Читать книгу One True Thing - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 8

She watched him leave, unaware of the wistfulness that marred her face. How she would have liked to walk across the bridge with him, to sit down at the small round table and enjoy the cool evening air, the savory aromatic food and the company of strangers. She was tired of being alone, tired of having no friends, tired of having to be on guard all the time. She was tired, tired, tired, tired.

Besides, she hadn’t had lasagna in a long time.

Wednesday morning found Cassidy stretched out on the couch, the television turned on but the sound muted. The picture was filled with snow and the static made the audio unbearable—and this was the channel that came in the best. She’d noticed the satellite dish on the neighboring cabin’s roof with some envy while washing the breakfast dishes. Too bad she couldn’t run a cable over there and tap into his better reception, but that would be illegal. Besides, she had no clue how to do such a thing. Inserting a plug into an outlet was the extent of her electronic abilities.

On the dining table, the laptop made a faint hum as the fan came on. The screen was dark, but if she walked over and moved the cursor, the WordPerfect screen would pop up with the same lines that had been on it last evening when Jace Barnett had knocked. She’d been lying on the sofa then, too, trying to read a magazine but finding concentration too difficult to come by. She had tiptoed to the door, turned down his dinner invitation, then watched until he’d crossed the bridge. After closing the door she’d peeked through the blinds as he’d joined the man and woman on the deck. They had talked and laughed and eaten…and she had watched. Like the little match girl in the story her mother had read her long ago, on the outside looking in.

Except she was inside looking out. More like a prisoner locked away for her crimes. But the crimes that made her a prisoner weren’t her own. She was the victim, but she was getting all the punishment.

Unable to stand the flickering TV any longer, she surged to her feet, shut it off, then went to the window. The other cabin was still and quiet. She’d heard a boat putt past more than an hour ago, sounding as if it were coming from that way. If Jace Barnett was out on the lake, there couldn’t be any harm in her spending a little time outside in the sun, could there?

She got a sheet from her bedroom, a pair of sunglasses and a book, and headed outside. After another trip back in for the boom box and a glass of water, she spread the sheet over the grass, settled on her stomach and started reading to the accompaniment of B. B. King.

It was a peaceful, easy way to spend a morning, with the sun warm on her skin, the soft lap of the water against the shore, the buzz of bees among the wildflowers. Trade the sheet on the ground for a rope hammock and the glass of water for lemonade, and she would be as contented as a fat cat drinking cream in a sunbeam. As it was, she was almost contented enough to doze off. If she wasn’t careful, she would wake up with the sunburn to end all sunburns, and then what would she do?

Gradually she became aware that the music had stopped. The sun’s pleasant warmth had become uncomfortably hot, and the bees’ buzzing had been replaced by slow, steady breathing…and it wasn’t her own.

She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the lush embossed floral depiction an inch from the tip of her nose. She had dozed off, using the novel for a pillow, knocking her sunglasses askew. All the moisture had been sucked out of her skin that was exposed to the sun and redeposited in places that weren’t, dampening her clothes and making her feel icky.

And there was that breathing.

She lifted her head, sliding the glasses back into place, and saw her neighbor sitting a few feet away. He wore cutoffs, a ragged Kansas City Chiefs T-shirt and tennis shoes without socks, and he looked as if he hardly even noticed the heat. His own shades were darker than hers, hiding his eyes completely, but she didn’t need to see them to know his gaze was fixed on her. The shiver sliding down her spine told her so.

“Working hard?”

Hoping the embossed cover wasn’t outlined on her cheek, Cassidy slowly sat up, rubbed her face, then combed her fingers through her hair. “Doing research,” she said, holding up the book, then laying it aside.

“Checking out the competition?”

She shrugged.

“So you write—”

“Watch it,” she warned.

“I was just going to say—”

“I know what you were going to say. It was the way you were going to say it.” She picked up her glass, its contents lukewarm now, and took a sip. “‘So you write romance novels.’ Or ‘So you write trashy books.’ Or ‘So you write sex books.’ Wink, wink, leer.” Her gaze narrowed. “I didn’t tell you I write anything.”

“Reese did—my cousin. He got it from Paulette.”

Cassidy was half surprised the real estate agent had remembered long enough to pass the information on. The woman had shown little interest, other than to remark that she was going to write a book someday. Everybody was, Cassidy had learned in her short career.

“Paulette says you’re from Alabama.”

“California,” she lied without hesitation.

“You have Arizona tags.”

“It’s on the way here from California.”

He didn’t seem to appreciate her logic. “I can see confusing Alabama and Arizona, both of them starting and ending with A. But Alabama and California?”

“They both have ‘al’ in them. Besides, when people talk, Paulette listens for the silence that indicates it’s her turn to speak, not for content.”

“That’s true. She does like to share her vast knowledge with everyone.”

“Sounds like you know her well.”

“She’s my cousin, three or four times removed.”

It must be nice to have family around. She had relatives, too, but she hadn’t seen them in six years. No visits, no phone calls, no letters. It was worse than having no family at all, and so she pretended that was the case. Fate had decreed she should be all alone in the world, and there was no use trying to fight it.

“Then you’re from around here,” she said, then shrugged when his gaze intensified. “You said yesterday you’d just moved out here a while ago.”

“I was staying with my folks outside Buffalo Plains.”

“Why move?”

“Because I’m too old to live with my parents any longer than necessary.”

Why had it been necessary? she wanted to ask. Had he lost his job? Gone through a lousy divorce that left him with nothing? Been recovering from a serious illness? Offhand, she couldn’t think of any other reasons an able-bodied adult male would move in with Mom and Dad.

But instead of asking such a personal question, she asked another that was too personal. “Do you work?”

Again his hidden gaze seemed to sharpen. “Nope. I occasionally help Guthrie Harris with his cattle, or Easy Rafferty with his horses, but that’s about it.”

“Easy Rafferty. What a name.”

“You heard of him?”

She shook her head.

“He used to be a world champion roper until he lost a couple fingers in an accident. Now he raises the best paints in this part of the country. He could teach that horse whisperer guy a few things.”

A rodeo cowboy. She knew nothing about them—had never been to a rodeo or gotten closer to any horse than passing a mounted police patrol in the city—but they were popular in the books boxed up inside. So were Indians of all types, including cowboys. Though she had no trouble picturing Jace Barnett in faded Wranglers, a pearl-snapped shirt and a Stetson, something about the image didn’t feel quite right. She had no reason to think he was lying to her—other than the fact that she usually lied herself—but the man was more than a part-time cowboy.

“Are you researching this area?”

She was still imagining him in jeans and scuffed boots, with a big championship buckle on his belt. The question caught her off guard, leaving her blinking a couple of times until her brain caught up. Research, the area, her book—remember? Her reason for being here?

“Oh…no…not really. I just wanted someplace quiet to write.”

“And you had to come halfway across the country to find it? Why not just rent a place close to home?”

He obviously didn’t believe her, and that made color rise in her face. “Oh…well…I mean, the book is set in Oklahoma, but I—I did most of my research from home. On the Internet, you know. But I needed a break from California, and I like to do the actual writing on location.” She shrugged carelessly. “I know it sounds strange, but there are as many different methods of writing out there as there are writers. A lot of us are strange.”

“Huh.” He put a wealth of skepticism in that one word, but didn’t pursue it. “Where do you live in California?”

She gave the first answer that came to mind. “San Diego. Actually, one of the suburbs. A little place called Lemon Grove.” She’d been to San Diego once—so many years ago that she remembered little about it besides the beach being closed due to a sewage spill down the coast and the fun they’d had at Sea World. If a visit to Lemon Grove had been a part of the trip, she didn’t remember it, but it was an easy enough name to recall.

“You live there alone?”

“Yes.”

“What about your house?”

There was a reason she didn’t encourage casual conversation when she found herself with neighbors, she thought with a tautly controlled breath. Too many questions, too many chances for missteps. Not that the consequences were likely to be deadly, but she never knew.

“I gave up my apartment and put everything in storage,” she replied, deliberately injecting a distant tone into her voice. “Finding a new place to live is easy.” She’d done it more times in the past few years than any sane person should have to endure.

She stood, slid her feet into her thongs, then carried the book and her glass to the deck. Returning, she shook out the sheet and started to haphazardly fold it. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

Jace showed no intention of leaving. Instead he leaned back, his arms supporting him, and stretched his legs out. “Writing must be hard work.”

“More for some than others.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“A while.”

“Have you sold anything?”

“A few books.” After all, a writer who could travel fifteen hundred miles to write a book in a rented lakefront cabin had to have some source of income, right? And it had to be a source that didn’t require eight-to-five workdays in an office somewhere, and to pay well enough to justify the expense of a temporary cross-country move.

“How many is that?”

She shrugged.

“Fewer than five? More than ten?”

With a roll of her eyes, she pretended to count mentally, then said, “Seven.” It was everyone’s lucky number, and though her life had been utterly devoid of luck the past couple of years, she could pretend like everyone else, couldn’t she?

“Seven. Lucky number.”

She smiled thinly. “Seventy will be luckier…but if I don’t get to work, I won’t even see eight.”

She intended to march into the house then, but he finally moved to get up and she couldn’t resist watching. His legs were long and muscular—runner’s legs, though she couldn’t imagine him summoning up enough energy to jog from her house to his—and he moved with the grace and ease she’d sorely needed for ballet class when she was seven. Instead she’d been the clumsiest student Miss Karla had ever taught and, after falling off the stage during a recital, she had gladly hung up her slippers.

When he was on his feet, he stretched and his T-shirt rode up to display a thin line of smooth brown skin above the narrow waist of his cutoffs. Her fingers tingled to see if it was as warm and soft as it looked. She knotted them into a fist under the cover of the sheet.

“The invitation for lasagna still stands,” he remarked.

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Her stomach chose that moment to remind her that breakfast had been skimpy and a long time ago.

He grinned. “Are you sure about that? Mom makes it all from scratch—the noodles, the sauce and the garlic bread on the side—and it’s even better the second day.”

She hadn’t had lasagna in ages. She didn’t like the frozen stuff, and cooking for just herself was an unnecessary reminder of how alone she was. Granted, a ham sandwich would fill her stomach just as well and had the added benefit of no conversation to stumble through. But she’d had a ham sandwich for lunch the day before, and for supper last night, and would have one for supper tonight. Besides, she could control the conversation. She’d been doing it long enough, giving out only what information she wanted to give, manipulating it to go in the directions she wanted. She’d just gotten clumsy this morning because he’d literally caught her sleeping.

He was rocking back on his heels, waiting for an answer. She eyed him warily. “What’s for dessert?”

“Strawberry pie with whipped cream.”

Cassidy stifled a groan. She loved strawberries. When she was a kid, every Saturday in strawberry season, the family had driven to a pick-your-own berry farm and filled quart containers by the dozen. They had always managed to eat at least three quarts on the way home, where she’d helped her mother make strawberry shortcake, pie and preserves.

“I suppose it can’t hurt this once,” she said reluctantly. It wasn’t smart, but it wouldn’t be the dumbest thing she’d ever done, either. Sure, he was a stranger, but he was a local. He had family here. He didn’t know her from Adam. He had some doubts about her stories, but so what? He was a cowboy when he worked at all. What did it matter whether he believed her? Who was he going to tell? The horses and cows?

Or his cousin, the sheriff? the little voice whispered.

So what? she stubbornly repeated. There was no law against lying…well, unless you were doing it under oath. Or profiting from it. Or doing it to stay out of jail. But what she was doing—lying to strangers about things she had a right to keep private…it might not be ethical, but it wasn’t illegal.

“I’ll put the lasagna in the oven. Dump your stuff inside, then come on over,” Jace said.

She watched until he stepped onto the bridge, then went inside with a sigh. The sheet went on a shelf in the tiny linen closet, the glass and the boom box on the kitchen counter. She shut off the computer, then went to the bathroom to wash up. The face reflected back at her in the mirror was pale with pink spots on the cheeks—and the flush came from a source much closer than the sun. Her hair looked as if she’d forgotten to comb it in recent memory, and her eyes…

She’d read an article on age-progression computer programs that said the one single feature that never changed, no matter a person’s age, was the eyes. You could change the color with contact lenses—she’d done that a time or two—and enhance them with makeup, but the basic shape stayed the same. Hers seemed terribly different to her, but of course it wasn’t the shape. It was the shadows. The wariness. The distrust. The fear. Did Jace the Cowboy recognize any of that, or did he, like most people, simply see a pair of unremarkable brown eyes?

Truthfully, she didn’t want to know. If he was perceptive, she would have to keep her distance from him—which she intended to do anyway, of course. But doing it by choice was better than doing it because she had to.

She changed into clothes that weren’t damp from sunning—tailored and cuffed shorts in khaki, a cotton shirt in olive drab, sand-colored sandals. The shirt was tucked in, the shorts belted with a matching olive belt. She combed her hair, added a touch of makeup, then frowned at herself. Would he think she’d dressed up for him? Maybe she should switch to denim shorts and a tank top, or jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe…

Still scowling, she shut off the light and left the bathroom. She stopped at the dresser long enough to slide a few things into her pocket—a tube of lip gloss, her keys and a small round canister—then she headed for the door.

The lasagna and bread were heating in the oven, the pie chilling in the refrigerator. The windows and door were open and a box fan set in the lakeside window blew cool air through the room.

Jace leaned against the kitchen counter, sucking down his third bottle of water for the day. He was that rarity among cops, as well as Barnetts—a man who didn’t drink. He’d run too many miles to stay in shape, had worked too many years at a job where the concept of being off duty was a joke. Trouble could find a cop at any time, and he’d wanted his senses unimpaired when it happened.

He glanced at the clock while waiting for Cassidy to put in an appearance. He’d been home ten minutes—more than long enough for her to carry a few things inside, then walk across the bridge. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d locked herself inside instead. She’d obviously had misgivings about coming over.

She obviously had something to hide.

Okay, maybe not so obviously. Maybe, even after six months off the job, his instincts were as sharp as ever. He was used to people being less than honest with him. It gave him an itchy feeling down his spine and he’d been wanting to scratch the whole time they’d been talking. He couldn’t say she’d flat-out lied to him, but she’d certainly been evasive, and wondering why came as naturally to him as breathing.

But it wasn’t his job to find out. In fact, his only job was to do a lot of nothing. To kick back, relax and stay out of trouble. He was free to take advantage of whatever entertainment he could find along the way, but that was the extent of it. No poking around in anyone’s background. No ferreting out inconsistencies or solving mysteries. No getting involved in anyone’s troubles but his own.

A board in the middle of the deck creaked and he shifted his gaze to the screen door. An instant later Cassidy appeared there, looking lovely and unsure, as if she might bolt back home at anytime.

“Come on in,” he called as she raised her hand to knock.

She stepped inside, smiled faintly in greeting, then glanced around. The layout of the cabin was identical to hers—living and dining room stretched across the front, kitchen in back on the left, bedroom and bathroom on the right. He hadn’t been inside Junior’s place in years, but knowing the Davisons, he would bet the same ratty old furniture was still in residence.

That was the only way his cabin was better than hers. He’d brought some of his own stuff—a leather couch, an oversize armchair, a couple of bookcases—and borrowed the bedroom furniture and dinette from his parents. The table was an oval oak pedestal, with four ladder-back chairs, and the bedroom set was his grandmother’s antique mahogany.

He’d added rugs, too, and a television, DVD and stereo system, but he hadn’t unpacked a single thing for the walls. Photographs, a couple of meritorious commendations he’d received, gifts, mementos…anything that would personalize the space and reveal anything about the past seventeen years was packed up in his folks’ attic. It could all stay there until it rotted.

What would her space reveal about her past? Someday he would have to wangle an invitation into her cabin to find out.

“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” he said as her gaze finally reached him. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water will be fine.”

“That’s all? I’ve got beer and pop, too.”

She gave a slight shake of her head, then came to stand at the table, her hands gripping one of the ladder-back chairs. He figured her goal was to look as if she was casually resting her hands, but her fingers were clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white. Why so nervous? He wasn’t likely to throw her to the floor and have his way with her, not when it meant burning the lasagna. Force wasn’t his style. Persuasion was way too much fun.

But maybe force had been someone else’s style. Maybe that was why she was cautious and evasive.

But it wasn’t his business, remember?

He got two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then set the table. As the timer went off, he pulled the lasagna from the oven and stuck the foil-wrapped bread inside, then asked, “What’s your book about?”

She’d been looking out the window. Now her gaze jerked back to him. “My…my book?”

“The one you’re writing. The one that’s set here in Oklahoma. What is it about?”

“Oh…well…” Her fingers tightened even more around the chair back. “It’s…it’s a love story.”

“Most romance novels are, aren’t they?” he asked dryly.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Using insulated mitts, he carried the lasagna pan to the table, then returned with the bread. After he slid into the nearest seat, she slowly pulled out the chair she’d had a death grip on and sat. He waited until they’d served themselves, then gave her time to take a bite before asking, “So? What’s it about?”

“It’s about…” When she looked up, her face was warm but her eyes were cool and her full lips had flattened into an aloof line. “I’m really not comfortable discussing it. If I tell people the story in detail, then there’s not much purpose in writing it—is there?—because I’ve already told it.”

He wasn’t asking for a scene-by-scene description. A general overview would have been fine, something like “a story of a spoiled Southern belle during and after the Civil War” for Gone With the Wind. He didn’t need names, subplots or even the highlights.

“Do you publish your books under your own name?”

This time she didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze focused on the plate in front of her. “No, I don’t. You were right—this is excellent lasagna. Is it an old family recipe?”

“Someone’s old family, but not ours. Mom came across it years ago, made a few changes and has been fixing it ever since.” Just as bluntly as she’d changed the subject, he changed it back. “What’s your…aw, hell, I can’t think of the word. Your alias?”

For a moment he thought she might laugh, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth faded. “Alias?”

“You know, your fake name. Cassidy McRae aka what? Jeez, don’t you ever look at Wanted posters?”

“No, I can’t honestly say that I do.” She paused. “Do you?”

“I used to. A lot.”

“Looking for anyone in particular?”

“Not for pictures of myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. Trust me, if I was wanted by the cops, Reese would turn me in so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me.”

“Your own cousin?”

“He’s a cop first, my cousin second.” That wasn’t entirely true. Reese would never break the law, but he would bend it a little if circumstances warranted it. Sometimes that was the only way to see justice done.

“Then what’s your interest in Wanted posters?”

He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t particularly want to admit that he’d been a cop himself. With his luck, she would probably have a lot of questions he wouldn’t want to answer. The few writers he’d met in the past, mostly reporters, were filled with them. “Curiosity,” he said with a shrug. “I watch America’s Most Wanted, too.” Once again he abruptly shifted direction. “You never told me what your alias—”

“Pen name.”

“—is.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Maybe I want to pick up a couple of your books and see what they’re like.”

“They’re very hard to find. Most of them are out of print.”

“Then you could loan me some copies.”

Her smile was quick and uneasy. “I don’t have any. Sorry.”

“Oh, come on…you don’t have a single copy of your own books?”

“Well, of course I have some, but not with me. They’re back home in my office in San Diego.”

“Lemon Grove,” he corrected.

She grimaced. “Hey, it’s all one big city.”

“And they’re in storage, with the rest of your office.”

Her face turned almost as red as the sweet tomato sauce that oozed between the layers of noodles. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Everything’s in storage.”

His back was itching again. He shifted in his chair, rubbing against the spindles. If he checked Directory Assistance for Lemon Grove, California, would he find a listing for Cassidy McRae? Instinct said no, but that wouldn’t mean anything. Most women who lived alone in big cities had unlisted numbers. But if one of his cop buddies checked the utilities and didn’t find a recent account in her name…

It would prove she’d lied about where she lived. So what? She was an author, and no doubt had fans. For some people it was a short step from fan to stalker. If some stranger was buying his book and thought he was making some sort of connection, he would want personal information such as where he lived kept private, too.

As he pushed his plate away, he slumped back in the chair and fixed his gaze on her. “You’re not married.”

She shook her head.

“Any kids?”

“No.” That was accompanied by a faint regret. It wasn’t as if it was too late. She couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty-two. She still had time to bring a dozen or more kids into the world before Mother Nature said no more.

“Family?”

Her smile was faint. “Don’t have one.”

“No parents, brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head again. “No aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents, either. I’m an only child from a long line of only children.”

“No family. Jeez.” Then… “Want some of mine?”

She pushed her plate away, too, having cleaned it. “Your parents live outside Buffalo Plains, your cousin is the local sheriff, and your cousin four times removed sells real estate around here. Who else is there?”

“Reese’s folks live in town. My mom’s parents are about forty miles from here, and her two brothers and three sisters all live within an hour or so. There are a lot of cousins, some great-aunts and -uncles, some in-laws and out-laws. Last time the family got together, there were about seventy of us.”

“That’s nice.”

It was nicer when he lived in another state and didn’t see them that often, he was about to retort but stopped himself. There was something wrong with complaining about too much family to a woman who didn’t have any. Instead he agreed—more or less. “Yeah. It can be.”

“Are you married?”

“Nope. Never have been.”

“Ever come close?”

He thought of Amanda and the diamond ring he’d been considering for a Valentine’s Day surprise. The few people he kept in touch with in Kansas City never volunteered any news about her and he never asked. “Nope.” It wasn’t a complete lie. They hadn’t been nearly as close to a lifetime commitment as he’d thought.

“Any kids?”

“Not without being married first, or my mother would tan my hide.”

“That’s an old-fashioned outlook.”

“She’s an old-fashioned mother.” He thought about digging up another question, then stuck to the subject. “She believes parents should be married before they start having children, that honesty comes first in a relationship, and that marriage shouldn’t be entered into lightly. You don’t have to stay in a bad marriage, but you damn well have to do everything you can to keep it from going bad.”

What if he had married Amanda? What if politics hadn’t derailed his career or had done so six months after the wedding? Just how bad could that marriage have gotten? Very bad, he suspected. Bitter-divorce-and-protective-orders bad. His mother would have been incredibly disappointed in him for making such a lousy choice.

So one good thing had come out of the mess. Amanda had saved him the hassle of a divorce down the road and spared him Rozena’s disappointment.

“Your mother’s a smart woman.” Cassidy slid her chair back, then held out her hand for his dishes. Stacking them with her own, she carried them into the kitchen.

He followed with the lasagna pan. “How long does it take you to write a book?”

“It varies.” She turned on the water in the sink, waited for it to heat, then put in the stopper and squirted in dish soap.

“Give me a ballpark figure. A week? A month? A year?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes three months, sometimes six, sometimes longer. Some days I want to tell the story. Other days, I can’t force myself to get within ten feet of the computer.”

“Did you always want to be a writer?”

“Not really.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“A few years.”

Just like her earlier answer that she’d sold a few books. He’d pinned her down to a number then, and sometime he might pin her down on this, but not now. Instead he put the last square of lasagna in the refrigerator and took out the pie and a tub of whipped cream. “Where do you get your ideas?”

She scowled at him over her shoulder before turning her attention back to the dishes. If she scrubbed that plate any harder, she was going to take the pattern right off of it, he thought, and wondered why she was so tense. “They come to me in my sleep,” she said, clearly annoyed.

Another evasion, if not an outright lie. He was beginning to think “evasion” was Cassidy McRae’s middle name.

Too bad he was no longer in the business of finding out why.