Copper Lake Confidential (3 page)

But there was nothing measuring or judging about Anamaria’s gaze. A simple question, a simple look.

“No, I’m not psychic. But I should have...”

“Mark and his grandfather were very good at hiding their secrets. You couldn’t have known unless he wanted you to.”

Macy breathed deeply. That was what the psychiatrists, the psychologists and even some of the other patients in group therapy had told her. Somehow it sounded more convincing coming from a woman with the gift of sight.

“What are your plans now?”

Macy’s laugh was rusty. She probably hadn’t used it more than a half dozen times in the past eighteen months. “I don’t suppose you could tell me.”

After a moment, Anamaria took her hand in both of hers, her expression growing distant, as if watching a scene no one else could see. “Everything’s going to be all right in the end,” she said at last. “If it’s not all right now, then this isn’t the end. It’ll come, Macy. One day you’re going to realize that you and Clary are better than ever.”

They were just words, but Macy knew words had power. Words had destroyed every illusion she’d ever had, and now they gave her, if not peace, at least a little hope. She did find them hard to believe, but she could embrace the possibility. She could believe that sometime in the not-too-distant future, her life would be good again.

She
had
to believe it.

Or there was no reason to continue living.

Chapter 2

I
n need of a break, Stephen saved his file to the hard drive, then emailed it to himself. It also went automatically to an online storage account, too, but, hey, a guy could never be too careful. Sometimes the old saying “Writing is easy; just sit down and open a vein” was too true. When words were hard to come by, he didn’t risk losing any of them.

He stood and stretched, joints popping, before walking to the front door. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Scooter glanced up from his place on the couch, yawned and settled in deeper. Eat, sleep, play—that was his routine.

“Next life I’m coming back as a dog,” Stephen muttered as he went out and locked up behind him.

The spring air was warm, the sun shining. He’d done cold for four years, getting his degree at Oklahoma State University Center for Veterinary Health Sciences, then another winter in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He’d be happy if he never saw snow or subzero temperatures again.

Hands shoved in his hip pockets, he turned north and walked to the end of the road, past each of the three neighboring houses. Elderly sisters and their husbands lived in the first two, and he called hello to them, the sisters sitting on one porch, the husbands swapping stories on the second. The last house was occupied by a great-grandson or -nephew who drove an eighteen-wheeler and was gone more often than not. Stephen hadn’t seen him five times in the months he’d lived there.

When the road ended just past the third house, he considered taking the path that led into the pine woods, eventually reaching Holigan Creek, where he’d found a shady spot that was great for kicking back. Instead, he turned and went back the way he’d come, speaking to the old folks again, passing his own house, heading for the Woodhaven gates.

He wasn’t athletic. The closest he’d ever come to a team sport was online fantasy games with players around the world, and the only weights he’d ever lifted had been in the form of dogs, cats and various body parts of horses or cows. But he liked to walk. It cleared his head and freed his subconscious to work on the current book without his conscious self having to take part. It was one of the best perks of writing.

The Ancients knew there wasn’t a lot of money in it, not for a midlist fantasy author. But he loved it, and his audience was building with each title. An author couldn’t ask for much more.

Though the
New York Times
bestseller list would be nice.

His intent was to turn around at the gates, return home and shoot for another thousand words before his muse gave out, but movement just past the gate caught his attention. A minivan—the name didn’t do the luxury vehicle justice—was parked in the driveway of the first house on the left, its hatch open, and the woman he’d met thanks to Scooter was wrestling out a bundle of flat boxes bigger than she was.

He went to help her because his mama didn’t raise him to ignore someone in need of assistance. That was the only reason. Her being pretty in a skittish-mare sort of way, with brown eyes that dominated her face and porcelain skin that Scarlett O’Hara would have killed for, had nothing to do with it.

“Here, let me give you a—”

Before he could say
hand,
she whirled around. The boxes fell to the ground, one sharp edge landing on her sandaled foot, and she stumbled back against the van, mouth open in a silent gasp, eyes huge.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He wasn’t exactly known for quiet grace. Size-thirteen feet were never stealthy, and he tended to scuff his shoe soles when he was thinking about something. But, judging by the paleness of her already-pale skin, Macy Howard had been preoccupied, too.

“I—I—” Her hands fluttered and a shiver passed through her, reminding him of a parrot he’d once treated. He still bore the scars on his left arm. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Never apologize.
That was the First Rule in his protagonist Lucan’s life. One of these days Lucan would have to break that rule—if he didn’t, Sa’arca would rip his heart out; Warrior Women were funny that way. “You’re entitled to not pay attention.” He picked up the bundle, not much heavier than Scooter and not nearly as unwieldy. “Where you do want these?”

A little pink returned to her face, but she still looked as if she might bolt any second. “In the garage, please.”

The garage was big enough for three vehicles and so clean that his house looked like a pigsty in comparison. The walls were painted tan, and the floor was surfaced with some sort of grit in a darker shade. A worktable against one wall held the same collection of tools he had at home: screwdrivers in various sizes, a hammer, a few wrenches, a pair of pliers. Along with athletic, he wasn’t exactly mechanical, either.

A lawn mower, an edger, a trimmer and a plastic cart were gathered in one corner, all well-used, unlike the tools. Rakes and shovels hung on hooks on the wall; a shelf held motor oil, extra trimmer line, paper towels and paper leaf bags. The rest of the space was empty.

He rested the boxes against the wall near the door into the house. “Are you moving out?”

“I’ve already done that.” She deposited two giant rolls of Bubble Wrap nearby, then managed a weak smile. “I’m sorting through things. Deciding what to keep and what to get rid of.”

“Where do you live now?”

She hesitated. Unsure whether to tell him? After all, they were strangers. Then, with a lack of grace that wasn’t normal for anyone who could afford a house in Woodhaven Villas, she gestured. “I don’t actually live anywhere right now.”

Interesting answer. Ranked right up there with her blank look when he’d asked what she did earlier. Maybe she really was Macy Howard and this really was her house, or maybe she wasn’t and it wasn’t. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Marnie.

She pushed her hand through her hair, dislodging the suede band that kept it from her face. “I’ve been staying with my parents in Charleston. It’s time to get a place of my own. To move on. I just haven’t decided where.”

“Not in Copper Lake, huh?”

An expression of distaste crossed her face fleetingly. If he hadn’t made a habit of studying people since he decided he was a writer, he would have missed it. “Preferably not.” She left the garage to gather more packing materials, and he followed.

He’d never made a move where he hadn’t underestimated how many boxes and rolls of wrapping paper he needed, but that didn’t seem a possibility with Macy. Cartons and materials filled the minivan, with the exception of the driver’s seat. Even the passenger seat was filled with thick slabs of paper and rolls of tape.

Already moved out. Packing up stuff. No wedding ring. Staying with her parents. He was guessing there was a very unhappy divorce in her recent past. Not that he could really imagine any other kind of divorce. He’d heard urban myths about friendly ex-spouses making a better go as friends and coparents than as husband and wife, but he hadn’t witnessed the phenomena himself. His mom’s divorces—from the husband who had produced Marnie, then from his dad—had left her soured on men in general. His own divorce had involved as much fighting as the marriage, and they’d had precious little to fight over.

But there was no polite way to ask where her ex was while she sorted through and packed up their house, no matter how curious he was. Instead, he returned to the van for the next load.

Within minutes, the vehicle was empty and one bay of the garage had pretty much disappeared under the supplies. After setting down the last bundle of boxes, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, seeking something to say.

“Well.”

Macy’s smile was tight as she folded her arms across her middle, the classic body-language pose warning others to keep their distance. Unless she was cold, and she didn’t look cold. “Thanks for the help,” she said without meeting his gaze. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” He stood there a moment longer before taking a few steps backward then pivoting to stride the length of the driveway.

Well.
Brilliant comment for someone who’d ranked respectably high in his vet med graduating class
and
made part of his living with words. Animals and characters who existed only in his head were so much easier to deal with.

But not nearly as interesting as Macy Howard.

* * *

Macy made it halfway to the door before her feet automatically stopped.

Was she ready to face the monster inside?

Immediately she corrected herself. Mark had been the monster. The house had merely been his lair. There was nothing inside that could hurt her; she’d already faced the worst hurt possible when she’d lost the baby. Nothing here could scare her; she might have run away before, but she was strong now.

With a deep breath, she went through the door almost as if life were normal. She’d managed to assemble one box, ready for use, when her cell phone rang. The ring told her it was Brent. Common sense told her he was calling because she’d failed to check in yet.

“Hey, bub,” she greeted him, making an effort to sound as if she were on a relatively even keel.

“You didn’t call.”

“I intended to as soon as I took a break for dinner.” Before he could ask, she went on. “The trip was fine, the house is fine and I’m fine. How’s my baby girl?”

“Missing you. Anne and I are doing our best to keep her happy.”

Macy pulled out a bar stool and eased onto the buttery soft leather. Poor Clary had spent much of the past eighteen months missing her mom, through the times when Macy had been physically present but not so much mentally to the months her absence had been physical, as well. Months in a psychiatric hospital—luxurious, costly and no place for a small child. “Give her a big hug and a kiss for me. I can’t wait to see her Friday. You, too. And Anne.”

“We’re anxious to see you, too.”

Anxious,
she was sure, was putting it mildly. There were enough years between them—seven—that he’d always had a protective streak, but after Mark’s death, it had multiplied ten times. Where before he may have gotten mildly concerned, now he was truly anxious, edgy, burdened with worry over her mental status, her ability to handle the slightest of stressors. If she hadn’t won Anne over in her argument to come here alone, she never would have managed to leave Charleston without him by her side.

One more debt of gratitude to her sister-in-law. Anne had had enough family drama of her own. Her older sister had been a patient at the same hospital as Macy, which was how Anne and Brent had met. Now she’d married into a family with its own share of drama.

“So you’re doing okay. Really okay.”

She smiled to help the confidence come across in her voice. “I am. Really. I got all the packing stuff, and I was just taping boxes together so I could get started. I’m fine, Brent, honestly. It’s an empty house. It’s no big deal.”

Though she hadn’t been able to climb one step to the second floor. Though her suitcase remained three feet away in the kitchen, and sleeping on the sofa in the family room wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

“I met a new neighbor.” She fiddled with one of the apples in the bright green colander while trying to distract him. “His name is Scooter, and he was trampling my daylilies. He was really quite nice, though, and apologized before leaving.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Brent cautiously repeated, “Scooter?”

“I know, awful name, isn’t it? Just about anything else would be better.” Her smile felt more natural as she recalled the dog feigning sleep, then innocence, then remorse. He’d been the one bright spot in her day—he and his owner.

Stephen Noble. Nice name. Nice guy.

“Okay, I give up,” Brent said. “Are you teasing or did you really meet someone named Scooter?”

She’d had a sense of humor before Mark’s betrayal and the miscarriage her doctor had attributed to overwhelming stress. For Clary’s sake, for her own sake, she was going to get that back. “I really did. He’s a beautiful yellow Lab who lives down the street and escapes every day to avoid taking his medicine.”

Brent’s chuckle was a reward. Just as the laughter had disappeared from her life, so had it from his. Her parents had been there for her, too, but the bulk of responsibility had fallen on him. He couldn’t get back those months, but she hoped that from now on, he and Anne could have the happy, hopeful lives newlyweds deserved.

“I’m assuming since Scooter couldn’t tell you about the medicine, you met his owner, too. Was she nice?”

“He,” she corrected him as an image of Stephen flashed into her mind again: tall, lanky, handsome in a disheveled sort of way. She hadn’t had
disheveled
in her life since meeting Mark. She would never have
rigid and dishonest—
oh, yeah, let’s not forget
sociopathic—
again. “Yeah, he was. He’s a vet in town.”

“Clary needs a dog when you’re up to—” Brent stopped, coughed, then lamely finished, “when you’re settled wherever.”

When you’re up to it. When you can take responsibility for yourself and your daughter. When you’re normal again.
Once more Macy put all the everyday-average she could force into her voice. “I agree. I’d like having a dog in the house. Preferably one that would only piddle where he’s supposed to.” And stayed out of her flower beds, because wherever they wound up, she would have flowers.

With the awkwardness past, they talked a few minutes more before Brent said goodbye. As soon as she hung up, she missed the sound of his voice and felt the solitude closing in around her a bit more sharply. She wished she’d already gotten a dog so he could follow her from room to room and maybe bark a little or whine, just to remind her she wasn’t alone.

“Okay, Macy, you’re twenty-nine years old. The shrinks all agreed it was time for you to be on your own again. You’re on your medication, and you know staying busy helps keep the anxiety under control. Now
do
something.”

Her voice seemed to echo off the stone and tile and stainless, giving her the impetus to slide to her feet and go back to assembling boxes. When she had two dozen of them stacked on the floor, she brought in wrapping paper and Bubble Wrap, walked into the hall and fixed her gaze immediately on the Chinese vase on the foyer table. It was pretty in its own overembellished way, belonging to some dynasty centuries past, but she’d never liked it. She would be happy to give it a good home somewhere else.