by Nora Roberts
“Okay.”
“Good enough. We’ll talk about the details later. You go ahead, get the tools to break what needs to be broken down. I’ll get Matt started on what doesn’t.” He started back, stopped. “Are you really making a sink out of a stump?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s something I want to see. Matt! Haul some of this dog playground business into Simon’s truck.”
HE ENDED UP calling James anyway, for the third pair of hands and the second truck. And with James came Lori, and with James and Lori came Koby.
Simon’s initial annoyance with having so many people and animals swarming around gave way to the realization that sometimes people didn’t get in the way, but helped make a necessary and tedious job go smoother.
It wasn’t a matter of a couple of suitcases’ worth of clothes, not when it was Fiona. It was suitcases, dog beds, dog food, toys, leashes, meds, dishes, grooming equipment—and that didn’t begin to factor in platforms, the seesaw, the slide, the tunnel. Or her files—and Jesus the woman had files—her laptop, her packs, her maps, the perishables in her refrigerator.
“The flower beds and vegetable garden are on a soaker hose,” she said when he objected to hauling over her flowerpots, “so they’ll be fine. But these need regular watering. Besides, we’ll enjoy them. And besides besides, Simon, you asked for it.”
And that he couldn’t argue with.
“Fine, fine. Just . . . go start putting some of this crap away, will you?”
“Any preference to where?”
He stared at the last load and wondered how the hell she’d fit all of that into her Seven Dwarfs-sized house. How had it all tucked in so tidily—and that didn’t count what she’d left behind.
“Wherever, I guess. Dump the office stuff in one of the spare bedrooms, and don’t mess with my stuff more than you have to.”
He walked back to help James put the training equipment back together.
Beside Fiona, Lori rolled her eyes and grabbed a box of files. “Lead the way.”
“I’m not entirely sure of it, but I guess we’ll take this first load upstairs, find the best spot.”
As they started in, Lori glanced around. “Nice. Really nice—a lot of space and light and interesting furniture. What there is of it. Messy,” she added as she started up the steps, “but really nice.”
“Probably three or four times as much space as I have.” Fiona glanced inside a room, frowned at the weight machine, gym equipment, tangle of clothes, unpacked boxes.
She tried another. A stack of paint cans, some brushes, rollers, pans, tools, sawhorses. “Okay, I guess this’ll work. I’m going to need my desk and chair. I didn’t think of that.”
She winced a little at the dust on the floor, the film on the window. “It is messy,” she murmured, “and I know what you’re thinking. Messy makes me twitchy.”
She set down her box of office supplies, turned a circle. “I’ll live with it.”
And him, she thought. For now.
TWENTY-THREE
She opted to set up her office space first. Which, in this case, meant cleaning the space first. She’d live with messy. It wasn’t her house. But temporary live-in lover or not, she wouldn’t work in dust and disorder.
While Lori and James set out to get her desk and chair—and lamp, and desk clock—she hunted down cleaning supplies. And, as Simon apparently believed in only the barest of basics, called Lori to add a list from her own supplies.
How, she wondered, did anyone—especially anyone with a dog—live without a Swiffer?
Working with what she had, she cleaned several months of dust from the windows, the floor, the woodwork, and discovered what she’d assumed was a second closet but was actually a bathroom.
One, she thought with a long huff of breath, that surely hadn’t been cleaned since he’d moved in. Fortunately, its primary purpose seemed to be gathering more dust.
She was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor when he came in.
“What are you doing?”
“Planning my next trip to Rome. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning this bathroom.”
“Why?”
“That you would have to ask explains so much.” She sat back on her heels. “I may, at some point, have to pee. I find this occurs with some regularity on any given day. I prefer—call me fussy—to engage in this activity in sanitary surroundings.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets, leaned on the jamb. “I haven’t been using this room or this john. Yet.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.”
He glanced around the now dust-free bedroom where paint cans stood in stacks tidily beside sawhorses, rollers, pans and brushes on neatly folded tarps.
“You’re setting up in here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. Did you wash the floor out here?”
“Damp-mopped. Let me point out, as someone who works with wood, you should take better care of your floors. You need some Murphy’s at least.”
“I’ve got some. Somewhere. Maybe.” She was making him twitchy. “I’ve been busy.”
“Understood.”
“You’re not going to go around cleaning everything, are you?”
She swiped a hand over her forehead. “Let me give you my solemn oath on that. But I’m going to work in here. I need a clean, ordered space to work. I’ll keep the door closed so it doesn’t shock your sensibilities.”
“Now you’re being bitchy.”
Because she heard the amusement in his tone, she smiled back. “Yes, I am. Move back so I can finish this. I appreciate what you’re doing, Simon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do, and I know it disrupts your space, your routine, your privacy.”
“Shut up.”
“I just want to thank—”
“Shut up,” he repeated. “You matter. That’s it. I’ve got something to do.”
She sat back on her heels when he strode out. Shut up. You matter. That’s it. Honestly, she mused, coming from him that was practically a poem by Shelley.
By the time she’d arranged her office, with her desk tidy under the window facing the back and the woods, she’d have killed for a glass of wine and a comfortable chair. But her sense of order wouldn’t allow her to leave her clothes in suitcases.
She’d scope out Simon’s bedroom, then find him and ask how he wanted her to deal with her clothes.
It surprised her to find the bed made—sort of made, she thought. The dog beds had been tossed in a corner, and the doors to the deck stood open to let in the air.
She poked in the closet, saw he’d shoved his clothes over to make room for hers. She’d need a drawer, she thought. Two would be better. She moved to the dresser, opened one gingerly. He’d emptied it out for her. He was one step ahead of her, she thought, then cocked her head, sniffed.
Lemon?
Curious, she crossed to the bathroom, then just leaned on the door frame. She recognized a freshly cleaned bathroom—the scent of citrus, the gleam of porcelain, the rich sheen of brushed nickel. The towels hung in an orderly fashion on rods melted her heart.
He’d probably cursed with every swipe, she mused, but, well, she mattered. And that was it.
She put away her clothes, stowed her toiletries, then went down to find him.
He stood in the kitchen, looking out the back door at the training equipment.
“Some of that should be replaced,” he said without looking around. “That platform’s crap.”
“You’re probably right. Did James and Lori go?”
“Yeah. She put stuff in the fridge and wherever, said to tell you she’d call you tomorrow. I offered them a beer,” he added, almost defensively. “But they rain-checked.”
“I imagine they’re tired after all this.”
“Yeah. I want a beer and the beach.”
“That sounds perfect. Go ahead. I’ve just a couple things, then I’ll come down.”
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He walked over, opened the fridge for his beer. “Don’t clean anything.”
She lifted her hand. “Solemn oath.”
“Right. I’ll leave Newman, take the rest.”
She nodded. She couldn’t be alone, she thought. Not even here.
She waited until he’d gone out, until she’d heard him order Newman to stay, stay with Fee. Then she sat at his counter, laid her head on it and waited for the tears that had begun to burn in her throat to come.
But they wouldn’t. She’d held them back too long, she realized. Pushed them down all these hours, and now they were simply blocked, locked inside, hurting her throat, aching in her head.
“Okay.” She breathed the word out, rose. Rather than a beer she chose a bottle of water. Better, she thought. Cleaner.
She stepped outside where the faithful Newman waited. “Let’s take a walk.”
He bounded over immediately, doing a full-body wag as he rubbed against her.
“I know, new place. It’s nice, isn’t it? Lots of room. We’ll be okay here for a while. We’ll figure it all out.” Her eye instinctively picked up spots that needed flowers, a good location for a kitchen garden.
Not hers to play with, she reminded herself.
“Still it could use more color, more outdoor seating. I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of it. He’s the artist.” She paused as they came to the drop leading down to the beach. “But then there’s this. It’s pretty fabulous.”
The charm of crooked steps led down to the narrow beach and opened to the dreamy spread of water. Stars winked on, adding to the sense of peace, of privacy. Simon walked along with the three dogs sniffing sand and shale and surf.
He’d missed this, she thought, his solo walks in the twilight where the land met the water. Missed the quiet, the subtle whoosh of the surf at the end of the day, but he’d stepped away from that to be with her.
Whatever happened around them, between them, she wouldn’t forget that.
As she stood, looking down, he pulled bright yellow tennis balls from a bag he’d hooked on his belt. He heaved them, one, two, three, into the water—and the dogs charged and leaped.
They’d smell . . . amazing, she thought as she watched them swim toward the bobbing yellow balls.
Even as she thought it, she heard Simon’s laugh rise up, over the subtle whoosh of the surf, over the quiet—and the sound of it chased away the demons.
Look at them, she thought. Look how wonderful they are, how perfect they are. My guys.
Beside her, Newman quivered.
“What the hell. Four smelly dogs isn’t any worse than three. Go! Go play!”
He charged down the crooked steps, joy in the speed, in the challenging bark. Simon tossed a fourth ball in the air, caught it, then winged it into the water. Without breaking stride, Newman sprinted in.
And Fiona ran down to join the game.
IN HIS MOTEL ROOM near the Seattle airport, Francis X. Eckle read the most recent message from Perry and sipped his evening whiskey on the rocks.
He didn’t care for the tone, no, he didn’t care for the tone at all. Words like disappointed, control, focus, unnecessary popped out of the text and grated against his pride. His ego.
Boring, he thought, and crumpled the paper into a ball. Boring, scolding and annoying. Perry needed to remember just who was in prison, and who wasn’t.
That was the problem with teachers—and he should know because before he evolved he’d been a teacher himself. Boring, scolding and annoying.
But no more.
Now he had the power of life and death in his hands.
He lifted one, studied it. Smiled at it.
He breathed fear at his whim, dispensed pain, eked out hope, then crushed it. He saw all of that in their eyes, all the fear, the pain, the hope and, finally, the surrender.
Perry had never felt this rush of power and knowledge. If he had, truly had, he wouldn’t constantly preach caution and control—or, as he liked to call it, “the clean kill.”
Annette had been the most satisfying kill to date. And why? Because of the sound his fists made when they pounded into her flesh, cracked against bone. Because he’d felt every blow even as she did.
Because there had been blood—the sight of it, the smell of it. He’d been able to watch, to study the way the bruises gathered, the way they rose up to stain the skin, and to enjoy the different tones—slap or punch.
They’d gotten to know each other, hadn’t they? Taking the time for that, sharing pain, made the kill so much more intimate. So much more real.
Thinking about it now, he realized Perry’s work had been bloodless, clinical, even detached. There couldn’t have been genuine pleasure with so little passion. The single time Perry had deviated, had allowed himself true, bloody violence, he hadn’t been able to handle it.
Now he lived in a cell.
That was why this gradual and creative acceleration was superior. Why he was now superior.
It was time, maybe past time, he decided, to break off all contact with Perry. He had nothing more to learn from that source, and no desire to teach.
Remembering himself, he rose to pick up the balled note. He smoothed it out carefully before tucking it into the folder with all the others.
He’d already begun to write a book on his life, his epiphany, his evolution, his work. He’d accepted it would be published posthumously. He’d accepted his inevitable end, and the acceptance made each moment more vital.
Not prison. No, never prison. He’d already lived his life in a self-imposed prison. But glory. In the end, the inevitable end, he would have glory.
For now, he would simply be a shadow, slipping in and out of the light, unnamed and unknown. Or known only by those he chose, those who crossed from life to death with his face caught in their eyes.
He’d already selected the next.
Another change, he thought. Another stage of his evolution. And while he studied her, tracked her like a wolf tracks a rabbit, he could speculate on how it would be between them.
The irony was exquisite, and he knew, already knew it would add to the thrill.
Then before much longer, there would be Fiona.
He took out the newspaper, unfolded it, smoothed his hands over her face. He’d fulfill his obligation to Perry with her, and his debt would be paid in full.
She would be the last to wear the red scarf. That was fitting, he decided. She’d be the highlight of this stage of the work. His crescendo, he thought, with a final homage to Perry.
He was sure already he’d enjoy her most of all. She’d know more