by Nora Roberts
“Because Jim would kick my ass. Am I supposed to ask when you’re due and stuff like that?”
“You’re a guy. You’re supposed to look flustered and a little afraid. And you’re doing a good job. In November, around Thanksgiving. By then, I’ll look like I’ve swallowed an entire Butterball anyway. When’s your next book coming out?”
“A couple months sooner, and much less painfully.”
At the call of order up, Bebe rolled her eyes. “Well, back to the thrill and excitement of food service.”
“Lunch.” Reece held up a large bag as she came out of the kitchen. “You can be among the first to sample our new and experimental paninis.”
“Paninis. At Joanie’s.”
“Et tu, Brody? You’d think I was cooking snails and calf brains—which I can do, and deliciously.”
“I’ll take the panini.” He led her outside, taking her elbow and steering her across the street as she glanced around for his car.
“Where are we going?”
“To the lake.”
“Oh. Nice idea. It’s a pretty day for lunch by the lake.”
“We’re not having lunch by the lake. We’re having lunch on the lake.” He nodded toward a canoe. “In that.”
She stood where she was and eyed the boat, a little dubiously. “We’re going to sit in a canoe and eat paninis?”
“I picked the spot, you picked the food. It’s Doc’s boat. He said we could borrow it for a few hours today. We’re going to do a little paddling.”
“Hmmm.”
She liked boats. That is, she liked boats with motors, or boats with sails. But Reece had no idea how she felt about boats with paddles. “I bet that water’s still pretty cold.”
“You bet right, so let’s stay on it, not in it. Get in the boat, Reece.”
“Getting in the boat.” She stepped aboard, balanced herself and walked to the rear bench.
“Turn around the other way,” Brody told her.
“Oh.”
He got in, handed her a paddle, then took the front bench. Using his paddle, he launched them from shore. “Just do what I do, only on the opposite side of the canoe.”
“You’ve done this before, right? What I mean to say is this wouldn’t be the maiden voyage for both of us, would it?”
“I’ve done it before. I haven’t bought a boat yet because I waver between a canoe and a kayak, and it feels stupid to have both. Besides, there’s always one to borrow without storage and maintenance hassles. You just buy the owner a six-pack or a bottle, and you’re good.”
“Always an angle.” She had to put her shoulder into the paddle. “Water’s harder than it looks.”
Her muscles were already warming, and as she watched Brody paddle like a hawk watches a rabbit, she thought she had his rhythm. She could admit she liked the sensation of gliding; the boat just seemed to skim over the water. But gliding took work, and she could already feel it in her shoulders, her biceps.
Time to start weight resistance again, she told herself.
“Where are we going?” she called out to him.
“Nowhere.”
“There again?” She laughed, shook back the hair that had blown loose in the breeze.
And the mountains caught her like a fist.
“Oh God. Oh my God.”
In the front of the boat, Brody smiled. He heard the awe, the reverence in her voice. “A kick in the head, aren’t they?” He secured his paddle, turned to face her, then took her paddle from her still hands, secured it.
“It’s different from here. It’s all different somehow. They look…”
“They look?”
“Like gods. Silver and shining with thin crowns of white, dark belts of green. Bigger somehow, and more powerful.”
They rose, rose and spread, silver blue against the purer blue of the sky. The snow that clung to the higher peaks was as white as the clouds that drifted over them. And on the water, they mirrored. On the water, she felt as if she were inside them.
An egret soared up, skimmed the lake, glided like a ghost into the marsh on its north end.
There were other boats. A little Sunfish with a yellow sail fluttered in the center of the lake; a kayaker worked on his skills. She recognized Carl fishing out of a canoe, and a couple who must have been tourists streamed out of one of the braided channels and slid onto the plate of the lake.
She felt weightless and small, and punch-drunk.
“Why don’t you do this every day?” she wondered.
“I usually do it more once June hits, but I’ve been busy. Last summer, Mac talked me into going on a three-day trip on the river. Him, me, Carl, Rick. I went along because I figured it would be good research. Floated along the Snake, camped, fried fish Carl caught like they were eager to jump in the boat for him. Drank cowboy coffee. Told a lot of lies about women.”
“You had fun.”
“Had a hell of a time. We could do that, take a couple of days once you get the hang of paddling and try one of the easy channels.”
“Easy might have to be the key word, but I think I’d like that.”
“Good. I read your list.”
“Oh.” It was like a cloud over the sun. Still, it had to be discussed, she thought, explored. She opened the bag of sandwiches. “What did you think?”
“Pretty thorough. I added some bits. A little discreet poking around, we should be able to eliminate some. I already found out Reuben, Joe, Lynt and Dean were in a poker game in Clancy’s back room. Seven to after ten for Reuben and Joe, when they knocked off to head to Joanie’s. Dean, Lynt, Stan Urick, who’s not on your list since he’s seventy and built like a twig, and Harley—who’s not due to the thicket he calls a beard—were in it until after one in the morning. Nobody left for more than the time it takes to piss. Dean lost eighty bucks.”
“Well, three down.”
“My agent liked your cookbook proposal.”
“What?What? ”
Brody took a bite of the panini. “Damn good sandwich,” he said with his mouth full of it. Then swallowed. “Needs to talk to you directly though.”
“But it’s not ready.”
“Then why’d you give it to me?”
“I just…I thought, if you felt like it, had the time, you could glance over it. That’s all. Give me an opinion, or I don’t know. Pointers.”
“I thought it was good, so I asked my agent for her opinion. Being a bright individual, she agrees with me.”
“Because you’re her client or because it’s good?”
“First, she’s got bigger clients than me, a lot bigger. I’m a little fish in her pond. But ask her yourself. Anyway, she liked the way you structured it, but it needs to be formalized into a proposal. She called the intro ‘fun and breezy.’ Claimed she was going to try out one of the recipes tonight to see how it translates. She actually cooks, but she’s also going to give one of the simpler ones to her assistant, who doesn’t.”
“Like an audition.”
“She’s a busy woman, and wouldn’t take on a client unless she believes she can sell. You probably want to talk to her tomorrow, after the audition.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Sure. Lydia won’t bullshit you.” He pulled out the take-away fountain Coke she’d packed with the sandwiches. “She copped to who you were.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She’s smart, savvy, and she keeps up with current events.” Brody eschewed even the idea of a straw and simply pulled off the plastic cap and drank. “Has a memory like a herd of elephants. She asked me if you were the Reece Gilmore from Boston who survived the Maneo Massacre a couple years ago. I didn’t lie to her.”
Her appetite took a steep dive. “No, of course you didn’t. What difference does it make to her?”
“It may make one to you. If you sell, if you publish, she won’t be the only one to put it together. You’ve been flying under the radar for a while now, Slim. You’ll be back on it if you try for this. Reporters
, questions. You’ll have to decide if you’re up for it.”
“‘Mass-murder survivor, former mental patient writes gourmet cookbook.’ I get it. Shit.”
“Something to think about.”
“I guess it is.” She looked around, the water, the mountains, the marsh. Willows dipped their feathery green leaves into the water. Across the lake, a silver fish wiggled madly on the end of Carl’s line.
It was so beautiful, so peaceful—and there was no place to hide. “She may not represent it anyway. And even if she does,” Reece considered, “she may not be able to sell it.” She looked back at Brody. “It’s a lot of big steps.”
“Smaller ones get you to the same place, but they take a hell of a lot longer. So figure out where you want to go, and how long you want to take to get there.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “Why’d you put paninis on Joanie’s menu today?”
“Because they’re good, fun, fast. Add a little variety.”
“Another reason”—he gestured with the sandwich—“you’re creative. You can’t stifle it. You like to feed people, but you like to do it your own way, or at least add a dash of yourself to the process. If you keep working there, you’re going to be compelled to put yourself into it, little by little.”
She shifted on the bench, uncomfortable because she knew he was right. Knew she was already doing just that. “I’m not trying to take over.”
“No. But you’re not just trying to fit in anymore. The Fist’s never going to be Jackson Hole.”
Confused now, Reece shook her head. “Okay.”
“But it’s going to grow. Look again,” he suggested, and gestured to the mountains. “People want that. The view, the air, the lake, the trees. Some want it for a weekend, or a couple of weeks on vacation. Some want it for good, or for a second home where they can boat or ski or ride horses. The more crowded the cities and the burbs get, the more people want a place that isn’t for their alternative time. The thing about people is, they always need to eat.”
She uncapped the bottle of water she’d brought along for herself. “Is this a convoluted way of suggesting I open a restaurant here?”
“No. First, you’d seriously piss Joanie off. Second, you don’t want to run a restaurant. You want to run a kitchen. Do you know who happens to be the biggest entrepreneur in Angel’s Fist?”
“Not offhand, no.”
“Joanie Parks.”
“Come on. I know she owns a couple of places.”
“Angel Food, half the hotel, my cabin and three others, four houses, just in the Fist, and a chunk of acreage in and outside it. She owns the building that holds Teton Gallery and Just Gifts.”
“You’re kidding. She squawks if I want to spend a few cents extra on arugula.”
“Which is why she owns a big handful of the town. She’s frugal.”
“I’ve come to love and admire her, but come on. She’s cheap.”
He grinned as he lifted his take-away cup again. “Is that any way to talk about your business partner?”
“How does she go from my boss to my partner?”
“When you propose to her that she open a Casual Gourmet on the opposite side of town from the diner. A small, intimate restaurant, with upscale yet accessible dining.”
“She’d never…She might. Small, intimate for that special night out or that fancy ladies’ lunch. Hmmm. Hmmm. Lunch and dinner service only. Revolving menu. Hmmm.”
The thirdhmmm had Brody fighting back a smile. Her brain was already caught up in the idea. Her nerve, he imagined, would catch up quickly enough.
“Of course, it depends on where you want to go.”
“And how long I want to take to get there. You’re a sneaky bastard, Brody, putting that seed in my head. I won’t be able to get it out.”
“Gives you a lot to think about. Are you going to eat the other half of that sandwich?”
Grinning, she passed it over, and the cell phone in her pocket rang. “Nobody calls me,” Reece began as she dug it out. “I wonder why I carry it most of the time. Hello?”
“Reece Gilmore?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Serge. I made you beautiful in Jackson.”
“Oh, yes. Serge. Um, how are you?”
“Absolutely fine, and hoping you and Linda-gail will come back to visit me.”
Instinctively, Reece lifted a hand to her breeze-tousled hair. She could use a trim, no question. But she also needed to pay her car insurance. “I’ll have to talk to her about that.”
“Meanwhile, I called about the picture you left with me. The flyer?”
“The sketch? You recognized her?”
“I didn’t, no. But I just hired a new shampoo girl who thinks she does. Do you want me to give her your number?”
“Wait.” Her eyes rounded as she stared at Brody. “Is she there now? The new girl?”
“Not at the moment. She’s not starting until Monday. But I have her information. You want it?”
“Yes. Wait!” She dug into her purse for a pad, a pen. “Okay.”
“Marlie Matthews,” Serge began.
She wrote it down, name, address, phone number, while the canoe drifted lazily on the lake. “Thank you, Serge, thanks so much. As soon as I can possibly manage it, Linda-gail and I are coming in for the works.”
“Looking forward to it.”
She clicked the phone closed. “Someone recognized the sketch.”
“I got that much. Better get your paddle. We’ll have to secure the boat before we go to Jackson Hole.”
28
MARLIE MATTHEWS lived on the ground floor of a two-level wood box of furnished apartments off Highway 89. There’d been an attempt to give it a bit of style, with fake stucco walls forming a little cement courtyard gated with wrought iron. Inside it, there were a few faded mesh chairs, a couple metal tables that still had the white gleam of fresh paint. It looked clean and, though the tiny parking lot was still pocked with potholes from the winter, decently maintained.
In the courtyard, a towheaded boy of about four was riding a red tricycle in wide, determined circles. Through an open window on the second floor came a baby’s long, furious wails.
The minute they started across the courtyard, a woman stepped through the sliding glass doors of a lower unit. “Help you?”
She was small, wiry, with a short, sleek cap of dark hair liberally streaked with bronze. She gripped a rag mop, eyeing them as though she was prepared to beat them off with it if she didn’t like their response.
“I hope so.” Because she knew what it was like to be wary of strangers, Reece tried an easy, open smile. “We’re looking for Marlie Matthews.”
The woman signaled to the little boy. All it took was a crook of her finger to have him aiming his little bike in her direction. “What for?”
“She may know someone we’re looking for. Serge from the Hair Corral called me. I’m Reece, Reece Gilmore. This is Brody.”
Apparently the mention of her new boss was password enough. “Oh, well, I’m Marlie.”
Upstairs, the baby stopped crying, and someone began to sing in crooning Spanish. “My neighbor just had a baby,” Marlie added when Reece automatically glanced up toward the singing. “I guess you can come in for a minute. Rory, you stay where I can see you.”
“Mom, can I have a juice box? Can I?”
“Sure, you go get one. But if you go back outside, you stay right where I can see you.”
The boy dashed inside, with the adults following. He went directly to the refrigerator in the kitchen, sectioned off from the living room by a counter. “You all want something?” Marlie asked. “A cold drink maybe?”
“Thanks. We’re fine.”
The place was whistle clean and smelled of the lemony cleaner in Marlie’s mop pail. Though it was on the sparse side with its two-seater sofa and single chair, there had been attempts to make it homey with a red glass vase of yellow fabric daisies on the counter, a potted peace plant on a table situated so
it could bask in some light through the sliders.
A corner of the living room had been fashioned into a play area with a little white table and red chair. On the wall, a corkboard was covered with a child’s drawings; on the floor, a clear plastic tub held toys.
Obviously more interested in the strangers than his trike, Rory carried his juice box up to Brody.
“I have a race car and a fire engine,” he announced.
“Is that so? Which is faster?”
With a grin, Rory went to retrieve them.
“You can go ahead and sit down,” Marlie told them.
“Mind if I sit over here?” Brody wandered over to the toy box, sat on the floor with the boy. Together, in male unity, they investigated the contents.
“I left a sketch at the salon a few weeks ago,” Reece began while Marlie kept an eye on her son. “Serge said you thought you might have recognized her.”
“Maybe. I can’t say for certain sure. It’s just that when I saw the drawing sitting on the counter, I thought—guess I said—‘What’s Deena’s picture doing in here?’”
“Deena?”
“Deena Black.”
“A friend of yours?” Brody said it casually while he ran the fire truck along the floor with Rory’s race car.
“Not exactly. She used to live upstairs where Lupe does now. The new baby?”
“Used to?” Brody repeated.
“Yeah, she left. A month or so ago.”
“Moved out?” Reece asked.
“Sort of.” As if satisfied Brody wasn’t going to grab Rory and run off with him, Marlie perched on the edge of the couch. “She left some stuff, took her clothes and like that, but left some kitchen stuff, magazines, that kind of thing. Said she didn’t want it, just junk anyhow.”
“She told you that?”
“Me? No.” Marlie thinned her lips. “We weren’t actually on what you’d call speaking terms by that time. But she left a note for the super. He lives next door. Said she was moving on to better. She always said she would. So she took her clothes, got on her bike and blew.”
“Bike?” Brody repeated.
“She drove a Harley. Fit her, I guess, ’cause she brought a lot of biker types home while she lived here.” She glanced over to make sure Rory wasn’t paying attention. “Worked in a titty bar,” she said under her breath. “Place called the Rendezvous. Deena used to tell me, when we were still talking, that I’d make more money there than at Smiling Jack’s Grill. I waitress there. But I didn’t want to work at that kind of place, and I can’t be out until God knows serving beer, half naked, when I’ve got Rory.”