by Rachel Lee
They would have laughed a lot. Brigid was usually cheerful and ready to laugh. She couldn’t imagine that Allan could have been much different, at least when he was around her.
The house itself was from more than half a century ago, she guessed. The furnishings all appeared to be secondhand, in keeping with a military income. In keeping with the fact that they wouldn’t be here most of the year. A sofa, a recliner, some occasional tables. There was, however, a gaping hole in the living room, which, judging by the rug and clean wall behind, had been the place where Allan had died. Unfortunately, she had seen too much to even have to imagine it.
The chair was gone, probably a match for the one that sat at an angle. Brigid’s chair, she guessed, an older plaid recliner.
The TV was relatively new, however, a big flat screen on the wall over a covered fireplace. On the mantel were a DVD player, a stereo receiver and some other pieces. Unlike everything else in this house, they appeared to be relatively new. A splurge?
Heavy insulating curtains, navy blue, covered the windows. A cozy room except for the empty spot.
The master bedroom boasted a queen-size four-poster bed covered by a cheerful comforter in a splash of colors. Brigid had picked that out, she was sure. The same navy blue curtains covered the window beside the bed. All the usual furnishings.
Then she came upon an office. Battered wood desk, two office chairs, top-of-the-line computer. Naturally, the best for video calls between the two of them. Stacks of papers, filing cabinets... This was not going to be fun to look through.
The single bathroom boasted a claw-foot tub that had probably been in the house since its first day. A showerhead at the top of a long plumbing pipe. A plastic shower curtain decorated with fish swimming in the water. Matching towels.
A guest room, as large as the master bedroom, but showing less attention to detail. A double bed without a headboard against a wall. A wooden dresser, one straight-backed wooden chair. The same navy blue curtains. A polka-dot comforter in dark blue and white. Two plump pillows.
A second guest room, hardly larger than the office, with a single bed, a small cabinet and one hardwood chair. This bed had a black throw on it.
It was a house that said very little about the people who had lived here. Perhaps because they were home so rarely? Or because they didn’t have time for kitsch? Or the taste for it?
Hillary swiftly unpacked the little she thought she’d need but didn’t bother to take out more. She had a flight to catch the day after tomorrow.
After a hot shower, she climbed into the bed, beneath the comforter, and stared into the dark.
The kernel of her idea was beginning to crack open, to put forth tendrils. As she was drifting into sleep, those tendrils took root.
Maybe she wouldn’t leave as soon as she’d anticipated.
Chapter Four
Hillary slept deeply but awoke more in keeping with Norway time. When she pulled back the curtain, she saw that night still blanketed the land.
She shrugged and went to take a shower. She expected cold water, that Trace must have shut down nearly everything, but the water was hot and welcome. She might be used to cold showers, but she still appreciated a hot one. Such a luxury.
Afterward, wrapped in the heavy fleece robe she’d brought with her, she found her way to the kitchen and started a rich, dark pot of coffee. There were some leftovers from Maude’s, but the food was heavy and Norwegians preferred to eat later in the morning.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she at last felt the emptiness of this house. Her throat tightened, but she held back tears.
She spoke aloud. “You want me to do this, Brigid. I know. I know how much you loved Allan. He won’t rest until the truth is known.” You won’t rest.
The last part grabbed her. Maybe visiting a grave didn’t have to be her final act for a friend.
Even so, this seemed like a hopeless cause. How did Trace expect to learn anything the police hadn’t? Or maybe he thought that the police simply hadn’t looked because it would be so obvious to them.
He might be right about that. Veteran with PTSD loses wife. That could overwhelm anyone. And it would be the apparent conclusion.
Her heart was breaking for Trace, however. He’d lost so much in such a short period of time. As bad as the loss of Brigid had been for her, for Trace it had to be so much worse. Two lifelong friends in the space of less than a year.
Night still smothered the land when a rap on the door drew her attention. She never doubted it was Trace. Who else would show up at this hour?
When she opened the door, she found him standing there with two shopping bags.
“I thought you’d be awake,” he remarked. “Can I come in?”
“Of course. There’s coffee.”
“Sounds great.” He joined her in the kitchen. “I’m assuming you don’t want to eat before a run?”
He was right about that. The coffee would be enough for now. “Where are we going?”
“Pretty much the same as yesterday. I like that hill. Or the side of that mountain.” He flashed a short smile. “I hope you don’t think I’m out of bounds, but these bags are for you.”
Startled, she looked at them then at him. “What for?”
“You need some decent running clothes. So last evening I stopped by the department store, spoke to the very nice lady who helped you yesterday and asked her to judge your sizes. I hope she was right. Go ahead and look.”
She felt a little embarrassed, as if she’d had to be rescued. “You shouldn’t have.”
“But I did. I like to have a companion to eat up the miles with me. Anyway, it’s colder than yesterday, and I’m sure running in your dress slacks isn’t the most comfortable way to go.”
Hillary couldn’t argue, so she began pulling items out of the bag. Fleece-lined pants in gray. A fleece shirt in the same. And at the bottom a silky thermal undergarment in dark blue that would cover her from neck to foot. There were also six pairs of new thermal socks.
“Good choices,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
“My experience counts for something, and I figured you hadn’t come prepared for this. Do you want to run this morning?”
Her muscles ached for the activity. “Absolutely.” She picked up the bags and headed for the bedroom. Everything fit well. No folds in the undergarment to irritate her. At least she’d brought her own boots. Breaking in a new pair meant blisters.
When she emerged, ready to go, he said, “You might want to bring your vest and watch cap. Wind’s blowing down from the mountains.”
She took his advice, and ten minutes later they were out the door. The first steel gray had begun to lighten the sky, but there was no promise the clouds would vanish. A bit of sun would have been welcome, but not necessary.
They left town behind them before there was much traffic and soon reached the point where the ground began to rise.
Hillary spoke, far from breathless. “Anything steeper?”
“Oh, yeah. A little farther ahead, we’ll take a turn and test that mountain.”
It sounded good to her. Her muscles stretched, loosening completely, ready for more. She loved the feeling of her legs devouring the miles. Her father had remarked that she was built for this. And for more, apparently, since she’d qualified for the Jegertroppen.
When they turned, they were no longer on the dirt road. It became a treacherous track, probably carved by off-road vehicles. By people out for some fun.
It didn’t faze her. She’d run over much more dangerous ground. Being something of a mountain goat was required.
Trace ran smoothly beside her as they climbed. Her breaths became measured, deeply in, then deeply out. She heard Trace begin the same rhythm. A thought occurred to her.
“Your legs are longer,” she remarked. “Am I slowing you?”
“Hardly.
You’ve trained. We all adjust our strides.”
It was true, so she cast aside the concern. They continued upward. The air became colder. Gradually she felt the air beginning to thin. Not very much.
Trace spoke. “You been training much at altitude?”
“Not lately,” she admitted. “Too many low-altitude missions.”
“Then we turn around. No altitude sickness, please.”
She thought he was being overly cautious. Gauging that they were at about twenty-five hundred meters, that wasn’t enough to make most people sick. But most people weren’t running, either.
Nor did she want a round of altitude sickness. If it became bad enough, she might need a hospital.
“We can go higher if you want,” he offered. “This trail goes to about thirteen thousand feet.”
She did a quick mental conversion. About four thousand meters. “I guess we should shorten it. At least for a day or two.”
“A day or two?” He stopped running and began jogging in place. “I thought you intended to leave tomorrow.”
“I’m reconsidering. I’ll be ready for your four thousand meters in a couple of days. It doesn’t take long for me to acclimate.”
“Probably not since you do it so often.” He surprised her with a smile. “This mountain doesn’t go much higher than that. Maybe after a few days we can hit the peak and run down the other side.”
They began their descent at a fast clip. “Does this mountain have a name?”
“Thunder Mountain. Lots of great stories about it if you want to hear them later. Such as wolves.”
She dared a glance his way. “Wolves? I thought your country had exterminated them.”
“We might still. There’s been an effort to restore them to the wild, with all the attendant fury among ranchers. Norway?”
“We share a small number with Sweden. About four hundred. I suspect the disagreements are the same you have here.”
“Yeah. Sometimes I see them when I run high enough.”
“They seem shy, mostly. When we ski through hundreds of miles, they sometimes show up in small numbers. Never aggressive.”
“Mostly curious,” he agreed.
Thousands of meters disappeared beneath their feet until they reached the edge of town and the Mannerly house and passed it. An occasional car rolled by, the occupants waving.
“Friendly,” she said.
“Mostly. And now I really want that coffee. Let’s go get breakfast.”
First they passed a dilapidated train depot. Next a truck stop full of grumbling trucks with a diner to one side. He led them toward the diner.
“Best breakfast around.”
Well, she wasn’t sure about that as she scanned the menu. While her mother had introduced her to the English fry-up, she was more accustomed to not eating at all until lunch. Anyway...
The foods she was used to were not on the menu, of course. Salmon mixed with scrambled eggs would have been nice, as would thin slices of meat on dense bread. In the end she chose the scrambled eggs, toast and a side of ham.
“Still looking for fish?” Trace asked.
She shrugged. “I eat what’s available.”
“I’ll find you some fish at the grocery today.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t. But I will anyway.”
A very nice man, she decided. Brigid had chosen her friends well.
As they ate, he asked the inevitable question. “Why are you planning to stay longer? Not that I mind.”
She thought it over, trying to decide what she could say without seeming to patronize him. This was such an important issue to him that she felt as if she needed to walk carefully.
“Brigid,” she said finally. “She would want me to.”
“Why?” His face appeared to have stiffened.
“Because you have questions,” she answered. “Serious questions. Brigid wouldn’t like them to remain unanswered if it’s possible to find what happened. She wouldn’t want me to walk away without trying. She wouldn’t want me to walk away from her friend.”
He resumed eating, appearing to ruminate. At least in Trondheim, or Afghanistan, the hour was later, and her appetite hadn’t yet adjusted to the new time. She made a hearty meal once she reminded herself that this wasn’t really breakfast.
Besides, after the run they had just taken, it wouldn’t be long before hunger found her. Not long at all.
* * *
TRACE TRIED TO decide how to take her decision to stay here. It was obviously well-intentioned, but to do this because of Brigid? While she might be certain, he was sure that Brigid wouldn’t have wanted Hillary to upend her life.
“What were you planning to do when you go home?” he asked as they finished up. He insisted on paying the bill.
“Oh, I was thinking I would go visit some friends.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “It’s a good time of year to look for the sun in the South of France. January would be better, but I don’t know where I’ll be then.”
Outside, as they began to walk the short distance to the Mannerly house, he said, “You really should keep your plans. Brigid wouldn’t want you to give up your holiday.”
“Maybe not. Should we argue?”
He snorted. “Not without Brigid to referee.”
For the first time, he saw a genuine smile light her face. It shone almost like an internal light. God, she was beautiful.
“Well, it seems we are at a stand,” she replied.
Indeed they were. He gave up. For now.
When they reached the house, he suggested she go change into something less sweaty. “I’m going to the market.”
“To look for fish? Then I’ll come as well.”
Seemed like the safest thing, he decided. He had no idea what kind of fish she would like. Or what she might need to prepare it.
He studied her quizzically. “I thought you didn’t cook. I was going to look for something prepared.”
“I exaggerated. I can cook, I just don’t do it very often, which keeps me out of form.”
As they drove across town to the grocery, he said, “If you can’t find what you want here, there’s another store just up the street, a chain that’s trying to move in. But people tend to be loyal to Hampstead’s because it’s been here for nearly a century, and because it buys most foods locally.”
“Then I will try to find everything I can there.”
Inside, the store was busy and everyone was friendly. Trace expected the friendliness, of course, but he was surprised at how many people paused to talk. He’d begun to feel like a pariah after the ruckus he’d raised over Allan. But Hillary was an attention-getter, all right. He introduced her only as Brigid’s friend. He had no idea if she wanted him to say more.
But apparently not. She spoke with a smile, shook hands, said only that she’d be staying for a while. Her slightly British accent made her more exotic, and Trace figured the whole town would hear about her by nightfall.
The conversations were limited, however. Most shoppers had their minds on tasks at hand. Funny, he thought, how many people developed blinders when shopping for groceries. Complete oblivion.
A few offered kind words about Allan but avoided the subject of his death. It was soon certain, however, that it was Hillary who had snagged their attention, not him.
How long did she plan to stay in town? Where was she from?
Casual, mildly probing questions. She did let it be known she was from Norway and answered a few questions about the cold. Making conversation–type questions. Not intrusive.
Hillary hovered over the fish, most of which was frozen, given how far they were from the sea. She didn’t seem to have a problem with that, but she finally asked, “Salmon fillets? With the skin on?”
She had already chosen frozen cod, bu
t this seemed important to her.
“I don’t think we have any fresh salmon around here.”
She laughed. “We have salmon farms in Norway, but the fish is becoming harder to find because there’s such a market in other EU countries. Higher prices, too.”
“I suggest we ask the butcher. He might have some ideas.”
The butcher, Ralph by name, was jovial and slightly plump. He eyed Hillary with favor.
“Don’t get many requests for that around here. I think I know where to get some, but it might take a day or two. And it might be frozen.”
“I’m agreeable with that.”
Ralph nodded and beamed. “How much?”
“Since I’m going to teach Trace to like it, too, maybe two pounds? And thin-sliced salami and other drier sausage slices?”
Ralph took out his notebook. “Now that I can find. I take it you don’t like the package stuff?”
“Not if I’m going to teach this man about Norwegian breakfast.”
“Gotcha. Anything else?”
“I doubt you have a dense bread. Sort of like a baguette, but much heavier.”
He shook his head. “The place to go would be the bakery if you want it soon. Melinda can probably make you some.” He winked. “But I can also try my sources.”
“Thank you!”
“My pleasure. Should I call Trace when I have everything?”
“Of course,” Trace answered. “Anything else?”
“I need to take a look at the cheeses. I imagine they’re suited to American tastes?”
He half smiled. “I’m sure of it.”
“It will do.”
After a half hour, apparently satisfied with what she could find and what she had ordered, they left the market behind.
“Now is it time for a shower?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Hot and long.”
“Then I’ll run home to clean up. Back later. And oh, by the way? I doubt you packed for a long stay, so feel free to use the washer and dryer.”
* * *
