Chill Waters (25 page)

“Positive.” With that, he went to the sink and began washing the roller under the tap.

To his back, Rachael said, “I expect you’ll be moving on soon. You won’t want to stay in that cabin much longer. It’s getting so cold now, especially at night.”

“It’s not so bad. You’ve got a good little woodstove there.”

He was holding the roller under the running water, squeezing out the paint that ran watery-white into the sink, swirled noisily down the drain. With each action, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed and unflexed. With his jacket on, Rachael hadn’t realized he was so muscular. Muscles developed, no doubt, from all those months of pushing himself around in a wheelchair.

His sleeves were rolled up, and Rachael could see part of the snake tattooed on his upper right arm. It surprised her; he didn’t seem the type. Probably did it on a whim. A wild and crazy moment in his younger days.

“But you’re right,” he said. “The book is just about finished, so my time in Jenny’s Cove
is
coming to an end.”

She had a thought, went with it. “Martin, if you won’t take any pay for your very good work, at least let me thank you by making you dinner tonight.”

He turned to face her, drying his hands on a rag he’d taken from his back pocket. “That’s not necessary, Rachael. You don’t have to…”

“I know. But I want to. A hot meal will be a nice change for me, too. I’ve been existing on sandwiches and salads for months. I insist.”

“Well …”

“Six o’clock, then,” she smiled. “And no work tomorrow. I’m calling a holiday.” The truth was, tomorrow night was Iris’ big night, and Rachael had no intention of showing up with paint spatters in her hair, worn out from working. On the contrary, she intended to pamper herself with a long, hot bubble bath, do her nails, the works.

He returned her smile. “Okay. That’d be nice.”

“Fine. It’s settled, then.”

Peter phoned as she was putting the meatloaf in the oven. The news about Luke wasn’t good. Though his wound wasn’t all that serious, he showed no interest in food or drink.

“The vet says he seems to have lost the will to live. And he’s pretty old. But he’s doing everything he can to help him. There’s nothing to do but wait and see.

“In the meantime, I’ve spoken again to Derek. He still denies everything, but it’s possible he put some of his pals up to breaking into your house and leaving the atrocity there for you to find.”

“He must have great friends.”

“Yeah. He’s one of those people with the dubious gift for attracting hangers-on. The sort who would do just about anything to gain favor with him.”

Iris was right about one thing: a strange darkness had entered all their lives. Heather murdered, a body washed up on the rocks. Mr. McLeod going missing, Luke maybe dying. She thought of that old Ray Bradbury title,
Something Wicked This Way Comes.

“I think it’s already here,” she said to the empty house.

Lord, she was starting to sound like Iris.

Martin arrived promptly at six. Seeing him standing in her doorway, bearing flowers and wine, she knew at once she’d made a mistake. Dressed in a blue suit, shirt and tie, he looked spiffy as a boy on his first day at school. No! Boy, he was not. More like a man on a date that was important to him, she thought uneasily.

She didn’t miss the disappointment on his face at her own informal (to put it mildly) attire. Ah, yes, big mistake.

“Whoa, enough, thank you,” Rachael said, shielding her glass with her hand, as Martin attempted to pour her more wine. It would not have occurred to her to serve wine with this dinner, but since he’d brought it with him, what could she do?

“I feel like maybe I should have served something more exotic than meatloaf,” she joked feebly.

“No, it’s great. Really. You make great meatloaf, Rachael. Don’t you like the wine?” he said anxiously. “You’ve hardly touched yours. I guess I should have consulted you about the…”

“The wine is perfect, Martin,” she said, taking a sip to prove it. It was too heavy for her taste, too sweet. “Very good, in fact. I’m just not much of a drinker.”

And definitely less so at this moment, she thought, annoyed with herself for not seeing how he might have taken her offer of dinner to mean something more than a simple thank you.

He’d lost someone dear to him, was still going through recovery himself. Of course he was vulnerable right now. She, of all people, should have understood that. How could she have been so unthinking? So insensitive?

His shaving lotion wafted across the table to her, something flowery, cloying. Or maybe it was the carnations. The meal was decent enough, but she had no appetite for it. Nor for Martin Dunn. Damn, I need this like the proverbial hole in the head.

Spearing a baby carrot onto her fork, she paused before putting it in her mouth. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Martin; she did. She liked his soft-spoken way, his generosity, his determination to move on with his life. But he did not appeal to her romantically in the least. She would have to make that clear to him, without hurting his feelings. Not an easy task, she thought again. Probably impossible.

“So Martin,” she said, breaking off a section of her shamrock roll, “when do you think you’ll be shipping the book off? Or is that a question one shouldn’t ask of an author?”
“I don’t mind. Except when it’s my publisher asking.” He was smiling at her, reaching again for the bottle of wine. Rachael watched with growing discomfort as he refilled his glass. She couldn’t very well forbid him to drink his own wine, could she?

"A few days at most. You’ll celebrate with me. My treat this time.”

Not a question, but a decision.

“I’ll meet my deadline, and it’s all because of you.” He downed half the wine in the glass, set it down and looked deeply into her eyes. Against her will, he held her gaze; she could not look away.

“You knoweven in jeans and a sweatshirt, you are a beautiful woman. Though, if you don’t mind my saying so, I did like your hair longer.”

“Well, thank youI think.” She gave an uneasy laugh. Presumptuous of him. Assuming an intimacy between them that didn’t exist.
You’re not a child, Rachael. You
can handle this. And you better handle it right now, before it goes any further
.

“Have you always been interested in photography, Martin?”
What was she waiting for?

“Ever since I got my first camera,” he said, picking up his wineglass again. “I’d like to photograph you some time, Rachael. Will you let me?”

“Sorry, I’m not much for having my picture taken. I…”

“Yes, I remember.”

She knew he was referring to the morning she’d met up with him while out on her run; he’d pointed his camera at her and she’d put up a hand to cover her face.

“You’re a wonderful cook,” he said, apparently having decided to set the subject of her posing for him aside, at least for the moment. “What is this sauce?”

On just the right beat, playing stand-up to his straight man, she said, “tomato soup.” She had hoped for at least a chuckle to break the tension, but he didn’t so much as grin. She was clearly not taking him as seriously as wanted to be taken. Sighing, she poured their coffees, served Martin a slice of store-bought apple pie with cheddar. Then she discreetly watched him eat it, silently hurrying each forkful into his mouth as she drank her own coffee.

He’d barely set the fork down when she stood up and began clearing away the dishes. “You go ahead and finish your coffee, Martin. I’ll just put these in the s…”

“I’ll help,” he said, leaping to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over in his eagerness.

“No, please. Sit. I’m just putting them in the sink for now. They’ll wait until morning. If you don’t mind, Martin. I don’t want to rush you, but I am pretty tired.”At the stunned look on his face, she added off-handedly, “I think I’ll turn in early
.” Something one would say to
any good friend, wasn’t it?
She made herself smile at him. “And you can get some more work done on the book, too. In fact, why don’t I just put the rest of the coffee in a thermos. You can take it with you.”

Smooth move, Rachael. Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry?

“It’s not“He looked at his watch. “even eight o’clock yet.”

“Yes, wellyou know what they say about being healthy and wise.” Dumb. Really dumb. She was not handling this well at all.

“Martin, I know thisis entirely my fault. I…”

Very softly, he asked, “Are you laughing at me, Rachael?”

Her fingers tightened on the plate in her hand. “Oh, no. No, of course not.”

At last she was holding the door for him, more than a little relieved at having the evening done with. It would not be repeated, that was for sure. He seemed to be taking forever getting into his jacket.

How well did she really know him? Other than what he deigned to tell her. Not well at all. She hadn’t even bothered to check his references. What if he decides he doesn’t want to leave? She could scream her lungs out and no one would hear, only the birds and the squirrels, and they weren’t coming to her rescue.

The thought was barely complete when he was upon her, pinning her against the doorframe with his body, his mouth seeking hers. It happened so fast that for a moment she felt only surprise. But surprise quickly gave way to panic as she twisted her head away, trying to avoid his mouth. His breath was moist against her face, smelling of the heavy wine. She pushed at his chest, but it was like trying to move a tank.

“Stop it, Martin,” she gasped. “Don’t…”

She felt his hesitation. Then he let her go. “I’m sorry.” He was breathing hard. “I swear I’ve never done anything like that before in my life. It’s just that you looked so beautiful standing thereI couldn’t help myself. I know that’s no excuse. I promise you, Rachaelit will never happen again.”

“No, it won’t. I was trying to show my appreciation for all your help, that’s all. You took it to be something more, and it wasn’t. Could never be.” No holds barred now. “I’m sorry if I did anything to make you think otherwise. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

“Yes. And you did nothingthis is all my fault. I acted like a jerk. Can you forgive me…?” He put out a hand to her, and she backed away from his touch. “Please, just go now, Martin.” She heard the trembling in her voice. “Please.”

He was about to say something else, then changed his mind. His hand dropped to his side. Nodding, he left without another word.

She locked the door after him.

A few more days, he’d said. She supposed she could wait it out as long as he kept his distance. She was furious as him, but moreso at herself for being so naive.

Upstairs in the bathroom, she splashed her burning face with cold water from the tap. She was still shaking from what she could only call an attack. His strength had been terrifying. If he hadn’t released her of his own accord, she would have been at his mercy. She would have been no match for him.

One thing was certain; he would not be stepping foot inside this house again. Maybe I won’t wait for him to leave on his own. Maybe I’ll tell him tomorrow that I want him gone.

Later, still upset over the
episode
with Martin and trying not to dwell on it, Rachael curled up on the sofa, wrapped snugly in her robe, watching television. She’d only been half-watching the news when Hartley McLeod’s picture flashed on the screen. His twinkling eyes seemed to look right at her.

“In spite of waning optimism, and as temperatures drop, the search for a local man continues. Seventy-five year old Hartley McLeod has not been seen since…”

Rachael leaned forward on the sofa, hoping for some clue into the disappearance of Mr. McLeod. Sadly, there was none. Rachael did not believe he would be found alive.

If he was found at all.

If only you could tell us what happened, Luke.

At five minutes to nine the following morning there was a knock on her door. Knowing intuitively it that was Martin, her stomach clenched. She’d told him they wouldn’t be working today. Why was he here?

Look at the bright side. Now you won’t have to go up to the cabin to tell him you want him out, which probably wasn’t the best idea anyway. She had his check made out. She signed it.

She opened the door, smiled cooly. Best not to appear hostile. Just get this over with as fast as possible. “Martin. I guess you forgot we weren’t working today.”

She saw his eye flicker uncertainly over the check she held in her hand. He tried to ignore it. “You go ahead with your day, Rachael. I just thought I would paint…”

“But I’m glad you’re here,” she interrupted. “I hope you’ll consider this fair pay for all the work you’ve done, Martin.” She handed him the check. “If not, just make out a bill for the balance and I’ll take care of it.”

“Rachael, there’s no need for this. If it’s about last night, and I know it is, I told you, I’m so very sorry that happened. I promise…”

“And I accept your apology. Please, take the check. It’s only right that you should be paid for your work. I insist on it.”