by Nora Roberts
“It may be better than sex.”
“It’s possible. What we’ll do is check our schedules and find the best time to clear three days. We can clear three days, Mai. We all have friends who’ll take care of our animals for that length of time. How often have we done it for them?”
“Countless times. Where?”
“I don’t know. Close so we don’t spend too much time on travel. I’ll start researching, and I’ll get Syl on board. What do you say?”
Mai raised her glass. “I am so in.”
Determined to seal the deal, Fiona swung by Sylvia’s before heading home.
Pansies spilled out of tubs in front of the tranquil bayside house. Fiona knew the greenhouse would be crowded with flowers and vegetables and herbs her stepmother babied like children, and would soon tranfer to her extensive gardens.
As much at home there as in her own cabin, Fiona opened the bright red door and called out, “Syl?”
“Back here!” Sylvia called out as Oreo raced to say hello. “In the great room.”
“I was just at Mai’s.” Fiona wound her way through the house where Sylvia had lived with Fiona’s father throughout their marriage. Like her shop, it was a bright, fascinating, eclectic mix of styles and art and color.
She found Sylvia on her yoga mat mimicking the twisting pose of the instructor on the TV. “Just winding down from the day,” Sylvia told her. “Nearly done. Did you bring the boys?”
“They’re in the car. I can’t stay.”
“Oh, why don’t you? I’m thinking of making couscous.”
“Tempting.” Not in the least, Fiona thought. “But I’ve got a project. Mai’s horny and her biological clock’s ticking. She’s thinking of trying one of those online dating services.”
“Really?” Sylvia untwisted, then twisted in the other direction. “Which one?”
“I think she said HeartLine-dot-com.”
“They’re supposed to be pretty good.”
“I don’t . . . Have you used that kind of thing?”
“Not yet. Maybe never. But I’ve looked around.” Sylvia lowered to the floor, folded.
“Oh. Huh. Well, anyway, what do you say the three of us take a long weekend and go to a spa?”
“Gosh, let me think.” Sylvia unfolded. “It’ll take me five minutes to pack.”
“Really?”
“I can do it in four if pressed. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s part of the project. I need to check the schedule, refine it with yours and Mai’s and find us a destination.”
“I’ve got that. One of my artists has a connection at a spa. Supposed to be fabulous. It’s near Snoqualmie Falls.”
“Seriously?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Sylvia lay back in corpse. “Tranquillity Spa and Resort. I’ll take care of it—but you might want to check out the website to make sure it’s what you have in mind.”
“Do they have massages, room service and a pool?”
“I can pretty much guarantee that.”
“It’s perfect.” She did a quick dance in place. “God, this is going to be great.”
“Can’t miss. But what brought this on?”
“I told you. Mai’s hormones.”
“And?”
Fiona walked to the window to look at the water. “I really haven’t been sleeping all that well since Davey told me about the murders. It’s just . . . there. On my mind. Keeping busy tamps it down, then when I’m not, it’s just there. A break would be good, I think. And a break with two of my favorite women, the best. Plus I’m feeling conflicted about Simon since he kissed me.”
“What?” Sylvia’s eyes popped open as she sat up. “You tried to sneak that by me. When did he kiss you?”
“The other day, after you and the others left. It was just an impulse of the moment, and the circumstances. And yes, before you ask, it was very, very good.”
“I suspected it would be. What happened next?”
“He went home.”
“Why?”
“Probably because I told him to.”
“Oh, Fee, I worry about you. I do.” Shaking her head, Sylvia rose, reached for her bottle of water.
“I wasn’t ready for the kiss, much less any follow-through.”
Sylvia sighed. “See? No wonder I worry about you. Not being ready is part of the thrill. Or should be. The unexpected and the passionate.”
“I don’t think unexpected works for me. At least not right now. Who knows, maybe it will after a spa break.”
“Clear your schedule and we’re gone. I can work mine around yours and Mai’s.”
“You’re the best.” Fiona gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to see what classes I can juggle. I’ll e-mail you and Mai.”
“Wait. I’m going to get you some of this tea. It’s all natural, and it should help relax you, help you sleep. I want you to take a long bath, drink some tea, put on some quiet music. And give those meditation exercises I showed you a chance,” she added as she got the tin out of a cupboard in the adjoining kitchen.
“Okay. Promise. I’m already relaxed just thinking about the spa.” She moved in for another hug. “I love you.”
“I love you back.”
She should have thought of it before, Fiona realized. An indulgent break with good friends was the perfect prescription for restlessness and stress. Then again she rarely felt the need for a break as she considered her life on the island the best of all possible worlds.
She had independence, reasonable financial security, a home and work she loved, the companionship of her dogs. What else was there?
She remembered the hot, unexpected kiss in her kitchen and Simon’s rough, proprietary hands on her.
There was that, she admitted. At least now and again there was that. She was, after all, a healthy woman with normal needs and appetites.
And she could admit she’d considered the possibility of a round or two with Simon—before he’d shut that down in no uncertain terms. Before he’d opened it up again. Blew the lid off it again, she corrected.
Which only served to prove any sort of relationship with him promised to be complicated and frustrating and uncertain.
“Probably best to leave it alone,” she said to the dogs. “Really, why ask for trouble? We’re good, right? We’re good just as we are. You and me, boys,” she added and had tails thumping.
Her headlights slashed through the dark as she turned onto her drive—and reminded her she’d forgotten to leave the porch light on again. In a few weeks, the sun would stay longer and the air would warm. Long evening walks and playtime in the yard, porch sitting.
The approach had the dogs shifting and tails swishing in excitement. The trauma of the exam room was forgotten in the simple pleasure of coming home.
She parked, got out to open the back. “Make your rounds, boys.” She hurried inside to hit the lights before making her own. She checked water bowls and the feeder, got a smile from her new planters.
While the dogs circled outside, stretched their legs, emptied their bladders, she opened the freezer and grabbed the first frozen dinner that came to hand.
While it buzzed up she started checking her phone messages. She’d set up her laptop, she decided, go over the schedule while she ate, find the best hole, check out the website Sylvia had recommended.
“Get the party started,” she murmured.
She took notes on her pad, saving or deleting messages as necessary.
“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr. I’m a reporter with U.S. Report. I’m writing a story on the recent abduction murders of two women in California that seem to parallel those committed by George Allen Perry. As you were the only known victim to escape Perry, I’d like to speak with you. You can reach me at work, on my cell or via e-mail. My contacts are—”
Fiona hit delete. “No way in hell.”
No reporters, no interviews, no TV cameras or mikes pushed at her. Not again.
Even as she took a breath t
he next message came on.
“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr with U.S. Report following up on my earlier call. I’m approaching deadline, and it’s very important that I speak with you as soon as—”
Fiona hit delete again.
“Screw you and your deadline,” she murmured.
She let the dogs in, comforted by their presence. Dinner, such as it was, didn’t hold much appeal, but she ordered herself to sit down, to eat, to do exactly what she’d planned to do with her evening before the reporter flooded her mind with memories and worries.
She booted up her laptop, poked at chicken potpie. To boost her mood, she checked the resort’s website first—and in moments was cruising on anticipatory bliss.
Hot stone massages, paraffin wraps, champagne and caviar facials. She wanted them all. She wanted them now.
She took the virtual tour, purring over the indoor pool, the posttreatment meditation rooms, the shops, the gardens, the lovely appointments in the guest rooms. That included, she thought, a two-story, three-bedroom “villa.”
She closed one eye, glanced at the cost. Winced.
But split three ways . . . it would still sting like hellfire.
But it had its own hot tub, and, oh God, fireplaces in the bathrooms.
In. The. Bathrooms.
And the views of the waterfall, the hills, the gardens . . .
Impossible, she reminded herself. Maybe when she won the lottery.
“It’s a nice dream,” she told the dogs. “So, now we know where. Let’s figure out when.”
She brought up her class schedule, calculated, tried some juggling, re calculated, shifted.
Once she’d settled on the two best possibilities, she e-mailed Sylvia and Mai.
“We’ll make it work,” she decided, and shifted over to check her incoming e-mail.
She found one from the reporter.
Ms. Bristow:
I haven’t been able to reach you by phone. I found this contact on the website for your canine training service. As I explained, I’m writing a story on the California abduction-murders which echo the Perry homicides. As you were a key witness for the prosecution in the Perry trial that resulted in his conviction, your comments would be very valuable.
I can’t write a salient or accurate story on the Perry angle without including your experiences, and the details of the murder of Gregory Norwood, which resulted in Perry’s capture. I would prefer to speak with you directly before the story goes to press.
Fiona deleted the e-mail, including the list of contacts.
Then simply laid her head down on the table.
She was entitled to say no. Entitled to turn her back on that horrible time. She was entitled to refuse to be fodder for yet another story on death and loss.
Reliving all that wouldn’t, couldn’t bring Greg back. It wouldn’t help those two women or their grieving families.
She’d started her life over, and she was damn well entitled to her privacy.
She pushed herself up, shut down the laptop.
“I’m going to take that long bath, drink that stupid tea. And you know what? We’re going to book that damn villa. Life’s too damn short.”
EIGHT
Though her puppy classes invariably kept Fiona’s mood up, tension lingered, an endless echo of memories and loss.
Kati Starr, persistent if nothing else, called shortly after eight a.m.
One glance at the caller ID had Fiona letting the machine take it. She deleted it without listening, but the call itself lodged in the back of her neck like a brick.
She reminded herself her clients deserved her full attention.
Simon was late. Of course. He pulled in while the rest of the class ran through the basics.
“Just pick it up where we are,” she said coolly. “If we’re not interfering too much with your busy schedule.”
She moved away to work with each of her students individually, demonstrating how to discourage the exuberant Great Dane pup, who promised to be massive, from jumping up—and the perky schnauzer to stop crotch sniffing.
When they began to work off leash, she sighed as Jaws raced away to chase a squirrel—and led a stampede.
“Don’t chase them!” Fiona pushed a hand through her hair as Jaws did his level best to climb the tree the squirrel skittered up. “Call them back. Use your return command, then order your dog to sit. I want all the dogs back to their handlers and sitting.”
What she wanted took time and persistence—and some hands-on.
She reviewed sit and stay, individually and as a group, careful to keep her tone detached whenever she had to address Simon.
With leashes on, she worked on the stop and drop.
The class that usually amused and warmed her had a headache carving dully just above the brick at the base of her neck.
“Keep up the good work.” She ordered up a smile. “And remember: positive reinforcement, practice and play.”
As always, there were comments, questions, a story or two that had to be shared with her by one of the clients. Fiona listened, answered, stroked and petted. But felt none of her usual pleasure.
When Simon lingered, letting Jaws off leash to run with her dogs, Fiona decided it was fine. She’d deal with him, and eliminate a minor problem on her list.
“You’ve got a bug up your ass today,” he said before she could speak.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. And you look like hell.”
“You have to stop throwing all these pearls at my feet.”
“Did that guy in California kill someone else?”
“I don’t know. Why would I know? It has nothing to do with me.” She jammed her hands into the pockets of her hooded jacket. “I’m sorry for the women, for their families, but it has nothing to do with me.”
“Who’s arguing? You weren’t listening, not really, when Larry started on about how his supermutt figured out how to open doors or when Diane showed you the picture of her toddler drawing with crayons on the bulldog. I’d say that’s your version of having a bitch on. So, what’s the deal?”
“Listen, Simon, just because I kissed you, sort of—”
“Sort of ?”
She set her teeth. “That doesn’t mean I’m obliged to share the details of my life with you, or explain the reasons for my moods.”
“I’m still stuck on ‘sort of,’ and wondering what would be actually.”
“You’ll have to keep wondering. We’re neighbors and you’re currently a client. That’s it.”