Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 (9 page)

“Your children are your children. They will always be there. This appointment will not. I am certain your family would support a decision to stay and work on behalf of world justice.”

Would they? she wondered. Had she ever given them a choice? “I'm sure that's true, but I'm moving back to the United States,” she said. There. Spoken aloud, it was simple and direct. She had to go back to her children.

She allowed herself a quick glance at Tariq, who looked as though his head was about to explode. She didn't let herself veer from a decision made in those moments when the van had hit the water. If she survived this, she would go home to her children. It had been a powerful, clear moment. Her psychiatric intervention team had encouraged her to focus on the present moment, a strategy encouraged to prevent post-trauma symptoms. “Their job was to get me ready to come back to work. But the plan backfired.”

Then she faced the man who had been her mentor for the past year. “What happened at the Peace Palace changed my focus,” she explained. “I thought I knew what I should be doing with my life, but that night forced me to examine my priorities.” Her gaze wandered to De Groot's display of photos. “I'm ashamed to say it took a brush with death to show me the things that matter most. And with all due respect, it's not this mission, not in my case, anyway. It's not prestige. It's not even saving people from the cruelties of the world. That's a job, and in my job, I am replaceable. In my life, my family, I'm not. I have a family I don't see nearly enough of. I have a lot to answer for. I need to do that, starting now.”

The recriminations, when they came, were from Tariq. “You're mad,” he accused as she bustled around her apartment, filling up pieces of luggage and moving boxes. “You've gone utterly bonkers. I'm begging you, Sophie. Don't throw this away.”

“I'm not. I'm giving it to you. They'll offer you the position and you'll be brilliant.”

“This is your prize for the taking,” he insisted. “Your children have grown beyond needing a mum at home all day.” He waved a hand, dismissing her retort before she made it. “I'm only stating the obvious, Petal. Max is half grown, and Daisy has a baby of her own to raise.”

“They need me more than ever,” she insisted. “The fact that they're older only means I have even less time. And then there's Charlie. A baby, Tariq. I can't imagine what I was thinking, not being there for Daisy and Charlie.”

“You were there for the birth, and Daisy will be fine. I'm certain she's her mother's daughter. You were a young mum yourself. You coped beautifully.”

Sophie had done nothing of the sort, although she was the only one who seemed to know that. She'd lived her life on the surface, going through the motions of a successful education and career. There was a whole rich world of possibilities beneath that surface, something she hadn't realized until she'd nearly lost it all.

She taped a label on a plastic shipping box. Her personal possessions took up remarkably little space. The apartment had come furnished, so all she really had was her wardrobe, a few books, framed pictures of her kids. Looking around, she suddenly felt less sure of herself. This was a different sort of fear from being taken hostage. What if she failed? What if it was too late?

She took the portrait down from a shelf and studied their faces. “When Greg and I divorced, I begged them to live here with me,” she said. “I wish we could have made that work.”

“They scarcely gave it a chance,” Tariq reminded her.

She remembered the two miserable weeks, her kids in a high-rise looking out over the Dutch flatlands, where the rain never quite stopped altogether. The sun hadn't come out, not once. “I saw no reason to prolong the inevitable,” she said. “Nor did I want to sacrifice even more of their happiness so I could have this career. They wanted to go with their father. It was really a no-brainer. On the one hand there was me, rushing off to court in a foreign country. And then there was Greg, who decided to go all Andy-of-Mayberry—”

“Andy of who?”

“One of America's biggest TV icons. He's a single dad, actually, on an old classic show. He lives in a small American town and takes his kid fishing and has this idyllic, picture-perfect life in a town where autumn leaves always seem to be falling and it never, ever rains. No wonder Max and Daisy wanted to stay with their dad.” She carefully and methodically folded a sweater, lining up the seams of the sleeves just so.

“What about what you wanted?” Tariq challenged her.

“Right after the divorce, I was so confused I didn't even know what I wanted. You remember what a mess I was. The divorce made me question everything about myself, especially my parenting. I didn't exactly have the world's best role models, you'll recall. I finally have a clear idea of what I want, and that's what this is about. I'm giving myself a second chance to do better.” She folded three more sweaters. Where she was going, she would need them.

“But why there? Why that town in the wilderness?”

“My kids are there. I also need to deal with the fact that my ex is living happily ever after with a woman who is my polar opposite.”

He gave a fatalistic shrug. “It happens.”

“You're a big help.”

“You don't want my help. You want to go prostrate yourself on an altar of shame and flagellate yourself until you're bloody. And, by the way, I know a few blokes who would pay to see such a thing.”

“Don't be obnoxious.” She finished filling a section of her garment bag. “You're going to get your dream job because I'm leaving,” she told him.

“I'd rather have you,” he said simply, opening his arms.

“You're not obnoxious,” she said as he closed her into a hug. “You're the best. You're the one person I'm going to miss, desperately.”

“I know.”

She pressed her cheek to the soft Scottish cashmere of his sweater. “I'm scared,” she whispered, thinking about what awaited her in Avalon—the failed marriage to Greg and her inadequate mothering.

“I don't blame you, Petal.” He stroked her hair in a soothing gesture. “I'd be scared of a small town in America, too. I keep thinking about plaid hunting jackets and open-bed lorries on gigantic tires.”

She pulled back, gently slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, come on. It's not that bad.”

But it might be, she conceded. She was no expert, having always lived in big, bustling cities—Seattle, Boston, Tokyo, New York, The Hague. She had no idea how she would manage in a town like Avalon. But she had to get back to her family. She felt a keen sense of mission about it, the way she used to feel about an important case. She needed to reclaim the things she had lost to her career. She needed to find a new direction for her life.

“I haven't said anything to them yet. Just that I'm fine and I'll be coming home. They don't know I'm staying.”

“You are mad. Certifiable.” Tariq started to pitch in, folding trousers and stacking them precisely in the oversize Louis Vuitton bag.

“If I tell them I'm moving to Avalon, they'll think something's wrong.”

“Something is wrong. You've lost your mind.”

“No, listen, I do have a plan. Some friends of mine from New York—the Wilsons—have a lake house they only use in the summer. They've offered it to me for the entire winter. So I have a place to live.”

“In Mayberry.”

“Avalon, but that's the idea.”

“And do…what, exactly? You need to reconnect with your kids. I get that. Is that a full-time occupation?”

She zipped her jewelry into a side pocket of her case. The small pouch of tasteful baubles made her remember the conversation with Brooks Fordham that night about her refusal to own anything produced by exploitation of labor. “I don't know,” she said to Tariq. “I've never done it before.”

“And why would you even want this?” he asked her without a hint of irony.

“Because I've never had it,” she replied. “Because being part of a community has never happened to me and I think it's about time. Because underneath this legal robot you see, I have a heart.”

She and Tariq went to the tiny nook of the main room, which served as her study. This, too, was devoid of personal items except her laptop and a corkboard to which she'd pinned a few items. “My rogues' gallery,” she told Tariq. “And it's all yours now.”

The faces of the warlords had been her motivation for the past two years. The plan was to prosecute each one in turn at the International Criminal Court. The people on her corkboard represented the very worst of humankind—men who practiced child conscription, sexual torture, slavery. She took down each picture in turn, making a small ceremony of handing them to Tariq.

“That's it, then,” she said, slipping the laptop into its case. “You're going to do great things.”

“And you're walking away from doing great things.”

She shook her head. “I walked away from my marriage and family. I can't ever go back to the marriage, but my family still needs me.” She thought they did, anyway. She hoped. They had certainly taught themselves to get along without her. Maybe the truth was that
she
needed them.

“I've never seen you run away from anything,” Tariq said. “This isn't like you.”

“Oh, it's exactly like me. When it comes to my professional life, to cases involving genocidal murderers, you're absolutely right. I've been like a dog with a bone since I was in high school. But in my personal life, I've done exactly the opposite. Here's the thing. You can't run from yourself. It only took twenty years and a few hours with a team of terrorists for me to figure that out.”

She took a deep breath, looked around the apartment with her things packed in boxes. The place was as impersonal and anonymous as a hotel room.

She was off, then, to make things right with her family. It was insane, going to a place where the Bellamy family had been entrenched for generations, where her ex-husband was living happily ever after with his new wife. Yet this was the place her children lived, and she intended to be their full-time mother. She hoped with all her heart that it wasn't too late.

S
ophie woke up hugging a warm teddy bear in a strange bed. Hovering in the zone between full alert and dreams, she lay very still, waiting for the customary nightmares to fade. She'd learned that they would, eventually. But she wondered if she would ever stop seeing the faces of the dead or feeling the desperation and panic that had seized her in the moments before the accident.

Yet this morning, the memories seemed curiously distant. Simply lying adrift felt so good that she held still, hugged the teddy bear closer and kept her eyes shut, prolonging a completely unjustified sensation of well-being.

When it came to jet lag, she was a champ at dealing with it. Besides, with her frequent trips back to the States, she had enough miles for an upgrade every time. She'd schooled herself to sleep with the self-discipline of a yoga master. But it was never a restful sleep. Therefore, feeling warm, comfortable and rested was simply wrong.

Finally, like drips of water through a slow leak, little awarenesses pried her awake.

Landing at JFK, making the drive upstate through ever-thickening snowfall. A deer leaping out of nowhere, the swinging glare of her headlights as she swerved to avoid hitting it. Then came the terrible thud and a bone-jarring jolt as she came to rest in the ditch. And then…someone had arrived. She remembered looking up and seeing him outside her window, a man…

Encountering a large, strange man, when she was alone, stuck in a snowbank in the middle of nowhere, should have set off alarm bells. However, she experienced nothing of the sort. After his imposing height and big shoulders, the first things she'd noticed about him were his kindly eyes and boyish grin. She and Dr. Maarten had talked about this in her therapy sessions, the gut sense of danger that she must learn to distinguish normal caution from trauma-induced anxiety. When she'd looked at the stranger, standing in the snow, the only thing she felt in her gut was a wave of sturdy trust.

He'd rescued her. He had somehow healed the fallen deer. He'd sewn up her wound. He was heart-thumpingly, shatteringly attractive in an unexpected way. Big and broad, like a working-class hero or farmer, a far cry from the sort of men she knew.

And now, having succumbed to the multiple fatigues of jet lag, exhaustion and injury, she lay in a comfy bed in a guest room of his house.

The teddy bear yawned and stretched.

Sophie gave a gasp and scrambled out of bed, clutching the blankets to her chest. There was a heated tug of pain in her knee, but she ignored it and stared at the small, furry thing on the bed.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered on a breath of panic. “Oh, my God.”

She was ordinarily more articulate than this, but all she could do was stare. Then she opened the drapes to reveal the cold white glare of the winter morning, and stated the obvious. “You're a puppy. I slept with a puppy.”

It stared at her, alert and seemingly unperturbed by her erratic behavior. Its tiny spike of a tail quivered, and it let out a series of yips, sounding like a windup toy at FAO Schwarz.

Sophie didn't do puppies. She'd never had a dog, growing up, and raising her children in Manhattan had made it completely impractical.

The pup went to the edge of the bed and gazed fearfully at the floor, then worriedly at Sophie.

“Just jump,” she said. “It's not that far.”

It skittered back and forth, gave a nervous whimper.

“You managed to climb up, so you should be able to find a way down.”

The dog responded with a pitiful whine.

“Oh,” Sophie said, feeling a curious flood of sentiment. She reached out with her hand, and the puppy sniffed it delicately, gave her a lick of approval with its tiny pink tongue, then yipped at her. Awkwardly, she scooped the little thing up, holding it at arm's length. The puppy squirmed and she nearly dropped it, so she quickly gathered it against her chest. Its coat was a yellow fluff of down—half dog, half Easter chick. It had a milky-new smell, and it wriggled somewhat frantically, trying to lick her face. Then, like a newborn, it snuggled against her shoulder.

“So this is a puppy,” she whispered, brushing her lips over its velveteen ear. “How did I live so long without a puppy?”

Like all kids, Max and Daisy had of course begged her for a dog. Their friends all had dogs, they pointed out with age-old kid logic. She fired back that their friends all had dog walkers or stay-at-home moms. She explained that it would be cruel to the dog. Left alone during the day, its outside would consist of controlled visits to the postage-stamp-size park where you were required to pick up its poop. Did either Max or Daisy feel like walking around behind a dog in the rain, picking up its poop? That effectively shut down the arguments.

“Max and Daisy,” she said aloud, setting down the puppy and snatching up her phone. Her thumb was hovering over the keypad when she noticed the time—6:47 a.m. Too early to call. Setting aside the phone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the back of the door.

“Lovely,” she muttered. “I'm channeling Blanche Dubois.” It was a combination of her negligee and the fact that she had just rolled out of bed. After a night of hard sleep, even the Dior negligee looked cheap. And skimpy. Sophie's salon-pampered hair was rumpled, her eyes still blurred with sleep. She had long favored skimpy nightgowns, a secret, decadent indulgence.

It wasn't as if she bought them to impress a man. She and Greg had been in college when they met. College boys tended to like anything with boobs, so she didn't need lingerie—a team T-shirt would do. She loved the luxurious feel of lace and silks, though. The lingerie was the last bastion of femininity and youth. Giving in to flannel granny gowns would be an admission of defeat.

She refused to become a flannel granny.

But good heavens. It was cold this morning. Shivering, she looked around the room. This was an older house with tall ceilings and braided rugs on wood floors. She was in an old-fashioned bedroom with fading quilts on the bed, a marble-topped washstand, chintz curtains on the windows. Everything here had a sense of permanence, yet there was an ineffable air of neglect, as well. The faint cedary smell of the bed linens suggested that this room didn't get much use.

She had a luxurious cashmere robe, but it was in her other bag, still in the trunk of the rental car. So were her slippers. She examined her boots, finding one of them stained with dried blood. She wiped it as best she could with some damp tissues. Then she zipped on her high-heeled boots, which made a bold statement combined with her skimpy nightgown.
Just give me a whip and a chain,
she thought,
and I'll be the dominatrix you've always dreamed of.
She tugged a soft, hand-crocheted throw from a rocking chair and drew it around her.

The puppy let out a yip and peed on the floor.

“Oh, for heaven's sake.” Sophie regarded the dark wetness spreading on the braided throw rug in the doorway. Now she remembered why she didn't do puppies. She loosely rolled up the throw rug. Holding it gingerly, she made her way downstairs, passing faded cabbage-rose wallpaper and a leaded-glass window at the landing. The puppy loyally followed, jumping from step to step down the stairs and nearly crash-landing at the bottom. It seemed completely unhurt, though, and stayed focused on Sophie, as though imprinted like a duck. She couldn't help smiling, despite the rug. The accident was her fault, really. The dog was a baby. Its bladder was tiny. She should have taken it out immediately to do its business.

She guessed her way to the kitchen by following a hallway with hardwood floors and framed pictures on the walls. An arched doorway led her to a big country kitchen, filled with the deep aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Beyond the kitchen was a mudroom surrounded by windows that offered a view of nothing but white, miles and miles of white.

“Morning,” said a deep, cheerful voice. Noah Shepherd came in through the back door, covered in fresh, powdery snow.

She nearly dropped the rolled rug. “Oh! I, er…” Her words evaporated as she stared at him. In a thick plaid mackinaw jacket, faded jeans and snow boots, he looked like a character from a storybook—the noble woodsman. A prince in disguise.
I'm in a Disney movie,
she thought.

Judging by the look on his face, he was thinking something quite different about her. His expression hid nothing. He checked out the almost-translucent bodice of the negligee. She tugged the shawl closer around her. Then he looked at her legs, revealed by the short gown. Even with her bandaged knee, the fashion boots probably made her look like a pole dancer. Noah's expression was almost adolescent in its intensity, revealing a fundamental truth—a man hadn't been born who didn't like a pole dancer.

Finally, she found her voice and broke the tension. “The dog peed on the rug.”

“I'll take it.” He reached out with a gloved hand and stepped into a room adjacent to the mudroom. A moment later, she heard the swish of the washing machine. She was washing her hands at the kitchen sink when he returned.

“I guess you met Opal, then,” he said. “I call that one Opal.”

“Why?”

“No idea. Do I need a reason?”

“I guess not. So she must be a new addition to your house.”

“Temporarily,” he said. “She was born to a big litter and her mother rejected her.”

Sophie felt a little beat of shock. “That's terrible.”

“It happens. I've been bottle-feeding her.”

“You're kidding me.”

“About the bottle-feeding?” He shrugged and washed up at the sink. “Wouldn't be the first time. Is that so shocking?”

“I've never met anyone who bottle-feeds baby animals,” she said.

“Just weaned her.” The puppy had found a stainless steel food bowl on the floor and was busily chowing down.

Sophie had never heard a man say “wean” before, either. “She seems to be doing well.”

He nodded. “Next project is to find her a home.”

“She slept with me last night.”

The words “slept with me” seemed to inflame his imagination, because he checked her out again with that relentless, teenagerlike intensity. She felt exposed yet curiously bold. In all the drama of the divorce and its aftermath, her femininity had hardened into a stiff armor of propriety, an armor that seemed to be melting under the heat of his regard. There were few good things to be said for being thirty-nine going on forty. Having a man look at her the way Noah Shepherd was looking at her was unexpectedly empowering.

Still.

She adjusted the shawl and cleared her throat. Did she explain the boots and the negligee or let him assume whatever he would? “Thank you for last night,” she said, belatedly catching the double entendre.

“It was my pleasure.” His voice was all bedroom smoky, as though he perfectly grasped the double meaning.

She felt a flush bloom in her cheeks, supremely self-conscious now. “Anyway, I'll just go get dressed and be out of your way.”

His smile exuded a sexy sweetness that made her feel foolish and young. “You're not in my way,” he stated.

“Yes, well, I do have things to do….”

He flicked a glance out the window where the world was a glare of light reflected off acres of thick snow. “What kind of things?”

He could have no idea that was such a loaded question.

Reinvent my life,
she thought.
Reconnect with my kids. Redefine the way I see the world. Redeem myself for mistakes in the past.
And that was just for starters.

He studied her with a keen intensity that almost made her want to tell him. But no. She was still working things out for herself, and at the moment her plan felt very fragile, as though it needed protection from other people's skepticism. Her colleagues at the ICC already thought she was insane. She didn't need to expose herself to a stranger's doubts.

“For starters, I'll need to call my son and daughter, let them know I've arrived.”

He nodded at a wall phone by the breakfast nook. “Help yourself. But I should tell you, the roads haven't been cleared yet. It's a lake-effect snowstorm, and it's not over yet. The school district has declared a snow day, and most of the roads—including this one—are closed to all but emergency vehicles, so I wouldn't count on going anywhere.”

“I guess I can't do anything about the weather.” She felt a wave of anxiety. Max and Daisy knew she was due to arrive, but they assumed it was for a visit, not for keeps. She had no idea what their reaction would be when she explained the move was permanent. The fact was, she hadn't quite worked out what she would say, how she would explain her presence in Avalon. This was the domain of the Bellamys, her ex-husband's family. They had deep roots in the region, while Sophie would be regarded as an outsider. An intruder. She suddenly felt very alone.

“I want to pull myself together and get organized first,” she said, seized by cowardice.

“Okay,” he said agreeably enough. “How's the knee? I should probably check it out.”