Three long years he’d been trying to let go of the lethal mix of sadness and resentment for his wife. She couldn’t help the cancer diagnosis, but resisting treatment had been within her power. Camille always ignored unpleasant things. Part of her charm. Leo handled the full load of stress, a burden he’d carried without thinking.
His gaze landed on the 1952 Remington typewriter in front of him. The “Quiet-riter.” If anything could aid him in getting this job done, it was this machine. An object facilitating the writer’s blood pumping through his veins and motivating him to get words on paper.
He rested his fingers on the smooth metal keys. It had taken him through every first draft he’d ever written, including the book that won him the Pulitzer. The typewriter always worked for Leo.
At least it had.
Brutal reviews on the book he’d published after receiving the award had stolen the thunder of getting the esteemed prize at all. Logic and pep talks from his agent had barely boosted his morale. Writing a book so soon after losing his wife had been a mistake. One he paid for every day.
And now the current contract for another book hung over his head like an anvil on a fraying rope.
If only he could find his damn muse! His last hope had been to find it at the lake house. Now, instead of his muse, he got another renter.
He exhaled deeply and ran a hand through his hair. Something on the edges of his brain connected dots from the strange woman who’d arrived earlier to Camille, but he couldn’t quite make out the finer details. Did it even matter? He wanted her gone.
Leo leaned on the desk and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t write worth a damn anymore. What good was glory when everything else that mattered in his life was gone?
* * * *
Rose pressed the phone to her ear as she laid Bella’s big square bed near a corner of the living room area. While Joanne’s number rang, Rose assessed her home for the night.
The apartment was cozier than the large house. Knotted pine floors finished with a dark mahogany stain contrasted with walls the color of clotted cream. A sofa and recliner covered in faded country-blue fabric and an old pine coffee table showed a few nicks in the honey-colored finish. Like the rest of the house—at least the part she’d seen—the pieces here possessed weary harmony.
Bella sniffed her bed, carefully stepped on top, and scratched a few times then plunked down.
“Wow, sleeping in the backseat today must’ve been exhausting.”
Bella worked herself into a tight ball and shut her eyes.
On the fifth ring, a winded Joanne answered. “Thank God it’s you. I couldn’t find my phone. Are you at the house?”
“I am.” Rose settled back into the sofa, immediately comforted by the sound of her close friend’s voice. “Ran into traffic. Then we had a little issue when I got here.”
She tucked her legs at her side and shared the details of her arrival in Northbridge.
“So he’s there, right now?” Joanne asked.
“Yup. Upstairs.”
Rose heard a loud clunk from the upper level. What could he be doing to make so much noise at this hour?
“He didn’t recognize you, did he?”
“He was too mad to show it if he did. This guy doesn’t strike me as the type to read an advice column in a women’s magazine. And, if he’s into politics, he might recognize John, but probably not me. Don’t forget, I’m now a redhead with sort of a shitty haircut.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“I’m certain my regular hairdresser would have a stroke if she saw me.”
“Least of your worries. How long do you think before John realizes you’ve left?”
“A week? Two?” And then what? Rose hadn’t thought that far ahead. The pain of John’s deceit stabbed at her heart. She willed it to disappear, just like the happier moments in their marriage before he ran for office.
“Did you hear again from the FBI?”
“No. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. All I keep thinking, though, is if they hadn’t shown up at my door with their vague questions about campaign contributions going into my husband’s account, I’d still be in the dark about my money.”
The eye-opening visit from two special agents happened after John had agreed to a sticking point in their divorce settlement. For weeks they’d been at odds over the inheritance she’d received from her parents before entering the marriage.
The remaining funds were all she had left of their memory. Losing them at fourteen had been horrible, their murder-suicide a living nightmare. The Hollywood paparazzi had gone wild for the story, hounding a young Emmaline Rose whenever they could. At the age of eighteen, she’d had enough notoriety. Using the insurance money, she’d started a new life. She’d used it to get a Ph.D., escape from California with a new name, and eventually buy the beautiful house she’d shared with her husband. Nobody, except John, knew her past.
“Know what I mean?”
Joanne’s question pulled her back to the conversation. “I’m sorry?”
“John’s attachment to your money, it should’ve been a clue.”
“I know. Something just didn’t add up. The clause in our divorce agreement that I couldn’t touch the money until after November was sly—a way to keep me from seeing the balance. I never would have thought he’d simply steal it.” Rose let the depths of her naiveté sink in. “Was I was a fool to confront him? Maybe if I’d just shut up, I wouldn’t be on the run.”
“No regrets, Rose. At least you saw his true colors. Will the PI you contacted start work right away?”
“He says he will. Until then, I hope the FBI finds someone else to investigate besides me.” She yawned away from the mouthpiece.
“You sound beat. Go to bed. Remember, if things don’t work in Northbridge, you can always come here.”
“I need to stay away from anyplace where John might easily find me, but thanks. So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Be up around lunchtime.”
She hung up and went inside the bathroom. After turning on the faucet to warm the water, she located her face cleanser and began to wash her face. The slow massage of her fingertip against her cheeks felt nice. She closed her eyes, but it didn’t shut off her worries.
The FBI visit seemed like a lifetime ago, not three days ago. It had been the catalyst, kicking off a domino effect inside Rose’s mind and hooking together events that revealed John’s end game.
It had started with his insistence that she donate some of her inheritance to help with his initial campaign. He’d made the same request with his second bid. Then, as they sat in mediation, he’d demanded half the five hundred thousand dollars, citing marital property laws since no prenuptial agreement had been made.
As she’d pondered those facts after the agents had left, a loud click sounded inside her head. Months before kicking off his second campaign, John had said he wanted to safeguard all their account information. She’d willingly handed over her credit and bank account information, including passwords. She had no reason not to trust him at that time.
She’d been one step from calling the FBI agents back and mentioning John’s access to her account. Before she did, though, she’d logged into the inheritance account. As her gaze fell to the balance, her mouth had gone dry. The account had been nearly emptied six months earlier.
Lies upon more lies. They couldn’t be ignored. Confronting John had been a knee-jerk reaction. Fury drove her straight to his home office, where he’d been working. Accusations flew from her mouth like machine gun fire. Instead of denying it, John had laughed in her face. Not the sweet laugh that had helped him win his first term as senator for the state of North Carolina or the one that had charmed her on their first date. It was a callous snicker, followed by the words, “Honey, you will keep quiet about that money. Because I know things about you that you don’t want leaked to the press.”
The threat to spill her past and let
the readers of her column, Dr. Rose Says, view her as a fraud had left her horrified. That her identity had formed out of self-preservation wouldn’t even make the papers.
She’d gone off to bed, stunned that a man she’d once loved would resort to such despicable behavior for personal gains. Around two thirty, unable to sleep, she’d gone downstairs for a cup of chamomile. A beam of light had cut across the downstairs hallway near John’s office door. She paused at hearing her name.
“Rose won’t know what hit her.” John had chuckled. “Hell, this’ll kill two birds with one stone. But we need to do this fast. And listen, make sure he makes it look like a mugging, for God’s sake. This way Rose won’t get suspicious.”
She’d stilled, holding her breath while he continued.
“Exactly. Suddenly I’ll be the voice in Washington on behalf of gun legislation. Especially when I’m talking to the press about how gun violence killed her parents. Imagine what that’ll do for votes.”
Her parents…a mugging…gun legislation. Was John going to have her mugged and shot? All so he could use it for political leverage? Guns. Even the word made her muscles stiff from fear. They’d changed her life. Taken her small family away.
Fear mingled with a kind of surreal disbelief, a cloud of confusion. The cloud lifted when John’s final words ripped her heart in two.
“Rose has been a thorn in my political career for too long. She’s been a loose canon on the campaign trail. Once she’s shot, it’ll give her something else to worry about and put her out of the picture. Let’s make sure the way we framed her when I withdrew the inheritance makes sense. If the FBI finds that paper trail, we want it to look like it was all her doing.”
Rose had trembled as she hurried back upstairs, fearful for her safety mostly, but also the threat of arrest. Before the sun had risen, she’d come up with a plan to quietly leave this house and try to figure out what to do.
A day later, when John left their home in North Carolina for the resumed Senate session in DC, Rose had begun her escape. She’d skimmed what cash she could from joint bank accounts, purchased a used car from an unscrupulous car dealer, and left with Bella. The ten-year-old Ford didn’t compare to her beloved Mazda Miata, but it was an untraceable getaway.
She washed away the soap with warm water, leaving her fresh and clean on the outside but her mind bogged down by the uncertainties that lie ahead.
With any luck, the private investigator she’d contacted from her hotel last night would get some answers. Answers to clear her name, get her inheritance back, and have enough information against John so she could safely return home.
Chapter 3
Cold seeped through Rose’s thin socks as she walked across the black-and-white-checkered vinyl floor, popular in modern kitchens many decades ago. She parted frilly café curtains over the sink. A stream of morning sunlight bathed her in its warmth, but the view outside stole her breath. The backyard sloped down to a glimmering lake, surrounded like a fortress by gently rolling hills. A flock of geese descended over the water and landed. The tranquility wiped away her concerns, at least for a quick moment.
The rest of the spacious yard had garden beds in need of weeding, towering trees, Adirondack chairs, and a picnic table not far from a boat dock. Closer to the house stood a detached garage, right at the end of the dirt and gravel driveway. A cream-colored Mercedes was parked off to the side. Circa sixties or seventies, she’d guess. She hadn’t seen it last night because she’d stopped near the front walkway. Spotting it could’ve saved her a few gray hairs.
In a corner of the kitchen, Bella munched on her kibbles. At least the dog seemed comfortable. Being in this unfamiliar house in a new town was so strange. It had only been three days since she left North Carolina, but it felt like a lifetime ago.
She turned away from the window and inspected the kitchen. Tired white cabinets were functional but sagging in a few places. She opened one and took stock of the contents: a package of Oreos, half-eaten bag of Doritos, and cellophane bag of miniature candy bars. Her stomach did a little flip. The processed foods she’d eaten while on the road weren’t her norm. She longed for a healthy batch of steamed veggies with grilled chicken.
She shut the cabinets and scanned the rest of the room. A vinyl-topped kitchen table trimmed with a metal edge accompanied yellow, faux-leather-upholstered chairs. One seat back was sloppily repaired with electric tape. Her gaze drifted to a spot near the microwave where the linoleum curled slightly, like a cry to be replaced with something newer.
One thing was certain. This place had been vintage before vintage was cool.
She wandered across the room to a partially open door, passing heavily worn copper-bottom pots hanging on the wall near the stove. Nearby were mushroom-themed porcelain canisters on the counter, right next to an old radio with a dial. The door led to a pantry. Besides a few cans of tuna fish and canned chili, the checkerboard-lined shelves were empty. A classic car calendar from the nineties hung open to the month of August near a faded postcard of the lake secured by a partially rusted silver thumbtack. She took the postcard off the wall.
To Kat. Remember, a return here holds all the promise of a full moon. All my love, Phillip
She studied the beautiful penmanship, curious about both sender and recipient, then pinned it back to the spot. Now what could she do? Meg had promised to call by nine, two hours away. All Rose could do was wait and worry about how this rental disaster would end.
Since last night, she hadn’t heard a peep from upstairs. A relief, since who knew what Leo’s temperament would be like today.
Bella went to her other bowl and lapped at the water. Rose waited for her finish. “Come on, girl. Let’s go for a walk.”
Bella followed her back to the apartment. Rose slipped on never-worn-before gleaming white sneakers and her windbreaker then searched the main room for Bella’s leash. Not on the coffee table or sofa. Not in the teeny alcove, where a small counter, sink, and dorm-sized refrigerator served as a mini-kitchen area. Not in the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of her choppy new style, run amok due to a restless night’s sleep. After running a brush through it, she tried to pat down the few spots still sticking out. She missed her former style that could be tied into a ponytail with little fuss.
After removing her glasses from the vinyl top of the vanity, she slipped them on. A minute later she found the leash, in the bedroom on top of her luggage.
Bella gurgled a throaty sound and wagged her tail. Rose hunched down and stroked the dog’s silky ears. All her love for the dog bubbled inside her chest. This journey would feel lonelier without her.
Almost two years ago, fate placed Rose at Bella’s doorstep. At a place called C.A.W.S, also known as the Charlotte Animal Welfare Society. Their newly renovated facility, paid for with taxpayer dollars, had fallen second on John’s list of political stops that day. He’d insisted Rose play the part of a good senator’s wife and come along. She hated the role—one as fake as her Hollywood upbringing. A fact she’d made clear before he even ran for office.
Rose had attended, mostly in an effort to help their failing marriage. Afterward, they stood near the penned-up dogs as a local TV reporter interviewed John. Rose stood at his side and listened, nodding and smiling like a big phony. Her chest had ached, saddened by all the animals needing homes. John never wanted a pet, no matter how many times Rose had talked about getting one.
Her gaze drifted to a set of bloodshot eyes in a nearby pen. She’d tuned out the reporter and focused on a large basset hound, with drooping sable ears, stubby white paws, and a black, saddle-like patch on its long torso. Impulse had drawn her to the pen. She’d lowered herself to the ground and stuck her fingers through the bars. Bella had waddled closer, her tail wagging. Her wet nose nuzzled Rose’s fingers, making her heart wrap around the animal in an instant. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there. When she finally glanced back, the cameraman had turned the camera on her while she played with
the dog. Without missing a beat, she’d smiled at her husband. “Let’s take this one home.”
John’s gleaming expression never cracked as he answered the reporter who asked how he felt about taking home a pet. Behind his positive façade, Rose delighted in catching a glimmer of his irritation.
Bella’s happy burble pulled Rose from the moment. She stared into the same loving eyes that had caused her to defy her husband in public. She’d never once doubted the decision.
“Time for a walk.” Rose patted her leg and Bella followed, unleashed for the moment.
They headed down the long hallway toward the kitchen, where the clank of food preparation meant Leo was up.
Bella’s ears lifted. It took only a split second for her to kick it in gear and take off, baying her warning cry loudly.
Rose followed and entered the kitchen just in time to watch the dog slide across the linoleum floor and slam into Leo’s bare calves while he stood at the sink filling an old metal carafe with water.
He shut his eyes and his jaw tightened.
Rose stilled, her tongue twisted in a knot at the sight before her. Besides Leo’s pained expression, he wore only a pair of gray boxer-briefs. She tried not to gawk at his broad shoulders, tapered waist, long and toned legs. A swimmer’s physique.
He opened his eyes, spearing her with his steely gaze for a few seconds before setting the metal pot on the counter and removing a can of coffee from an upper cabinet. Bella wiggled around his legs, tail wagging, but not getting any attention either. Rose breathed in the equally impressive backside of a man who seemed to hate her being there as much as she hated her husband. In sharp contrast to the way she felt about her husband, near-naked Leo made her insides crave a man’s touch. It had been way too long.
He cleared his throat and turned around with the can in his hands. “Yes?”
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