

“Different work,” he said casually.

She studied the dry-erase boards, covered with cramped writing, some items circled, arrows pointing to others, then caught sight of several small plaques hanging between them. They looked like awards of some sort. Vet of the Year? Best Neighbor Surrounding Woodhaven Villains? “What kind of work?”

He gazed into the room himself for a moment before saying, “I’m a writer.”

She hadn’t expected that answer. In truth, she’d had no idea what to expect. But once he’d said it, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had a little bit of a nerdy aura about him—the glasses, the uncombed hair, the conversations with Scooter. Sort of an absentminded-professor thing. “You write for veterinary journals?”

“On occasion. My last article was on feline diarrhea.” Said with a self-deprecating look.

“A very important subject to cats and the people who clean up after them.”

His grin was quick, boyish. It reminded her how appealing boyish could be. “Mostly I write books. Epic fantasy. A universe far, far away. Villains and quests and warriors and saving the world.”

She’d met authors before—professors in college who were published, historians come to speak to the local historical society, ditto a few horticulturists at the garden society. The Howard family was the subject of its very own book: Southern Aristocracy: The Howards of Georgia. Granted, they’d paid the author to write it and the only copies that existed outside the family were in various Southern libraries.

But a fiction writer—excluding the Howard family biographer—was different. Someone who wrote for the pure pleasure of writing, for the simple entertainment of others…that was cool.

“Have you published anything?”

A faint grimace flashed, though she suspected he’d tried to hide it.

“I’m not the first person to ask that, am I?”

“Pretty much everyone asks. I’ve had five books out. The sixth one is scheduled for this summer, and I’m working on the seventh.” Finished with his hamburger, he pushed to his feet, went into the office and returned with a hardcover novel, setting it beside her.

“S. K. Noble.” She wiped her hands thoroughly on a napkin before picking it up. The cover was rich purple, the artwork in the center an image of a mysterious man with storm clouds swirling above the mountains behind him. “How cool. I’m sorry. I don’t read fantasy.”

He sprawled back in his chair, reaching down to scratch Scooter with one hand. “No need to apologize. What do you read?”

“The Cat in the Hat. Goodnight, Moon. Sesame Street books. Anything with bright pictures, words that rhyme and messages short enough for the attention span of a three-year-old.” She flipped the book open, pausing to read the brief biography on the inside jacket. Too bad there was no photo of the author. In his office, with him looking as disheveled as it did, it would be charming. “How do you manage both working at the clinic and writing?”

Paper crumpled as he scooped up the wrappers from their lunch and tossed them in the trash can under the sink. Instead of returning to sit, he leaned against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankle. “Clinic until noon three days a week, plus every other Saturday. Write at home the rest of the time.”

Guilt tickled her nape. “I’ve taken up an awful lot of your writing time,” she said as she stood. “Today, yesterday…”

“Everyone takes a break now and then, especially for food. We don’t miss any meals around here, do we, Scooter?”

The dog snuffled in agreement.

She stood there a moment, torn between staying a little longer in any house that wasn’t her own and not wanting to disrupt his schedule. He’d invited her for lunch, but lunch was over. Manners won. “I should let you get to work and get back to my own work. I appreciate lunch. It was wonderful.” She started toward the door, and he and Scooter followed.

“I’ll give you a ride home.”

Macy paused in the open door, remembering that he’d driven. Then she glanced at the blue sky, the soft white clouds, the leaves rustling in the breeze. “I’d rather walk.” She liked walking and took Clary for a ramble through their Charleston neighborhood every day. But in all the years she’d lived here, she’d never walked down her own street because while gardening was an acceptable pursuit for Mark Howard’s wife, exercise where anyone could see wasn’t.

“We’ll walk with you,” Stephen offered.

She wouldn’t mind his company a little longer, but she shook her head. “That’s okay.” By herself, she could set her own pace. If she wanted to stop and stare at the woods, she could. If she wanted to stroll aimlessly and listen to the birds in the trees, no one would be inconvenienced.

If she wanted to delay reaching the house and going inside as long as she could, no one would know.

The two males stood at the top of the steps as she made her way to the sidewalk, across the lawn and out the gate. She turned back for a smile and a wave, then headed south.

Her pace was steady, not the slow-and-go method Clary preferred. Her daughter could skip energetically for an entire block, then stop to examine everything from a crack in the sidewalk to a fallen leaf to an ant crawling over a blade of grass. Just the thought of her, squatting precariously to study some new discovery like a dandelion or a pinecone with such intensity, made Macy’s heart ache with equal intensity. Today was Wednesday. Clary, Brent and Anne would be here in time for dinner Friday. Only two and a half more days and she’d have her little girl at her side.

Only two and a half more days alone in the house looming ahead. She could already feel its weight—its memories of Mark—settling on her shoulders. Her steps were already slowing. But following the advice from all those months of treatment, she forced herself to keep moving, one step at a time.