Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  Liberated, independent woman that she was, however, she soon talked herself out of her Woe is me gloom. She gave her parents a call, in a position now to tell them everything was going well in her life. And through a scratchy, on-again, off-again signal, everyone was brought up-to-date.

  Next, she unpacked, and afterward, she turned on her computer and reviewed her manuscript. As she scrolled through the pages, images and thoughts of Nick kept popping into her mind, and she had to sensibly remind herself that mooning over a guy who probably couldn’t even remember her name was completely useless. She had to put the entire episode into perspective.

  Or at least that was what mature adults were supposed to do.

  What that really meant was living without something you wanted.

  But wasn’t that what adulthood was all about? Intelligent judgment instead of two-year-old tantrums over a lollipop?

  So she put her nose to the grindstone, her shoulder to the wheel, and worked like crazy for the next two weeks. She compared notes with Joe at least ten times a day; he was back in Brooklyn after visiting Mandy. She’d also spoken to Roberto at the TPC and told him that the Willerbys might be interested in negotiations, so he was in touch with her, getting photos from time to time. But interruptions aside, on day fourteen at two a.m., she crossed the last T and dotted the last I on her manuscript.

  The first week of July, her work on stolen antiquities was sent off to her publisher and instead of feeling her usual delirious relief at finishing a book, the moment after she closed the door on the FedEx man, she burst into tears. Rattled by her outburst—she was not one to cry for no reason—she stood in her small foyer and tried some calm breathing. But she could never remember if you counted to eight on the inhale and nine on the exhale or the other way around, or maybe it was four in and eight out or, Hell’s bells, why not an all-purpose espresso for whatever ails you?

  Moving toward her kitchen, she rubbed the tears from her cheeks and speedily shifted into full-fledged rationalization. She reminded herself that this book had been especially fraught with peril—a rare and unwelcome circumstance in her life. She told herself she would feel more serene in a day or so, once she resumed her normal routine. Finishing a book often turned into an arduous marathon with too little sleep and too much coffee.

  Maybe she should think about reducing her caffeine intake.

  Mildly chastened by her strange fit of weeping, she actually tried to cut back on coffee. Instead of an espresso, she took a bottled water out of the fridge and went out on the back porch to drink it. She sat—or more accurately lounged—on her chaise, which was not cushioned in an Hawaiian print fabric her brain improbably noted, and drank her bottled water.

  But it tasted like bottled water—not espresso. Wouldn’t you know.

  Several bland, stimulant-free sips later, she decided that giving up coffee after years of overindulgence was unnecessary and counterproductive to a person as busy as her. Also, her withdrawal symptoms were becoming increasingly manifest and, in terms of her headache, painful. She screwed the cap back on the bottle of water and dashed into the kitchen to make herself an espresso.

  Within minutes, she was infinitely calmer—physically and mentally.

  Of course, coffee consumption impacts sleep, she told herself, as she tossed and turned in bed that night. The fact that she drank coffee every day and normally slept like a baby was dismissed, as was the possible but unwanted reason why she was all atwitter. Do not even think the name Nick Mirovic!

  Why not watch one of the many movies there’d been no time to watch? She congratulated herself for hewing to the mature adult construct and directing her agitated senses toward a course of measured self-restraint. One devoid of impractical, fruitless tilting at windmill wishes. Lying back on her pillows, she clicked on the cable guide and selected an Italian film that had garnered fantastic reviews. Unfortunately, no more than ten minutes into the movie she witnessed the most cinematically gorgeous sex scene set in the lush, colorful garden of a Medici palace. She immediately hit the Guide button on the remote and searched for something less viscerally erotic.

  Settling on an Irish film that had been touted as a witty, delightful comedy, she lay back once again and pressed the Play button. No one had mentioned that the secondary character of the young priest was not only an Adonis but was also dispensing his handsome favors among the parish ladies. In fact, he was so arrestingly beautiful, she ended up watching the movie for much too long and finally had to put the film on pause and go find her vibrator.

  Afterward, nominally orgasmic, but still horny as hell, her mature adult resolve began to seriously erode. Actually, it disappeared into some black hole with such incredible speed, she literally whispered, Holy shit.

  Having been raised distant from organized religion—the Amazon tribes preferring nature gods—Zoe accepted such “lo and behold” moments with relative ease—perhaps even a pagan naivete.

  Tossing aside her vibrator, she flicked off the TV, rushed to her computer, and pulled up Travelocity. Moments later, she had bought herself a ticket to Ely.

  In addition to the obvious bolt from above, she appropriately noted that she’d rented the Skubic place for the entire summer and it was only July. Why shouldn’t she take advantage of the remainder of the season in what was lauded as Minnesota’s summer paradise by the local chamber of commerce and various and sundry travel sites?

  Really, it was silly to deprive oneself of an idyllic summer respite for no good reason.

  She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that mature, adult behavior was much, much overrated.

  The concept was based on obsolete Puritanical notions of duty and virtue. Or was it Methodist or Presbyterian, Catholic perhaps? Hadn’t witches been burned at the stake for infringements of such protocols or people punished for dancing or playing cards on Sundays? Not to mention the Inquisition. Really, it seemed that rules of right-minded morality often defied not only logic, but good taste if stretching someone on the rack was the result.

  She could choose to be a slave to other people’s sense of propriety or she could set her own standards for personal conduct.

  Her philosophical rationalization quickly concluded, she dressed, packed, and drove to Newark airport, the easiest commute. Arriving three hours before her flight gave her the opportunity to have two Starbucks iced lattes, which put her in an even better mood. She didn’t even care that the last-minute reservation had cost her an arm and a leg. Nor did she mind that the TSA agents went through her luggage with a fine-tooth comb and frisked her because of her spontaneous travel plans.

  Since she had jettisoned all that mature adult crap, she was in a lovely Zen mood—all mellowness and live-for-the-moment bliss. Armed with the New York Times and three fashion magazines, she intended to wallow in life’s simple pleasures on her coming journey.

  Once she reached Ely, she might find some other more definitive pleasures in the form of Nick Mirovic.

  Forty-one

  Zoe rented a car at the airport in Duluth. In all the recent turmoil and upheavals, she’d not given much consideration to her car, which she’d left behind at Skubic’s. She hoped it was still there. She hoped even more that Nick was next door. Her car was insured, after all, while there was no substitute for Nick Mirovic’s many charms.

  It was yes on her car, she discovered on driving up to the Skubic cabin. And no on Nick being next door, she found out a short time later. No one was in the workshop either. So she drove her rental car to the Enterprise dealer in Ely, told them she’d come back when she needed a ride home, and walked to the Front Porch Coffee Company. Janie would know whatever there was to know in town, including Nick’s whereabouts.

  But Janie wasn’t any help other than knowing that Nick had gone up the lake. “Tony knows, but he’s not saying, which is slightly unusual”—she shrugged—“but not without precedent. Nick and Tony are joined at the hip. They grew up together; Nick and Tony’s dads are cousins. Are you staying long?” J
anie was already making Zoe’s iced triple espresso without asking.

  “For a while.” Zoe wasn’t about to spread out her hopes and dreams on Janie’s counter. “I thought the dads might have been brothers,” she said, changing the subject, “with Nick and Tony having the same last name.”

  “Uh-uh. Nick’s dad was an only child.”

  “Tell me about Nick’s family. He’s not real communicative.” Nick had told her about his parents’ and grandparents’ deaths, but he’d mentioned very little else about his family.

  “It looks like he’s gotten to you. Not that I’m surprised. He has that effect on most women.”

  Zoe grimaced. “I don’t care to hear about most women if you don’t mind.”

  “Gotcha. Did he tell you his parents died in a bizarre snow-mobile accident when he was twelve?” Janie slid the espresso toward Zoe.

  “He mentioned it in passing.”

  “They never found the bodies, but Knife Lake is five hundred feet deep so it’s no wonder. Anyway, he lived with his grandparents after that. He learned most of his wilderness skills from his dad or grandpa; as a forester for the Department of Natural Resources, his father spent a lot of time in the back country. Nick lettered in four sports in high school, was presidentof his senior class, homecoming king, on the honor roll.” Janie ticked off his achievements. “But he never had a big head; he was always a nice kid.”

  It was late afternoon and even at the height of the tourist season, the coffee shop wasn’t too busy. Janie waved to her helper to pick up the slack and she sat down to talk about Zoe’s favorite subject. Afterward, when she’d run out of factoids, Janie said with a smile, “You’d be a whole lot better for him than Lucy.” She wrinkled her nose. “She’s a real piece of work. Not that it’s any of my business who sleeps with whom.”

  Reading between the lines, Zoe grimaced faintly. “Nick must have seen Lucy then when he came back.”

  “Just once. That’s all,” Janie said, apologetically, in an attempt to partially negate her slip of the tongue. “Lucy’s been complaining ever since that he left her in the lurch. As if Nick took her seriously anyway.”

  “I doubt he takes anyone seriously.”

  “It might have been his nasty divorce,” Janie said, still trying to smooth over her faux pas.

  “Or maybe he’s just not likely to settle for one woman.”

  Janie didn’t quite meet Zoe’s gaze. “I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

  “What exactly would you call his lone wolf mentality?”

  Janie shrugged. “He has issues.”

  “I’m probably as crazy as he is,” Zoe muttered, “if I think that I can actually get to him.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Janie murmured. “According to Tony, Nick’s never taken anyone up to his outpost camp before.”

  “He probably didn’t have a choice.” Zoe didn’t know how much to say about the bizarre circumstances.

  “Whatever. If I were you, I’d go talk to Tony. He knows where Nick is and if he wants to, he’ll tell you.”

  But when Zoe went to the courthouse and found Tony in his office, he looked at her blankly from behind his desk and said, “I’m not sure where Nick went. He just told me he was going north. Sorry.”

  “Did he tell you about anything that went on at his Jackfish outpost?”

  Another blank look. “Some.”

  “About Willerby and Harry Miller?”

  Tony leaned back in his chair and hesitated for a fraction of a second before he said, “Nick mentioned them.”

  “Look,” Zoe said with a sigh, “I’m not here to stalk him. I’d just like to know that he’s all right.”

  “He sounded good last time I talked to him.” Tony didn’t say, “Good and drunk.”

  “Well . . . thanks.” Zoe smiled. “I appreciate your time. And if you should talk to Nick, you might mention that I’m staying at the Skubic place for the rest of the summer.”

  Tony nodded.

  Zoe lifted her hand. “See ya.”

  “Yeah, see ya.”

  Nick’s cousin clearly wasn’t going to give away anything, Zoe decided as she walked away. Like Janie said though, it was worth a try.

  Tony wondered if he should send a radio message to Nick and tell him this woman was back in town?

  But in the end he didn’t.

  Nick regarded women as a physical necessity lately, but not much else. Not that Miss Zoe Chandler wasn’t easy on the eyes—he certainly understood Nick’s wanting her company out in the bush.

  But if Nick wanted to see her again, he would have mentioned it.

  Forty-two

  Nick had been spending his time at Trygge Lake, building a gazebo for reasons that weren’t entirely clear. It was something to keep him busy, he told himself, and he didn’t have any other use for the lumber stored in the rafters of his woodshed. With no electricity on site, he used only hand tools to construct a small rustic affair perched out on the rocks by the shore. He even hand-split shingles for the roof. There was always a nice breeze from the lake out on the point, but he screened in the gazebo to keep out the mosquitoes at night when the wind died down.

  Once he’d put on the screened door with its carved wooden latch, he sat inside the gazebo on one of his handmade chairs and had a drink or two or ten.

  He was drinking more than usual, again for reasons that weren’t entirely clear.

  Since his Trygge camp was devoid of amenities, he chopped his own wood, carried water from the lake, used kerosene for lights and cooking, and pretty much lived like a nineteenth-century settler. He had a battery radio he recharged by pedaling, but otherwise, he was remote from the civilized world.

  He listened to the message hour each morning in the event Tony had some news. None came, nor had he expected any. Afterward, he’d resume his building project, go fishing so he had something for supper, swim across the lake, or paddle his canoe a few miles to burn off excess energy.

  Just performing the routine chores each day required several hours. Chopping wood, carrying water, washing dishes and clothes by hand, cooking. Since the nights were cold this far north, he stoked the woodstove each night and the sauna stove every few days. He’d always liked saunas, ever since he was a kid—the smell of the pine fire, the soothing heat, the chill lake water that felt like silk on your skin when you dived in straight out of the sauna. He’d always have a beer afterward, lean back on the bench in the changing room, and drift for a time in a narcotic limbo.

  At times like that, he might have even found a modicum of peace in his hermitage.

  The operative word was modicum.

  His brain was still in turmoil, haunted by some of the same old bad memories and others more recent and not bad at all— just difficult to absorb or absolve. He wasn’t sure which.

  So he was drinking a lot.

  If he stayed here long enough, he might be reduced to cracking open that ancient bottle of gin brought up here long ago by a friend of his grandpa who drank martinis. But he’d checked his supply the other day, and he was still good for at least another month.

  At the same time that Nick was contemplating having to eventually broach the bottle of Plymouth gin, Zoe was busy writing down what she characterized as a sales pitch for Tony Mirovic.

  She was choosing her words carefully. She didn’t want to come off as either a stalker or a pushy bitch. Her fundamental debate, however, was more about how to explain her motives to Tony and properly define her feelings about Nick. Not that she would be so gauche as to use the actual word feelings when talking to the sheriff. She understood that alluding to explicit, meaningful emotion was generally anathema to the male species—especially in this instance, when she and Tony were virtual strangers.

  She was way out on a limb here; she and Nick had known each other for such a short time. And Tony knew it.

  She certainly couldn’t mention anything so bizarre as love at first sight. She didn’t want to be laughed out of his office. Nor was sh
e entirely sure that was precisely what she felt. But if it wasn’t, it was definitely something in the same neighborhood. She couldn’t eat or sleep lately—neither issues in the past. Even Janie said to her the other day, “Don’t forget to eat, sweetie. You’re beginning to look peaked.”

  If she had any chance of seeing Nick again, the last thing she wanted to look was peaked. She wanted to look fabulous! So she might have eaten a tad more than necessary once she returned home, but there was a shop in town that made organic ice cream, and she happened to have several pints in her freezer and one thing led to another.

  She rather thought she didn’t look peaked anymore.

  Janie had agreed, telling her the next morning, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just had sex. Your skin is glowing.”

  “What do you mean?” Zoe protested. “I could have had sex.”

  Janie gave her an arched brow look. “You and I both know you’re waiting for your one and only.” Since Zoe’s return, Janie had read between the lines, not that it had been all that difficult with Zoe moping over her espresso practically every day.

  “Not anymore,” Zoe determinedly said, staring Janie straight in the eye. “I’m actually going to do something about it today. I’m going to see Tony and”—Zoe smiled—“give him my sales pitch. Don’t laugh. I actually wrote it down last night and practiced.”

  “It’s about time.” Janie directed a mom look Zoe’s way. “In my experience, the ones you want don’t come riding up on a white horse and knocking on your door.”

  Zoe grinned. “I’ve reached the same conclusion, although living next door to Nick’s empty house has been a huge incentive. I can’t stop thinking about him.”