by Nora Roberts
“It does. It does.” She slid on mitts, took it out to set on the counter, where they both studied it.
She took out her phone.
“You’re going to take a picture of it?”
“Don’t judge me, Walker.” She picked it up again, carried it outside. “Bring the salad, and the wine. We’ll start with the salad while it cools down some,” she told him. “And I’ll drown myself in the wine if the mac and cheese sucks.”
She had flowers on the table again, different ones in a blue Mason jar she must have brought over or picked up somewhere. He looked at her while she served the salad, the short cap of russet—he’d decided to stick with russet—hair, the depthless blue eyes, the diamond-edged cheekbones.
“I could get used to this,” he decided. “Coming home to a pretty woman, a pretty table, a hot meal.”
“I wouldn’t get used to the hot meal. I swear to sweet little plastic Baby Jesus, digging a hole in rocky ground with a pickax is easier than cooking. I can say that because today I did both.”
“Renaissance woman. The salad’s good. Even, strangely, the flowers. So, new clients?”
“Yeah. Patsy and Bill Marsh.”
“I know them. They’re friends with Emily and Lee, serious boat people.”
“That they are. I’m giving them lakeside appeal—versus curb appeal, because lake. And I’ve been promised—or threatened with—a day out on their boat.”
“Don’t like boats?”
“I like them fine. I’ve been out on one with an engine, even kayaked a few times. But I’ve never been on a boat with a sail. I love watching them, the way they just seem to glide along. Like magic. I guess you know how to sail.”
“Yeah. I grew up with boats. I haven’t been sailing in years. Probably a trigger.” Which he hadn’t realized until that very moment. “I should test that out. I could rent one, take you sailing.”
“Seems like I ought to try it eventually, since lake. Are you ready to risk the main event here?”
“More than.”
“Okay, here goes.” With some trepidation, she dished up the mac and cheese. Watching Zane, she took a forkful. “Together, on three. One, two…”
He ate, angled his head, then holding up a finger, forked up another bite. “It’s freaking great.”
With obvious surprise, she studied the next bite on her fork. “It’s really good. Who knew?”
“Got a nice little kick, too.”
“Tabasco. Still harder than digging holes, but ultimately, just as satisfying.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “So, what was your plan if it did, indeed, suck?”
“I was working on brutal yet sympathetic honesty with a bolstering hey, you tried, since if it sucked, you’d know, and any attempt to pretend it didn’t would be seen, rightfully, as patronizing bullshit.”
“I think that’s acceptable. I need to tell you about my other new clients.”
“Sure.”
“They moved here last winter, moved into Lakeview Terrace. They bought the house you grew up in.”
He said nothing for a moment, but stopped eating, topped off both wineglasses. “Okay.”
“She knows Britt. They both work at the clinic. Charlene Ledbecker. She’s a doctor. He’s an engineer, works in Asheville. They’re expecting their second child next fall. I wanted to give you a picture of them.”
“All right.”
“I didn’t know, until Charlene mentioned that Britt used to live in the house, what house it was. They want help with the grounds, a couple times a month, and seasonally. They want to learn how to take care of the grounds. They … you don’t care about any of that.”
“Not really. So you made me mac and cheese.”
“Inspired by Roy and Hallie’s argument,” she reminded him. “What’s more comforting than mac and cheese? I had to tell you even knowing it would stir up bad memories.”
“Food as a security blanket?”
She caught the tone, recognized irritation. “It wasn’t meant to be patronizing, Zane. I wanted to do something to balance out having to upset you. And instead I’ve pissed you off.”
“What pisses me off, Darby, is the fact you clearly felt you had to tiptoe up to telling me you landed a client who happens to live in that house.”
She actually felt her spine stiffen, her temper simmer up toward boil. “It wasn’t an insult to your manly balls. The tiptoeing was as much, maybe more, for me. I felt guilty, right or wrong, I felt guilty profiting over something that hurt you.”
“It doesn’t hurt me, and my balls are insulted. I wouldn’t have come back to Lakeview if I couldn’t handle it, and both my balls and my brain are aware someone lives in that house. And if the people who do came to me on a legal matter, I’d handle that. Why wouldn’t I?”
Darby took a moment herself, then said two words. “Traci Draper.”
He started to speak, felt the pin jab the air out of his righteous insult. “Yeah, well, you pointed out I was stupid about that, so you should’ve known you were being stupid about this.”
“Sounds like a wash to me, and you got mac and cheese out of it. I don’t mind fighting, but if you want really stupid, it’s fighting because somebody had concerns for your feelings.”
“We’re not fighting.” At her long, slow stare, he blew out a breath. “We were disputing, and apparently we’ve settled the dispute.”
She smirked. “Lawyer.”
“Guilty. Look, I spent some time hating the house. I even drew a picture of it—and I can’t draw for shit—in my journal back then. Drew it surrounded by the nine circles of hell.”
“You read Dante as a teen?”
“I read everything. It was one of the most surefire ways to go somewhere else for a while. I got over hating the house, or mostly. You working there isn’t going to bother me. Don’t let it bother you.”
“Then I won’t.”
“See? Dispute settled. I’m having more of this.” He piled more mac and cheese on his plate. “You?”
“Half that.”
“How would you feel about leaving some of your stuff here instead of hauling your clothes in and out in your duffle?”
It took her off guard, shot her off balance. One minute they’re “disputing,” and the next he’s making room in his closet.
“I…”
“And I could leave a few things at your place,” he continued in the same easy tone, “for those rainy days when I bring takeout after work and give you a hand with painting.”
“I really thought, that first time, this was just going to be about good, easy sex.”
“It is, just not only about.”
No, she thought, it wasn’t just about. He’d already given her a key and the security code. For convenience, and leaving some clothes ranked the same, didn’t it? Convenient.
Why make a big deal?
“Who does the laundry?” she demanded.
“Hmm. I could say you do it at your place, I do it here, but you’re here more than I’m there, so those aren’t equitable terms. We take turns.”
“I can agree to that. I’ll bring some stuff to leave tomorrow. God.” She shoved her plate away. “I don’t care how good it is, I can’t eat any more.”
“Tell you what, we’ll get these dishes out of the way, then walk this off. We’ll stroll around here and you can tell me the names of stuff that’s blooming even though I’ll never remember.”
“You’ll remember eventually.”
He smiled, polished off his mac and cheese. “It’s sweet you really believe that, darlin’.”
Sipping wine, Darby considered. They’d had their first fight, sort of, resolved it. They’d agreed to leave personal items at each other’s places.
And he’d called her darlin’ for the first time in that gorgeous High Country drawl.
No doubt, absolutely none, they’d just entered the next phase, whatever that turned out to be, of their relationship.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Graham paid
cash for his motel rooms on his careful trip from Raleigh to Lakeview. He used the free Wi-Fi and Eliza’s tablet to search for information about Emily, about Detective Lee Keller, about his own—obviously inept—defense attorney, the prosecutor, the judge who’d presided over his case.
All of them, every one, had played a part in ruining his life, in humiliating him. He would ruin theirs, every one.
Unfortunately, the judge had died six years before. So Graham could only gain satisfaction from imagining him rotting in hell.
The prosecutor had retired and moved to Solomons Island, so he would have to wait. His own attorney, also retired, still lived in Asheville.
So, soon for him.
He knew, because Eliza had told him on one of her visits, that his whore-bitch of a sister-in-law had married the dirty cop. He knew the cop was now chief of police in Lakeview, and they had two sons.
So many ways to hurt them. As he sat in his motel room, with the TV on to alert him if and when his own face flashed on-screen, he imagined all of them.
He thought setting that old relic of a house on fire, with all of them inside, would serve.
He considered Dave Carter, the busybody asshole neighbor. Oh, he’d played a part. You play, Graham thought, you pay. In careful block print, he added Dave Carter to the list in the notebook he’d bought at Walmart.
Maybe a terrible accident. Cut the brake lines on his car. He could look up how to do that—you could find out anything on the internet.
Then, of course, most importantly, there were the spawn who’d betrayed their own father. The father who’d put a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, food in their bellies.
The father who’d given them life. The father who would take those lives, take them with his own hands.
He read over the list of names, again and again. Meticulously wrote down any and all information he remembered or could find about each and every one.
He detailed every grievance he had against them, and those filled line after line after line.
Before he slept, he whipped himself through fifty push-ups, a hundred crunches, rotated to squats, lunges. Every morning he repeated the routine, using the long list of grievances to drive his body through.
When he slept, he dreamed of himself in surgery, performing miracles only God could match. Like God, he’d bring judgment against those who’d betrayed him.
When he woke, he didn’t shave. He hadn’t shaved for three days now, and felt the deepening scruff helped mask his face. He’d combed product through his hair to cover the gray, and would continue to do so as he let it grow.
Along with the notebook, he’d bought a ball cap, sunglasses, cheap tennis shoes, jeans, T-shirts. He’d learned a few things in prison—and blending, not bringing attention to himself, was key. Just as switching the license plates—twice now—on his car was key.
Driving into Lakeview had him shaking with anxiety and excitement.
They’d changed things. A stoplight where none had been. Different stores, restaurants. It infuriated and disoriented.
He had to pull over to get his bearings, to breathe through what he recognized as—he was a fucking doctor after all—an anxiety attack.
Sweat popped out on his face; his heart hammered. His vision blurred, doubled for an instant. Then it snapped clear when he saw Zane striding down Main Street as if the son of a bitch owned it.
He’d let his hair grow to faggot length, broadened in the shoulders, put on more height, but he knew his own goddamn son when he looked at him. And it took every ounce of willpower not to leap from the car then and there and beat the bastard to the ground like he deserved.
That had to wait, he reminded himself. That had to be a private moment.
He watched Zane climb steps to a porch, walk into a building. He considered going in after him—it could be a private moment—but he saw movement at the large front window. A woman, vaguely familiar, Zane joining her so they were framed in the glass.
His offices. Thought he was a big shot now, but Graham knew the truth. Spineless bastard couldn’t make it in Raleigh so he’d come slinking back to Lakeview.
And in Lakeview the betrayer would finally meet justice.
Calmer, he drove into Lakeview Terrace. Changes there, too, he noted. They’d put in a playground for people who couldn’t keep their children at home where they belonged. He saw kids on swings, slides, kids biking—many without parental supervision.
Disgusting.
He drove to his home—no longer the largest in the development, as several status-seeking neighbors had added bonus rooms over the garages, or sunrooms, covered decks.
Again he pulled over, this time to consider the house. His house. The strangers who lived in it were nothing more than squatters. Back when the world was sane, he could have had them evicted with a snap of his fingers.
Now he’d become the interloper. Because of Zane.
He thought about breaking in, seeing what the squatters had done to his home. He’d find out their names, add them to his list.
As he considered how he would deal with them, a woman came around from the back, walked toward the truck in the driveway.
Dressed like a man, he thought. Hair short as a man’s. Probably a lesbian. Intolerable! He should march right over to his house, drag her to the ground by her dyke hair.
But when she glanced his way, nerves flooded through him, shook through him as he punched the ignition, hastily drove away. Not the time, he consoled himself. It wasn’t nerves, but willpower.
He locked himself in his motel room, poured a glass of scotch to settle himself again. But only one. He had work to do.
He sat down with Eliza’s tablet and his list of names, began to search social media. He found the website for Zane’s law offices, for Emily’s creaky old bungalows easily enough. As he studied them, minutely, his rage bubbled hot. Emily’s had a Facebook page for the business, but her personal one she’d kept private. Though he’d learned a thing or two in prison, he didn’t have the skill to hack through it.
Neither of her brats had public social media, nor did Britt or Zane. But he found what he wanted thanks to Eliza’s idiot mother.
A treasure trove of photos, of family news for all to see.
Everything he needed spread out and posted by the chatty old bag. He studied a photo of the pathetic family billed as Zane’s first family cookout at his new house. Another one of Emily’s brats and Zane.
Grandsons Zane and Gabe in front of Zane’s house, with endless vomit-inducing commentary on Gabe’s interest in landscaping, his summer job. He read every revolting word in case he could use any of her blather.
He studied the house. He’d seen that house on his careful drive around the lake, the ridiculous one high on the hill.
Now he knew just where to find Zane for that private moment.
* * *
Zane shot awake when his security lights flashed on. When he rolled out of bed, Darby didn’t even stir. He knew from experience the woman could sleep through cannon fire until her internal alarm went ping.
On his way to the terrace doors, he grabbed pants, jerked them on. He caught the red glow of taillights heading down his long drive.
Somebody made a wrong turn, he decided, and realized it when the motion sensors turned on the lights. Satisfied, he went back to bed, where Darby slept like the dead.
He’d never known anyone who so perfectly fit the cliché. Once she hit the off button, she barely moved or made a sound until morning. Which made her an excellent bedmate for a chronically light sleeper.
He drifted back off only to be awakened again about an hour later by his phone. His heart leaped—another cliché, but calls at four in the morning meant trouble. So did the readout from his security company.
“Zane Walker.”
Though it was hardly necessary for Sleeping Beauty, he walked out of the bedroom while he talked to the security company about a break-in or attempted break-in at his offices. Though they ass
ured him the local police had been notified, he went back to the bedroom, turned the lights on low to find clothes.
His phone rang again.
“Zane, Silas.”
“I just talked to my security company.”
“Yeah, somebody heaved a rock through your office window. Look, we’ve had three calls tonight like this. Must be some asshole kids.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I got a good look through the window here, and that’s the only damage I see. You’re going to want to come in, but there’s no rush. Nobody got in. I can see the damn rock lying on the floor in there, and your doors are secure.”
“Okay. I’m coming in, but I’ll pull it together first.”
“Take your time. We’ve got this.”
He dressed, got his insurance file out of his home office. Downstairs he made coffee, then made a second cup—one that wasn’t coffee, but oversweet, coffee-flavored milk. He took both up to the bedroom. He could leave a note, but hell, her eyes would pop open in about twenty minutes anyway.
The fact they did now surprised the hell out of him.
She said, “Coffee.”
“The smell of coffee wakes you out of your coma, but lights, ringing phones don’t make a dent? What are you?”
“Coffee,” she repeated, and took the one he held out. “Who called?”
“Somebody threw a rock through my office window.”
“What? No.” Her eyes blinked clear. “Oh, Zane.”
“Apparently the somebody’s having a spree doing that around Lakeview tonight. I’m going to head down, take a look.”
“Do you want me to come?” She shoved her sweep of bangs aside. “I can be dressed in like two minutes.”
“No, but thanks. It’s like Silas said, probably some dumb kids. I’ll get it sorted out, have breakfast in town.”
“Okay. Sorry, this sucks.”
“Me, too, and it does.” He leaned over, kissed her. “See you later.”
“Text me,” she called out. “Let me know what’s what.”
“Sure.”
She drank half the coffee in bed—an indulgence—while her brain woke up. Hell of a way for him to start his morning, she thought. Vandalism never made sense to her. Creative tagging on abandoned buildings she could see as urban art, but out-and-out vandalism made no damn sense.
