I don’t want to be out here, not with just a hook-and-eye lock on the door to the outside. I turn to go.
And then I see it.
The shape of a man. He’s standing in the dark, on the other side of the screen, staring in at me.
Chapter 16
I jerk backward, as if fear has snatched me by the nape of my neck. The form doesn’t move. It’s frozen, like a statue. I wonder if it might be a shadow, one cast by the moonlight.
But then I see it shift, almost imperceptibly.
I glance toward the door to the yard, trying to calculate the seconds it would take the man to reach there and tear it open. I have to get out of the room, back into the house.
With my heart pounding, I step backward. My butt knocks against the edge of the couch and I stumble. The wineglass slips from my hand and shatters on the brick floor, wine splashing everywhere. I right myself and start to turn, desperate to flee.
“Bryn?” It’s the man in the yard. For a split second, I think it might be Guy, but then realize it isn’t.
“Who’s there?” I call out.
“Bryn, I’m so sorry I startled you. It’s Derek. Derek Collins.”
I can’t imagine what he’s doing standing outside my house in the dark.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I say. I still see only his form.
“I know, I feel terrible. I wanted to drop something off for you, and it was stupid of me to come around this way.”
I exhale, relishing the relief that’s pouring through me.
“Why don’t I let you in? But be careful. I just broke a glass.”
I cross the room, lift the metal hook from the eye, and push open the screened door. As Derek steps into the light, a folder in hand, I can tell by his expression that he’s embarrassed. He immediately offers to help me clean up the mess on the floor.
“Thanks, but let me get a broom first.”
I return a minute later with a broom, dustpan, paper towels, and a wet sponge. Together we cautiously dab at the spilled wine and sweep up the shards of glass. Despite the mess, I’m glad he’s here. It’s good not to be alone in this big empty house tonight.
“Fortunately white wine blends in beautifully on a brick floor,” I say, smiling.
“You’re nice to let me off the hook.”
“Don’t be silly. Would you like a glass of wine? I’m going to pour another for myself.”
“I’d love that if you don’t mind.”
I lead him from the porch, bolting the inner door behind me, and then into the kitchen, where I take two stemmed glasses down from the cabinet. I motion for Derek to take a seat at the table. He’s wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt, and he’s had his hair trimmed since I saw him the other day, perhaps preferring a shorter cut for the summer. It highlights those crazy features of his that, improbably, end up coming together in such a compelling way.
“Again, so sorry for nearly sending you into cardiac arrest,” he says. “I’ve been hauling around this folder that I wanted to drop off for you, and by chance I ended up on your street tonight. When I saw all the lights on, I figured you might not mind if I popped in. I started up the path but then noticed movement on the porch, so I circled around to the side.”
“What’s in there?” I ask, nodding toward the folder. Derek slides it in my direction, and as I reach out to accept it, there’s an awkward moment when our fingers accidently brush.
“A little bit about my students, plus a description of what we’ve focused on during each class. I thought it might be useful to have background when you prep for your talk.”
“Perfect, I’ll take a look.” I wonder if I’ll even be in Saratoga in a few weeks time, but I can’t alert Derek to that.
“I told the kids this week that a very successful nonfiction author is coming in as a guest lecturer. They seem really amped about it.”
“I hope they’re not expecting Lena Dunham or someone incredibly fun and cutting-edge like that.”
“Doubtful. I get the feeling they find me horribly square—they’re probably expecting the woman who wrote the book on the Japanese art of tidying.”
I smile again. To me there’s nothing square about Derek. Rather, he seems grounded, someone who’s given careful consideration to what matters most to him—teaching, for instance, finishing his novel—and acted accordingly. He takes a drink of wine and sets his glass down on the table with a clink. “Where’s Guy tonight?” he asks.
“He’s out with a potential donor,” I say, probably too quickly. I like Derek and I feel comfortable with him, but I’m certainly not going to drop even a hint that there’s a problem in my marriage.
“I bet he must have to do a lot of that in his line of work.”
I nod in agreement. His gaze sweeps across the room, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the dinner the other night and how Eve was in this very room.
“I hear they still don’t have a suspect in Eve Blazer’s murder,” he says.