Copper Lake Confidential

chapter 5



Darkness had fallen, their meals were pleasant memories and Scooter was snoring softly beside the table in the grass. With a cool breeze off the river and the faint sound of music from down the street, Stephen couldn’t think of anything that could improve the evening.

Then his gaze settled on Macy, and he immediately amended that thought.

She was more relaxed tonight than he’d ever seen her. Not saying much since they’d met for the first time yesterday, but it seemed a lot longer. A long time, but nowhere near long enough. He knew a lot about her but wanted to know more. Everything. Including how she felt. How she tasted.

Slowly she stirred the straw in her tea, the few remaining ice cubes clinking against the sweaty glass. “Tell me again all the places you’ve lived.”

“Why?”

“I’m looking for a place, remember?”

If she asked his opinion, he would put in his vote for staying in Copper Lake. He liked it. He’d come with the intention of spending four months and hadn’t found any reason yet to leave.

Macy could be a damn good reason to stay if only she would, too.

Ignoring the thought, he began ticking off names on his fingers. “Los Angeles and El Cajon, California. Tucson and Flagstaff, Arizona. Los Alamos and Roswell, New Mexico. Baton Rouge and Slidell, Louisiana. Austin and Plano, Texas. I went to college in Albuquerque and vet school in Stillwater, Oklahoma, then worked in Cheyenne, Wyoming, before coming here.”

“Wow, you ran out of fingers. I feel like a slacker.” She held up her own slender, pink-tipped fingers. “Charleston, Columbia and Copper Lake.”

“Did you ever want to live a lot of places?”

Lowering her fingers, she began twisting the glass on its sodden napkin. “No. I always wanted...stability.” The way she said the word made it seem it wasn’t exactly the one she wanted. “I told you, four generations of Irelands have lived in the same house. I like that sense of home.”

“So why not find a place in Charleston?”

Her smile wavered as she sat back in the chair, hands folded in her lap. “Maybe I will. Not in Charleston itself, but Isle of Palms or Sullivan’s Island.”

“You’re close to your family, so it’s not exactly them you want to get away from, is it?”

“I love my family. I couldn’t have survived the last year and a half without them. They’ve done so much for me. But now I just need...want a little space.” Her head tilted to one side. “Does that sound awful?”

“Not at all. I love my mom and dad, but you don’t see me settling in Alabama or California to be near them.”

“But you did come to Copper Lake to be near your sister.” She gestured. “I’m assuming she was here first.”

“Yep. She got a job here six or eight years ago. She’s a lab geek for the Copper Lake Police Department. Her name’s Marnie Robinson.”

“Different last name. Married?”

“Different fathers.”

“What is she like?”

He laughed, and Scooter twitched at the sound. Stretching to the side, Stephen rubbed his spine until he settled in again, then rested both hands on the table. “Marnie is different. Best older sister I could ask for, but...she’s got bachelor’s degrees in chemistry and microbiology, a master’s in forensic sciences and forensic toxicology, and she’s getting a PhD in biochemistry and molecular biology. She’s very logical, very rational, very unemotional.”

Macy feigned surprise. “Your sister is Dr. Spock?”

The comparison made him laugh, not because it was original but because it wasn’t. Marnie often put him in mind of Star Trek and Dr. Spock. “Yeah, that’s her. She doesn’t eat in restaurants because who knows what microscopic spores have been passed along in the handling of the food. She won’t eat birthday cake where someone’s blown out the candles because of all the germs in the human mouth. She handles body parts and fluids all day but doesn’t like to touch people. I’m pretty sure when she kisses, she sanitizes her mouth afterward, and of course, it’s got to be a minimal sharing of spit.”

If she kissed. She hadn’t had a serious relationship that he could remember. She was socially awkward and emotionally stunted and truly never seemed to need the simple warmth of human companionship. And yet she had a date for Saturday night’s party. He really wasn’t insulting his sister when he couldn’t imagine the guy she would go out with and vice versa.

He had a date for that party, too. Remembering that was enough to take the edge off his pleasure in this night. Kiki Isaacs was about as far from his type as was possible while staying within the same species. Call him crazy, but he didn’t date women who could break him in half, who carried a gun and who certainly had bigger balls than he did.

Too bad he hadn’t somehow weaseled out of Marnie’s request. He’d known Macy two days and had spent both evenings with her, and she’d invited him over for dinner tomorrow. Odds were pretty good that he could have spent Saturday evening with her, too, without a suit, a tie and worrying about his physical safety as well as his virtue.

Macy’s voice distracted him from dire thoughts of the future. “I’d like to meet her sometime.”

“Marnie? Yeah, she doesn’t do well with the living.”

“Neither do I sometimes. And truthfully, I wasn’t wild about birthday cake that someone had just blown little bits of ick over, either, not until Clary was born. Kids kind of desensitize you to all that germ stuff.”

He tried to imagine how mini-Macy looked. Blue eyes, brown hair, chubby cheeks, that toddler sense of wonder in everything? Or did she resemble her father more? When Macy looked at her, did she see the dead husband she didn’t love?

Then the obvious occurred to him. “Do you have a picture of her?”

The smile that beamed across her face was practically enough to light the night. “Of course I do.” Pulling out her cell, she scrolled to the photographs, then handed it over.

Yep, Clary Howard looked just like her mother, except for the chubby part. Macy didn’t carry a pound of extra weight, but Clary was nicely rounded in that adorable-little-girl sort of way. Her hair was the same shade as Macy’s, though finer, and she had the same serious air about her that Macy did.

The photo was taken on the beach, and Clary, crouching in the sand, wore a one-piece ruffled swimsuit that made her look like a pumpkin with legs. A floppy white hat framed her face, and her lower lip was poked out as she focused entirely on the seashell in her hand. She looked sweet as cotton candy and could undoubtedly be as hardheaded as granite.

“She’s a cutie.” Though he was tempted to see what other photos she kept, he handed the phone back without looking. “Three is a good age. Interested in everything, talking to everyone.”

“Interested, yes. Talking...nonstop with people she knows but a little shy with strangers.” Macy gazed at the photograph for a moment, tenderness easing across her features along with yearning. She was always pretty, but the combination made her stunning.

“It must be tough, being away from her even for a few days.”

“Yeah, but she’ll be here Friday.”

With Macy’s brother and sister-in-law, with whom she would do the things she’d done with him the past two days. So much for possibly spending Saturday evening with her. He might not see much of her after the family arrived.

Might not see her at all.

And though they hardly knew each other, he had no doubt that would be his loss.

“Well...”

Macy’s sigh floated on the air. Dinner was gone, dessert just a few crumbs on the plates and she’d long since paid the bill. Time to go home. He unhooked Scooter’s leash from the foot of his chair, stood and stretched, and the dog did the same.

“Thank you for going out to Fair Winds with me.”

“Thanks for dinner.” Their steps were muffled on the grass, then scuffed across concrete. “And for a look at how the other half live. Tell Clary she’s got excellent taste in inheritances.”

“You can tell her yourself.” Macy glanced both ways, though traffic was allowed only one way, then stepped off the curb. After shooting him a glance, she added to that. “That is, if you’re not ready to dump me and my needs into Brent’s lap and run.”

Warmth spread through him at the idea that he had a choice in the matter and, judging from Scooter’s happy look, it had transmitted down the leash. “I’m not ready to dump anything.”

Except the date with Kiki Isaacs, and he couldn’t go back on that. But he could hope for her to find someone else.

As they stepped into the shadows of the live oaks in the square, he thought he heard Macy murmur a firm “Good.”

* * *

“You’re sure about this?” Macy turned into her own driveway but didn’t shut off the engine. “I don’t mind taking you home.”

“Yeah, but then we’d just have to come back to make sure you get in okay. Besides, Scooter and I walk a lot, including at night. From here to our place is nothing.”

With a soft sigh, she turned off the ignition and opened the door. The house was safe. Lights on timers shone in the living room, the kitchen and over the stairs. The alarm was armed. Nothing looked out of place. But it was a definite plus that she didn’t have to walk inside by herself.

They went up the walkway, Scooter’s nails clicking on the sidewalk behind them, and she opened the door and shut off the security system. The packed boxes were still in the hall. A pile of empty boxes and packing material were still visible in the kitchen. The lights in the backyard showed a tranquil, undisturbed scene.

“Nine o’clock and all’s fine,” she said, and the grandfather clock down the hall chimed a moment later. Good timing.

“The castle is secured. We’ll leave and you can pull up the drawbridge.”

She laughed. She tended to think of the house as a mausoleum instead, which made her... Well, she’d rather not think about what lived in mausoleums. But a princess in a castle...she hadn’t felt like that since she and Mark first got engaged.

“Dinner about six? But you can come over whenever you’re done for the day.”

He nodded, hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. Before she could react, he flashed a grin, made coaxing sounds at the dog and left.

Having her feet knocked out from under her had been a fairly common occurrence since the day Mark died. Having it done in an unexpectedly good way was enough to make her lean against the door for support after she closed it. It had been so long since someone new and interesting had kissed her. So long since she’d been kissed so sweetly. Since she’d given serious thought to wanting more.

For a time she stood there, just feeling satisfied, until the green light on the alarm console caught her attention. She made sure she’d locked the door—for the first time in months, she couldn’t remember—then reset the alarm. Then she headed down the hall to the kitchen. After the time away, with a cup of coffee, she would have the energy to pack at least a few more boxes tonight before going to bed.

The coffeemaker hummed as it brewed, and Macy found herself humming softly, too, a silly song about spiders and waterspouts. She’d already decided to leave packing the kitchen for her last job, but she could make a start on the family room. Hundreds of DVDs, even more books, small parts of Mark’s vast collections...

She stacked the leather sofa with the smallest boxes she’d bought, recommended for books, and began packing without even glancing at titles. Some were old, bound in leather. A few had been published recently, but none of them were popular or fiction. Mark would have been the first to scoff at Stephen’s fantasy novels. Her husband had been as snobbish in his reading materials as everything else, while she thought she’d like to know more about the mysterious man in the mysterious place on Stephen’s cover.

About its creator, as well.

She took a break to fix her coffee the way she liked it, then, warming her hands on the hot mug, she strolled down the hall, turning right into the living room and making her way to the big window. The street outside was quiet, lights on in the houses across the street. There was too much room between houses to hear televisions or conversations. The Villains walked a fine line between wanting privacy while also flaunting all they had. Louise was the worst.

But at least she came by her money honestly. Most of the fortunes in these few square miles had been handed down through generations, like Mark’s, or married into. Like Macy’s.

Remembering Stephen’s incredulity about Louise’s proposal made Macy smile. Had the women asked for money, too, to fund their glorious memorial? All she had to do was check the contract, right there on the coffee table—

Her hands trembled, and she barely managed to keep the coffee from sloshing all over the ancient Turkish rug. Her heart thudded so loudly she couldn’t hear the sounds of her own breathing, wasn’t sure she even was breathing until her lungs suddenly choked and she forced out a cough, then sucked in air audibly.

The only thing on the coffee table was an arrangement of roses. There was no contract.

“It has to be—” Carefully setting the coffee down, she paced around the couch, went to the chair where she’d sat during Louise’s visit, checked the entire area. Maybe she’d knocked it off when she’d left the room earlier. Maybe she’d set it somewhere besides the coffee table. Maybe—

Squeezing her eyes shut, hugging herself tightly, she replayed the visit in her memory. Louise handing her the contract, herself holding it without looking at it, then setting it on the table. Louise saying keep it, then showing herself out. Macy thinking in the silence that they thought she was the crazy one. Walking out of the room to get back to her packing.

She had left it on the coffee table. She was certain of it.

Just as certain as she was that it wasn’t there now.

Efforts to control the panic building inside her as she headed toward the kitchen failed. By the time she reached the island, she was frantic. She’d made a point of leaving all her papers there—inventories, notes, any records she came across that she wanted to keep.

There was no contract.

She’d packed in one of the guest rooms after Louise left. Taking the stairs at a run left her breathless, but that was nothing compared with the emptiness of her lungs when she found no contract there, either.

Not in the other guest room. Not in her bedroom. Not in her bathroom. Not in Clary’s room. Not in the dining room. Not in the family room. Still not in the living room or kitchen.

There was only one room she hadn’t checked: Mark’s office. It was just down the hall, the doorway under the stairs. The sheriff’s department had searched it after his death, along with his office in town, but they’d found nothing of interest. If he’d kept records or mementos of his killings, he’d hidden them well.

The contract couldn’t be in there. She hadn’t even looked at the closed door. Though she had to deal with the room eventually, she planned on doing it when Brent and Anne were here, maybe even letting them do it without her. She’d never planned on walking in there alone.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob as she forced deep breaths into her lungs. It was a room. Empty but for furniture, keepsakes, papers. The only thing in there that could hurt her were memories, and God knew she had enough of those. What were a few more?

She pushed the door and it silently swung inward. Mark had never been private about the office. Often she’d curled up in a chair to read while he worked at the mammoth desk one of his great-greats had had commissioned from one of Charleston’s premiere cabinetmakers. Clary had napped on a quilt on the floor while he’d caught Macy up on his day. She’d always been welcomed inside.

Tonight she didn’t feel welcome.

A flip of the switch lit the room brightly. Mark had teased his vision was receding, along with his hairline, so he’d liked good lighting. The room by its nature was dark: wood paneling and floors, marble fireplace surround, deep crimson paint on the walls, lots of gleaming mahogany pieces. It smelled of Mark and paper and disuse. If she listened hard enough, she was certain she could hear his voice, see his silhouette leaning back in the leather chair, feel the warmth of his presence.

She didn’t listen. Instead, she stared at the desk. Rather, at the packet of white papers centered neatly on it.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh—” Clamping her hand over her mouth, she realized she was trembling, her fingers unsteady, her legs shaking. “I didn’t— God, I know I didn’t—”

Her gulp of air did little to ease the strangling sensation in her chest. It fluttered, rose, overwhelmed her and sent her on a hasty dash to the bathroom just down the hall, where she emptied her stomach.

She was washing her mouth when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Eyes too wide, forehead wrinkled, face drained of color. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if she had seen Mark sitting there in the chair.

“How could I go in there and forget?”

Her reflection didn’t answer, but there was only one answer: she was losing control again. No, not losing. Had lost control. Had lost the memory of opening that door, walking inside, laying the contract—arranging it—on the desk.

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t as if Mark would actually find the contract there to review it. She was keeping her papers on the island. She’d never kept her papers in his office, what few she had. She wouldn’t have put it there. Couldn’t have.

And yet there it was. Had it moved under its own power?

Do you believe in ghosts? she’d asked Stephen earlier. Because they say this place is haunted. And I believe it.

She really did believe Fair Winds was haunted. But not her own home. She wasn’t living with ghosts. It just wasn’t possible.

But her putting it there? Forgetting it? Sinking into the darkness again?

Dear God, that was entirely too possible.

After drying her mouth, she left the bathroom and made a circuit of the house, checking every door, every window, every item that came into sight. Could someone have gained access to the house? Had this been moved? Had that been touched?

The answer, she was forced to admit when she sank down on her bed after checking the entire place, was no. Access was secure. Nothing else was out of place. The only thing that had been moved was the contract, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Call the police? Oh, yeah, they’d take her seriously.

Tell Brent? He’d be on the phone with her psychiatrist as soon as he hung up.

Call Stephen? The little voice tempted and tantalized her. He was only a quarter of a mile away. He might think she was odd, but he liked her anyway. He didn’t know anything about her past, her problems, her time in the psych facility.

Her fingers reached automatically for the cell in her pocket, but before she could dial, she pushed it away. She liked Stephen, too, and she wasn’t calling him when he had to work tomorrow to tell him that she’d found the contract in a place she didn’t remember being. She wouldn’t give him reason to think she was any less stable than he already did.

Hugging herself tightly, she lay down on the bed, still trembling, too afraid to close her eyes, and held on.

* * *

The writing went extraordinarily well Thursday. Not having to go into the vet clinic helped. Thinking about Macy every other sentence didn’t, until he finally managed to block her in a dark corner and concentrate on the other women in his life.

When he’d reached his daily goal and run out of words, Stephen took Scooter for a walk to Holigan Creek, then made it a quick shower. Now he stood in his boxers in front of his small closet while the dog lounged on the bed. “Not much to choose from, is there?”

Jeans and T-shirts, with shorts on the shelf above. Also, pushed into the very back, was a rarely worn suit, light gray, and a white dress shirt. He would have to wear that this weekend. And that was it on options.

When was the last time he’d cared how he looked? Probably the day he married Sloan, when her mother had forced him into a rented tux. His wife-to-be couldn’t have cared less, but after paying for vet school, her mother had been determined to have the wedding of her dreams.

Too bad her dreams hadn’t extended to the marriage.

“Last night I wore khaki, so tonight I guess I’ll go with khaki.” He pulled a black T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts from the closet and yanked them on, gave his hair its usual finger comb, then put on his glasses. A spray of cologne, and he was ready to go—more than an hour early. But Macy had said come over when he was finished working, so he was taking her at her word. If she was busy with dinner, he could help. If she was still sorting and packing, he could help with that, too. Or he could just sit out of the way and watch her.

He was easy.

He and Scooter strolled the quarter mile to her house, burning time but still early. He kind of hoped his hair would dry on the way, but the humidity was so high that when he combed it one last time on the way up Macy’s driveway, it was still damp. Oh, well. It wasn’t as if this was a date, and even if it was, she wouldn’t expect him polished and dressed up. She’d spent enough time with him to know better.

When she answered the door, her dress was sleeveless, her feet were bare and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. With the soft, blurry pastels of her dress, she looked like a spring dream.

Until his gaze reached her face. There were shadows under her eyes, and her face was pale. She’d had a really bad day—or night. She was a different woman than the one he’d kissed right here last night.

He meant to be polite and not comment on her appearance, but when he spoke, it wasn’t hello that came out. “Are you okay?”

Had she gotten bad news? Had something happened to Clary? No, of course not. If her daughter needed her, she would have moved heaven and earth to be with her. Maybe something had happened with her parents. They were in Europe, she’d said.

Or maybe packing up the house she’d shared with her dead husband was finally getting to her. Memories, good and bad. Reminders of what she’d lost, maybe what she’d escaped.

Her wan smile wasn’t reassuring. “No sleep last night and a headache today. Come on in.” Bending, she scratched Scooter as she unhooked his leash. “Hey, big boy, aren’t you the prettiest baby.”

Scooter gave her his biggest doggy grin. The instant the scratching stopped, though, his nose began quivering, and he followed it down the hall toward the kitchen, his tail slapping boxes on the way.

The family room looked as if a perversely neat tornado had blown through, with packed boxes stacked on the couch, chairs and tables, shelves mostly empty, even the throw pillows tossed into a large open box. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m getting rid of the easy stuff. The DVDs are going to the retirement center, the books to the library. I called Right Track today and offered them all the casual furniture, so they’re sending a truck on Monday.”

“Ellie Maricci’s pet project.” Right Track was a residential training program for young women who were booted from the juvenile system at eighteen with no help and little hope for their futures. They got job training and counseling, learned to cook, clean and do laundry, helped pay expenses with part-time jobs and took on the responsibilities of their homes. He’d found a few dogs and cats to be pets at the center and donated the food and care necessary for them and a few strays who’d joined them.

Ellie didn’t believe in turning any strays away, two- or four-footed. Neither did he.

“They’re getting the televisions, too, and the stereo and Mark’s computers. I’m taking them in tomorrow or Saturday to have copies made of whatever I need and get the hard drives erased.”

“No wonder you have a headache. You’ve done a lot.”

She smiled that faint smile again and muttered as she turned to the kitchen. He thought it sounded like I wish.

He followed her to the island. Scooter sat on the other side, staring up at the counter. A pan of gooey brownies sat there, far back out of his reach, but that didn’t stop him from drooling over the incredible aroma.

“Since we’re grilling, I thought we’d eat outside. I could use a little fresh air. Could you grab that pan?”

He picked up the large tray and followed her to the rear door. Scooter darted between them, second one out, and immediately tore across the yard. “Aw, man, I forgot you have a pool. Scooter loves water. About half the time he escapes, he goes for a swim in the creek, and he likes to wallow in puddles after it rains.”

“Creeks, puddles, my daylilies. He wallows a lot, doesn’t he? It seems a veterinarian would have a better-trained pet.”

Tilting his head, he put on a perplexed look. “It’s funny how many people think that. But remember, I’m only a part-time vet, and Scooter’s a full-time character. Besides, what’s a little wallowing between friends?”

She laughed. “I’ve got plenty of towels. Wallow away, Scooter.”

Stephen had been in the backyard before, but that was the first night, when she thought she’d seen someone in the guesthouse. He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the area. Now he took the time to really look around. The flagstone patio extended into lush green grass, with outdoor furniture better than his indoor stuff, a fire pit for chilly nights and a grill and sink set in a massive brick outcropping to the right.

The rest of the large space was filled with guesthouse, pool, swathes of grass and extensive flower beds, the kind that took hours of planning even before the first spade or shovel was turned. “My mom would love this garden.”

Macy set down the items she’d carried on the stone counter next to the giant grill. “I love this garden. It’s the only thing I’ll miss about the house.”

“But you can have a garden anywhere, right? That was Mom’s theory. She said she was beautifying the Southwest one home at a time.”

He put the tray next to her, then stepped back as she unfolded foil to expose thick slabs of steak, aluminum-wrapped potatoes and a wire basket filled with sliced vegetables. She seasoned the meat with salt and pepper before setting the potatoes on the grill and closing the lid.

“Would you like something to drink? I have water, pop and iced tea.”

“House wine—” He caught himself. “I bet you’ve heard that hundreds of times.”

Her smile confirmed it. “Actually, the house wine for Mark’s Southern family was a Chateau Lafite something or other.”

“I can only guess that’s as expensive as it sounds. I’ll get the drinks.” He returned to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice and grabbed both tea and pop. When he returned to the patio, she was standing at the beginning of a stone path that led to the yard, hands on her hips, watching Scooter. The dog jumped into the pool at one end, swam to the other, jumped out and gave a great shake, spraying water fifteen feet, then raced to the other end to do it again.

“His needs aren’t many.” Stephen handed her a glass and a can of pop, then filled his glass with tea. “You work in the yard yourself?”

“I drew up the plans, found the plants and dug every bed. I even did about half the fountain.” She gestured toward the back corner opposite the guesthouse and, with a silent prompt from him, started walking that way. He let her lead, just by a little, just enough that he could watch the dreamy fabric of her dress sway and shift with each step and the lean muscles in her calves contract and release.

It was a lovely sight.

* * *

The fountain was the part of the garden Macy had worked hardest on. It sat beneath a maple tree, with lush shade plants on all sides giving it an air of privacy. Though Mark had hired the nursery in town to build the rocky grotto, she’d been a full partner in the work. She’d gotten filthy, sore and bruised, and paid the men a bonus not to tell anyone. It had been her spineless way of going against Mark’s will, even if he’d never known it. And he definitely had never known. He’d never been one to let little rebellions pass unnoticed.

The same rocks that formed the fountain made a small patio in front, just big enough to hold two comfortable wooden chairs, painted dusky lavender to play off all the green. The paint was flaking, exactly the effect she’d wanted when she’d painted the wood, but Mark had declared it tacky and she’d redone it, giving it a glossy, perfect surface.

But surfaces were just illusion. They always cracked after a time.

“Wow. I’d stretch an extension cord out here and write on the laptop all day.” Stephen settled in one of the chairs and propped his feet on the low rim of rock encircling the pool that constantly refueled the fountain. If he noticed the spray that dotted the toes of his sneakers, he didn’t care.

“No extension cord necessary.” Settling herself in the second chair, she lifted a leaf of a giant elephant ear plant to reveal the electrical access hidden underneath.

“Very cool. My favorite place here.”

“Mine, too.” She sipped her pop and alternated between watching the water tumble and sneaking looks at him. Head bent back, long legs stretched out, he looked easy, loose. Comfortable. She liked the fact that his wardrobe was unimaginative, that his hair always stood on end, that his glasses made his eyes look a tiny bit bigger, a tiny bit more intense. That he wouldn’t fit into the Howards’s world. That he wouldn’t want to.

She especially liked that he’d noticed she’d had a rough time. She just wished she could tell him about it.

But then he would look at her the way Brent, Anne and her parents did, as if she weren’t quite sane. She could barely tolerate it from them. She didn’t think she could stand it from Stephen. After all, her family loved her anyway. They hadn’t walked away yet and never would.

Stephen, on the other hand, would be perfectly able to do so.

And maybe she really wasn’t quite sane.

“Did you entertain a lot when you lived here?” He glanced at her, catching her sneaking a look, but didn’t seem to mind.

Her cheeks heated a little anyway. “I could get a job as an event planner. Twelve for dinner, fifty for dessert, a hundred for cocktails... And note I said planner. Not much of a doer. Mark always insisted on catering meals. But I am the best at sending out invitations, picking menus, ordering flowers, hiring musicians, dressing up and looking pretty.”

His solemn gaze didn’t shift away. “Did you enjoy it?”

Her first-impulse answer was no, but she gave it a moment’s thought. “I did.” The acknowledgment rather surprised her. “My family was solidly working-class, and it took a long time for Mark’s lifestyle to become normal for me. It was like taking a very long, very luxurious vacation. Shopping, being pampered, showing off, without ever having to even think about money...”

Did he think she was shallow for admitting that she’d liked it? She didn’t know much about his own finances, though he had mentioned that at times he’d been lucky to have a room of his own. His house was nowhere near as lavish as this one, but it was cozy. It was a home, and he seemed happy with it.

She would trade all of Mark’s and Miss Willa’s money and both their mansions to be happy.

She felt obliged to go on. “When I met Mark, I didn’t know exactly who he was. Howard is such a common name. It was obvious he had some money, but I didn’t care. I fell in love with a college student, not the heir to a few fortunes. It wasn’t until we went shopping for my wedding gown that I began to really understand how different life was going to be. Weekly flights to New York with his mother, meetings with advisers, back for fittings... You know that old tradition that the bride’s family pays for most of the wedding? Mark bought my gown. It cost more than my dad made in a year.”

She shook her head. Outrageous for a dress that was meant to be worn only once. She’d stored it with thoughts that maybe someday she’d have a daughter who would wear it for her own wedding, but given the way Macy’s marriage had ended, she’d rather see Clary wed in a T-shirt and shorts.

“But you looked beautiful in it,” Stephen said. When she raised her brows, he shrugged. “I saw the portrait in the living room.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He’d thought she looked beautiful. Of course, she’d been younger, foolishly in love and hadn’t had a clue about the true nature of the man she’d married. Still...

“It was a good thing my ex’s parents could pay for our wedding, because between us, all Sloan and I had was two veterinary degrees and a whole boatload of debt.”

“Did you always want to be a vet?”

“Nah. I wanted to be Han Solo and fly the Millennium Falcon. Or Batman. I’d’ve looked good behind the wheel of the Batmobile.”

He said it so naturally that she burst out laughing. Grinning, he took a swig of tea. “Hey, I believe in superheroes. Don’t you?”

“Uh...sure. Why not?” After all, if supervillains existed, then by deduction so should superheroes.

“Sure, why not,” he repeated, then snorted. “You had a sense of wonder and magic at some time. Kids are born with it—well, except Marnie. She came out of the womb wanting just the facts. When did you lose yours?” It was a simple teasing question, and she would have tried to answer it in the same way, but a frown crossed his face and he sobered. “Was it the way your husband died?”

“No. It was the way he lived.” Tension streaked through her, and she gripped the chair arms tightly enough as she stood to take away lavender flakes on her palms. “I think it’s probably time to put the meat on the grill.”

She crossed the lawn with long strides, Scooter joining her halfway. He was dripping, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and just the sight of him eased the tightness in her shoulders a little. Hearing Stephen not far behind, she said, “Scooter really likes the pool, and I’m sure Clary will really like him. Any chance he could just stay here until we’re gone?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do without him. However, anytime you want to make a visit to the animal shelter to pick out one of your own, let me know. I’d be happy to go with you.”

“All right. It was worth a try, wasn’t it, sweetie?” She moved the potatoes to one side of the grill, cranked up the heat, then closed the lid again. “I need a few things from the kitchen. You want towels for the baby?”

“I can get them if you tell me where.”

She hesitated only a moment. She could run upstairs and get the oversize chocolate-brown bamboo towels, each one pricey enough to cover the cost of tonight’s steak dinner and then some. She could go, but she didn’t have to, and by the time he got back, she would be too busy at the grill for him to follow up on her latest episode of telling too much. “Top of the stairs, closet down the hall to the left.”

He held the door for her, and she turned into the kitchen while he continued down the hall. As she gathered marinade, steak sauce and butter, she listened to the tromp of his footsteps on the stairs and overhead. It was a nice feeling, not being alone in the house. If it was haunted, for this evening, at least, she had someone to be scared with her. If she’d gone crazy instead, there was someone to make the call to lock her up again.

Her hands trembled as she balanced the items on a tray holding dishes, silverware and napkins. Dear God, I know I don’t pray for much besides Clary, but please don’t let me be crazy.