Copper Lake Confidential (11 page)

But surfaces were just illusion. They always cracked after a time.

“Wow. I’d stretch an extension cord out here and write on the laptop all day.” Stephen settled in one of the chairs and propped his feet on the low rim of rock encircling the pool that constantly refueled the fountain. If he noticed the spray that dotted the toes of his sneakers, he didn’t care.

“No extension cord necessary.” Settling herself in the second chair, she lifted a leaf of a giant elephant ear plant to reveal the electrical access hidden underneath.

“Very cool. My favorite place here.”

“Mine, too.” She sipped her pop and alternated between watching the water tumble and sneaking looks at him. Head bent back, long legs stretched out, he looked easy, loose. Comfortable. She liked the fact that his wardrobe was unimaginative, that his hair always stood on end, that his glasses made his eyes look a tiny bit bigger, a tiny bit more intense. That he wouldn’t fit into the Howards’s world. That he wouldn’t want to.

She especially liked that he’d noticed she’d had a rough time. She just wished she could tell him about it.

But then he would look at her the way Brent, Anne and her parents did, as if she weren’t quite sane. She could barely tolerate it from them. She didn’t think she could stand it from Stephen. After all, her family loved her anyway. They hadn’t walked away yet and never would.

Stephen, on the other hand, would be perfectly able to do so.

And maybe she really wasn’t quite sane.

“Did you entertain a lot when you lived here?” He glanced at her, catching her sneaking a look, but didn’t seem to mind.

Her cheeks heated a little anyway. “I could get a job as an event planner. Twelve for dinner, fifty for dessert, a hundred for cocktails... And note I said planner. Not much of a doer. Mark always insisted on catering meals. But I am the best at sending out invitations, picking menus, ordering flowers, hiring musicians, dressing up and looking pretty.”

His solemn gaze didn’t shift away. “Did you enjoy it?”

Her first-impulse answer was no, but she gave it a moment’s thought. “I did.” The acknowledgment rather surprised her. “My family was solidly working-class, and it took a long time for Mark’s lifestyle to become normal for me. It was like taking a very long, very luxurious vacation. Shopping, being pampered, showing off, without ever having to even think about money...”

Did he think she was shallow for admitting that she’d liked it? She didn’t know much about his own finances, though he had mentioned that at times he’d been lucky to have a room of his own. His house was nowhere near as lavish as this one, but it was cozy. It was a home, and he seemed happy with it.

She would trade all of Mark’s and Miss Willa’s money and both their mansions to be happy.

She felt obliged to go on. “When I met Mark, I didn’t know exactly who he was. Howard is such a common name. It was obvious he had some money, but I didn’t care. I fell in love with a college student, not the heir to a few fortunes. It wasn’t until we went shopping for my wedding gown that I began to really understand how different life was going to be. Weekly flights to New York with his mother, meetings with advisers, back for fittings... You know that old tradition that the bride’s family pays for most of the wedding? Mark bought my gown. It cost more than my dad made in a year.”

She shook her head. Outrageous for a dress that was meant to be worn only once. She’d stored it with thoughts that maybe someday she’d have a daughter who would wear it for her own wedding, but given the way Macy’s marriage had ended, she’d rather see Clary wed in a T-shirt and shorts.

“But you looked beautiful in it,” Stephen said. When she raised her brows, he shrugged. “I saw the portrait in the living room.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He’d thought she looked beautiful. Of course, she’d been younger, foolishly in love and hadn’t had a clue about the true nature of the man she’d married. Still...

“It was a good thing my ex’s parents could pay for our wedding, because between us, all Sloan and I had was two veterinary degrees and a whole boatload of debt.”

“Did you always want to be a vet?”

“Nah. I wanted to be Han Solo and fly the Millennium Falcon. Or Batman. I’d’ve looked good behind the wheel of the Batmobile.”

He said it so naturally that she burst out laughing. Grinning, he took a swig of tea. “Hey, I believe in superheroes. Don’t you?”

“Uh...sure. Why not?” After all, if supervillains existed, then by deduction so should superheroes.

“Sure, why not,” he repeated, then snorted. “You had a sense of wonder and magic at some time. Kids are born with it—well, except Marnie. She came out of the womb wanting just the facts. When did you lose yours?” It was a simple teasing question, and she would have tried to answer it in the same way, but a frown crossed his face and he sobered. “Was it the way your husband died?”

“No. It was the way he lived.” Tension streaked through her, and she gripped the chair arms tightly enough as she stood to take away lavender flakes on her palms. “I think it’s probably time to put the meat on the grill.”

She crossed the lawn with long strides, Scooter joining her halfway. He was dripping, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and just the sight of him eased the tightness in her shoulders a little. Hearing Stephen not far behind, she said, “Scooter really likes the pool, and I’m sure Clary will really like him. Any chance he could just stay here until we’re gone?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do without him. However, anytime you want to make a visit to the animal shelter to pick out one of your own, let me know. I’d be happy to go with you.”

“All right. It was worth a try, wasn’t it, sweetie?” She moved the potatoes to one side of the grill, cranked up the heat, then closed the lid again. “I need a few things from the kitchen. You want towels for the baby?”

“I can get them if you tell me where.”

She hesitated only a moment. She could run upstairs and get the oversize chocolate-brown bamboo towels, each one pricey enough to cover the cost of tonight’s steak dinner and then some. She
could
go, but she didn’t have to, and by the time he got back, she would be too busy at the grill for him to follow up on her latest episode of telling too much. “Top of the stairs, closet down the hall to the left.”

He held the door for her, and she turned into the kitchen while he continued down the hall. As she gathered marinade, steak sauce and butter, she listened to the tromp of his footsteps on the stairs and overhead. It was a nice feeling, not being alone in the house. If it was haunted, for this evening, at least, she had someone to be scared with her. If she’d gone crazy instead, there was someone to make the call to lock her up again.

Her hands trembled as she balanced the items on a tray holding dishes, silverware and napkins.
Dear God, I know I don’t pray for much besides Clary, but please don’t let me be crazy.

Chapter 6

A
t the top of the stairs, Stephen paused to study a photograph of Macy and Mark. She looked so very young and innocent and happy. And Mark...he was good-looking, self-assured, reeking—even in a one-dimensional photograph—of superiority. His arm was around Macy’s shoulders—possessive, Stephen first thought, then reluctantly amended it. They were engaged, with a honker of a diamond ring that looked too heavy for her delicate hand. If Stephen were engaged to her, he’d be holding her, too, with the intention of never letting go.

What had Mark done to steal his wife’s sense of wonder and magic? Infidelity was the first thing that came to mind. Stephen had been lucky. Sex had never been a problem with him and Sloan. Even when they couldn’t bear to be in the same room with each other at the end, they’d had no problem being in the same bed. But he could imagine how it must feel to find out the husband you loved was unfaithful to you. That could put a damper on the way you viewed life.

Turning away, he went left past what was obviously Clary’s room, all bright colors and activity. Across the hall and down a few feet was a closed door. Assuming he’d reached the closet, he opened the door and froze in place.

The room was painted pale green with nursery scenes in soft colors forming a band around the middle. Poufy curtains on the windows, white crib, dresser, rocker, a couple of piles of outfits and stuffed toys with the price tags still on them. It was a nursery.

Had Macy had another child, one she’d lost along with her husband? Had she been expecting one? Or merely planning ahead for the time she would get pregnant again?

Intensely aware that he didn’t know nearly enough about Macy, he gently closed the door. He’d avoided doing a Google search on either her or Mark so far; he just felt friends and maybe more should get to know each other the old-fashioned way. But when he got home tonight, Google, here he came.

Behind the next closed door, he grabbed an armload of thick towels and headed back downstairs and onto the patio.

The vegetables were roasting and the steaks sizzled on the grill, filling the air with aromas that made both him and Scooter stand taller and drool. Macy glanced briefly at him as he knelt beside the dog, then turned back to the food.

“I thought you might have some old worn-out towels up there for dog drying, but you didn’t.”

“No,” she agreed. She didn’t need to say it; he understood.
Not in Mark’s mansion.

The only thing Scooter loved more than getting wet, possibly, was getting dried off. He stood still, lifting each foot when Stephen touched it, tilting his head back, then to each side. He gave Stephen a long-suffering look when he felt the towel around his tail, but waited patiently.

“So tell me about your brother,” Stephen said as he continued to rub, turning the drying into a massage.

“Brent? He’s seven years older than me. Best older brother I could ask for.”

He recognized his own words describing Marnie the night before. He’d bet she didn’t have a
but...
following hers.

“He started his own lawn service when he was fifteen. By the time he graduated from high school, he had so many customers that he didn’t have time to go to college. Now he has about sixty employees, but he leaves the administrative stuff to others and still goes out four or five days a week to mow grass.”

“Smart man. Where’s the success in owning a business when you have to manage instead of doing the work that attracted you in the first place?”

She moved the wire basket filled with vegetables to the cooler side of the grill, next to the potatoes, asked how he liked his steak, then added another question. “Is that why you’ve chosen not to open your own practice?”

“I’d rather be an employee than the owner. Whole different realm of responsibilities. And there’s the writing gig, too. Need time for that.”

After placing another foil packet on the grill, she faced him, leaning against the brick, hands next to her hips. “Brent’s happy doing what he does. He gets off when he wants and has all the work he can handle the rest of the time. His wife, Anne, works for him when he needs extra help. They’ve been married about eight or nine months. They’ve talked about having kids soon—Anne’s nearly thirty-eight—but...” Shadows darkened her eyes. “The time hasn’t been right.”

Were they having trouble conceiving? Was their brother-in-law’s death enough stress for the family to deal with for the present? Or did that nursery upstairs have something to do with it, too?

He wished he knew, but even Marnie would recognize there was no polite way to ask such questions.

He finished with Scooter and draped the damp towels over nearby chairs before finding a post to lean his shoulder against. “You like Anne?”

“I do.”

“That counts for a lot. Sloan had three brothers, all married. Their wives were the worst nags, gossips and whiners I’d ever known. Remember, my only sister is the female Spock, so I had no clue how to deal with such drama queens. One of the best things about the divorce, other than avoiding another Wyoming winter, was never having to listen to those women again.”

“Anne’s not like that at all.” She pressed the steaks with a practiced fingertip, then used the tongs to place them on plates. “She’s smart, warm, unflappable and compassionate. She’s good for Brent. She’s good for all of us.”

Within a few minutes, with an ease that belied her earlier planner-not-doer statement, dinner was on a teak table at the other end of the patio. He took the seat she indicated, his mouth watering thanks to the aromas wafting off the plate. “This smells incredible.”

“My dad is a grill master. He insisted Brent and I learn a few tricks before we left home.”

The first bite of steak was more than incredible—just the right amount of char, spice and cool center. The potatoes had creamy interiors, the vegetables a sweet smoky flavor and the bread—the last item she’d put on the grill—was nicely garlicky.

“You are definitely a doer, Macy,” he said when he’d eaten all he could. “All your friends who came here to eat other people’s food don’t have a clue what they were missing.”

Her only response was a faint smile and to slip another piece of steak under the table to Scooter. Though she’d been subtle, Stephen had known the first time she’d done it and that she’d continued to do it by the way the dog abandoned him about two minutes into the meal.

She was pretty, nice, had a sense of humor and sneaked treats to his dog. What more could a man want in a woman?

Maybe a clearer, more hopeful look in her eyes. Those shadows didn’t belong. Whatever had put them there—Mark’s death, his life, the empty nursery—still held powerful influence over her. He’d like to see the smile on her lips chase those shadows away permanently. He’d like to see her really, truly happy.

Because he was a nice guy. He thought everyone—more or less—deserved to be happy. Though maybe not Mark Howard or his baby-snubbing grandmother.

“Did you stay in touch with your friends here when you left?” It wasn’t too nosy a question, was it? She could ask him the same. She could ask him anything. His life was pretty much an open book.

She slid a last piece of steak to Scooter then folded her napkin on the table, creasing it with one finger. “No. It was a tough time. I didn’t have the energy to spare for keeping up with anyone but my family.”

She didn’t seem to have much energy tonight, either. It was funny how emotions could smack you down harder than the toughest physical labor ever could. Packing up the house, closing out a part of her life that had started so well and ended so badly, along with the uncertainty of the future, had drained a lot out of her.

Stephen watched her worry the napkin a moment before tugging it from her grasp and laying it aside. She looked startled, as if she hadn’t realized what she was doing, then linked her fingers loosely.

“Can I ask you...”

She tensed, and he almost switched to something unimportant. But he really wanted to know more—about her, about the important things in her life—and she could always refuse to answer.

“How did Mark die?” He’d been a young man—late twenties, early thirties. Had it been a car wreck, cancer, a heart attack? A jealous husband, random bad luck, a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Abruptly she pushed back her chair and stood, gathering dishes. When she reached for his plate, he caught her hands, small and soft, the muscles clenched. “You can always say ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’”

She stared at their hands, stress radiating off her strongly enough to compete against the humidity in the night air. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. He’d bet his next publishing contract that she was trying to sound normal, but anxiety overlaid the casual effort.

Then her fingers went limp in his, and a sigh shuddered through her. “Can we—” Her gesture took in the entire yard, an invitation to move.

He slid back his chair with a scrape of wood on stone, and she used the opportunity to tug her hands free. She moved onto the path then hesitated before turning toward the pool. Scooter, his yen for swimming fulfilled and his belly just plain full, decided to let them wander, settling instead into the plush cushions of a chaise on the patio.

Macy stopped beside the pool. The water was a glossy surface, lit from below, undisturbed by wind or creature. Peaceful and calm, it seemed to be what she needed at the moment. Stephen thought he would have preferred the bubbles and splashes of the fountain.

Hugging her arms across her middle, she stared at the water a moment before meeting his gaze head-on. “He killed himself.”

That was an option that hadn’t occurred to Stephen. It stunned him into glancing at the elegant house, the lush gardens, the guesthouse, then Macy again. Mark Howard had had a beautiful family, all this, more money than most people even dreamed of. What could possibly have been so bad in his life that ending it was the best solution?

“God, Macy, I’m sorry.” Then, before he could control his tongue...
“Why?”

* * *

The more times you tell it, the easier it is to tell.

So claimed Macy’s psychiatrists during her inpatient stay. She wasn’t convinced they were right. In fact, she was pretty sure they weren’t. She was totally sure she would rather never discuss Mark’s death with anyone ever again in her life.

Though someday Clary would have to know.

Please, God, not for another twenty-five or thirty years.

You can always say, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Those eleven words meant a lot to her. The doctors had always made her talk about it eventually. Her parents and Brent put less pressure on her, but they’d needed to discuss it, too.

But she could tell Stephen and he would drop the subject. He very well might go home and search the internet or ask someone at his clinic tomorrow, but he wouldn’t make her give the details.

And she wasn’t yet able to give the important ones. The real
why.
Mark and his grandfather’s ugly secret.

But she wanted to tell Stephen something. Amazing, since she’d never thought she would want to tell anyone anything.

“He had some...issues. I didn’t know until...” Backing a few feet away from the water, she sank into one of the lounge chairs. “Did you know it’s possible for love to vanish instantly? To just go away?”

The cushions in the next chair gave a soft whoosh as he sat, too. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

Her hair swung against her cheek as she grimly shook her head. “I didn’t know. I thought people fell out of love, they grew out of it or it just died a slow death from lack of attention. I didn’t know that you could love someone totally, completely, one moment and not love him the next. But that’s what happened.”

His gaze shifted from her to the house, then back again. “He didn’t—”

“Do it here? God, no. At Fair Winds. On the front lawn. He shot himself.” She watched Stephen shudder, presumably at the thought that they’d been there just last night. Did he think it odd that she’d said nothing then, reacted to nothing then? Or was he too shaken by the story now to think about her behavior last night? Would that occur to him later?

“His grandmother didn’t—?”

“No. Miss Willa wasn’t home. In fact, she was with me. We’d had lunch with Mark at the country club, then she and I went to a meeting of the local historical society. But his cousin was at the house, and her husband. They saw him do it.” She left out the fact that he’d been trying to kill Reece and Jones at the time. Had it been desperation that made him turn the gun on himself? The certainty he was caught? That all the money and influence in the world couldn’t buy his way out of the nightmare he and Arthur had created?

Maybe it had been the shame he’d brought on the Howard name. That damn name had always meant so much to him and Miss Willa. He would have killed to protect it.

Though, apparently, finding a reason to kill hadn’t been difficult for Mark.

And truth was, she didn’t care why he’d done it. She was just glad he had. The evil residing within her husband’s heart and soul hadn’t deserved to live.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Stephen said quietly. “I’m sorry I asked you about it.”

She drew a deep breath and smelled flowers, the lingering aroma of steak and, fainter, the scent that was Stephen. It was nothing special. It didn’t smell as if he’d bathed in money. But it was comforting. It didn’t make her stomach churn. Even the slightest memory of Mark’s cologne inside the house could do that.

“It was a huge shock,” she admitted. “But that part of my life is almost over. Once I leave this place and settle down somewhere with Clary, it
will
be over. Done. Until Clary’s grown, all she’ll know is that her father is dead.”

“What about his mother? Won’t she want her son’s memory kept alive for her granddaughter?”

Macy listened to the song of a whippoorwill in the trees beyond the yard as an image of Lorna Howard formed. Average height, sturdy, the sort of woman who could have taught General Patton a few lessons about being in charge.