He really wanted to kiss her.
He thought back to his first kiss ever. Seventeen years old, high school graduation. He’d been what his mother called a late bloomer. Totally clueless about style and most everything else, thick black-framed glasses, more interested in books than people, all his friends high IQs and low human-interaction skills.
The girl had been home from college for the summer, partying with the local kids, and in the instant before her mouth touched his, he couldn’t have cared less whether she kissed him. Ten seconds later, he’d discovered a new aspect of life, and he liked it.
Kissing Macy was like that, only a whole lot better.
Vaguely wondering if he should be worried about just how much better it was, he heard the back door click. Macy came out, wearing something fluttery and white, and seemed to float above the flagstone, ethereal, graceful. When she joined him on the sofa, he caught a couple of sweet fragrances. Baby lotion and...bubble gum?
She handed him a bottle of water, then sat down and uncapped hers. “Do you know how many times a three-year-old can repeat, ‘I don’t wanna go to bed’?”
“I would imagine endlessly.”
“She usually goes to bed much more easily. Tonight we let her stay up past her bedtime and loaded her up with ice cream. She was overtired and overexcited.”
“Everyone should get overexcited at least once a week.”
The words made Macy laugh, a sweet soft sound. Stephen thought she should laugh every day, not the restrained sort just now, but an all-out, bring-tears-to-her-eyes laugh. He blamed the fact that she didn’t on Mark. Dead eighteen months, and still affecting every moment of her life.
And, now, his.
“How much longer do you think it’ll take to finish up here?” he asked somewhat hesitantly. How much longer could he walk down the street and see her? How many days to feel this attraction, this sense of something? How many days to find out whether anything could come from it?
She was hesitant, as well. “I don’t know. Maybe a week. Once I’ve sorted through everything, the lawyer can take care of the pickups by the antiques dealers. I’ll put the stuff I’m keeping in storage, plus the family stuff for Clary, and then she and I will...”
Will leave. Will move on. Will start over. Without you. Stephen gave her a sidelong look. “You and Clary will...?”
She breathed deeply. “Find a place to live.”
“And you’ve definitely ruled out Copper Lake.” He tried not to sound disappointed. She’d told him from the start that she wasn’t staying here. Hell, there was no guarantee that he would stay here.
Though when he imagined his perfect life, the practice looked a lot like Dr. Yates’s, the town looked a lot like Copper Lake and the people in the background looked a lot like his friends here.
This time her breath was more a sigh. “There are bad memories.”
Setting his water on the sofa arm, he took her hand, her skin warm and dry against the cool dampness of his. “So replace them with good memories.”
“Like it’s that simple?”
He stroked his thumb over her palm. “I’ve never had any really bad memories. Yeah, it was upsetting when Mom and Dad divorced, and the first couple of moves threw things out of balance for a while. By the time Sloan and I realized we were headed for divorce, we were already out of love, so the disappointment that our marriage had failed was overshadowed by the fact that we were glad it was over. So I’m not one to give advice.”
“But you’re going to do it anyway.” Her tone was level, even mildly amused.
“As I understand it, you don’t dislike the town. You were happy here right up until the end. You had friends. You were involved in activities. Your brother visited, and you saw your parents regularly. You were pretty content with your life.” He paused for her to respond, and she nodded. “It’s not the town, Macy. It’s this house. Fair Winds. The Howard family legacy. So you move out of this house. You sell it, you tear it down and you find another one, one that’s perfect for you and Clary. You sell or donate Fair Winds.
“As for the legacy, you and Clary are the only Howards left around here. You don’t have to be concerned about it anymore. You don’t have to be a part of it. You can even get rid of the name for both of you.”
She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “You think calling ourselves Macy and Clary Ireland would make people forget that we used to be Macy and Clary Howard?”
Macy Ireland. It did have a much sweeter sound to it.
“Eventually. Sooner rather than later if you marry again, make a new family.” Macy Noble...that sounded even better. Not that he was actually thinking about marriage. He just liked to consider all the possibilities. What was the point of a serious relationship if there wasn’t at least a chance it would last? That she would stick around long enough for them to decide what was between them?
Though he was already past that point. He didn’t even know how it had happened, how someone he’d met less than a week ago had become so much a part of his life. But she had. It would be a loss if she left before giving them a chance.
“Marry again.” The words didn’t even qualify as a whisper. “I’d have to love someone, like him, trust him an awful lot to consider getting married. I don’t know if I have that kind of trust to give.”
“You trust your brother. Your sister-in-law. To some extent you trust me or you wouldn’t let me near Clary.” He willed her to look at him, and she did, and he willed her to acknowledge that, yes, she did trust him. Hadn’t she turned to him for help a couple of times? Hadn’t she chosen him to accompany her to Fair Winds? Hadn’t she let him kiss her in the night by the pool?
Or had he merely been the only guy handy for all those things?
But her expression gave away nothing on her version of trust versus his.
Defeat like a cold brush over his shoulders, he said, “You’ll get married again. You’re too young, beautiful, perfectly suited to motherhood, to stay single the rest of your life. You’ll trust someone, you’ll get married and you’ll have more babies—”
“I lost my daughter after Mark died.”
Puzzled, Stephen glanced to the faintly illuminated window upstairs that showed where Clary slept. “You lost custody—”
She shook her head, her face as pale as her dress. If her hair had been blond, she could have easily passed for something from the other side, a heartbroken angel or a weary spirit. And like a runaway train that suddenly crashed to a halt, his heart stopped beating, his lungs stopped pumping air, as he realized what she was saying. “You were pregnant....”
She nodded.
“Oh, Macy.” He released her hand and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “God, I’m sorry. I had no idea....”
For a time she remained stiff, but then she relaxed, sinking against him, warm and delicate and trembling. He wished he’d dropped the subject before marriage had come into it, but since he hadn’t, he wished he knew what to say to ease her loss. A baby, another Clary but younger, tinier, needier... As if anything could ease that.
“I lost the baby two weeks after Mark died. My doctor thought it was because of the stress.” Her small hand reached out, curled itself into the fabric of his T-shirt. “I was pretty logical growing up. I always believed that when it was your time to die, you would die, no matter what precautions you took, no matter what heroic measures were taken to save you. When horrible things happened, I thought God had a plan. When people died too young, I believed God wanted them back in heaven.”
Glancing up, her face only a few inches from him, her eyes damp with tears, she said, “It’s damn hard to apply logic to your own baby’s death. I blamed Mark with a hatred that surprised even me. I do have friends here—not many, but good ones. That’s one reason why I stay so close to home. I don’t want to see them. They know everything, and there’s just this...pity.”
“Sympathy,” he corrected her. “There’s a big difference.” Though hadn’t Marnie
said just tonight that she felt sorry for Macy? Did the difference really matter?
“Maybe.” She rested her head on his shoulder and felt so right. “You were right, though. I don’t hate Copper Lake. I hate Mark. I hate what he did. I hate how he destroyed so many lives.”
Hers, her daughter’s, her unborn child’s, his mother’s, his grandmother’s. The selfish bastard. Gently Stephen stroked her hair from her face. “Your life isn’t destroyed, Macy. Clary’s isn’t. You’ve got to deal with the memories, but she’s a happy, funny, smart, cheerful, ever-hopeful little girl who’s going to have a wonderful life. You’ll make sure of that. You need to make sure of it for yourself, too. Don’t let Mark win by running away from your family and all the people who care about you.”
She looked up again, and in the dim light he could barely make out the emotions on her face. Curiosity. Doubt. Need. “Does that include you?”
For an instant he felt like the inexperienced kid comfortable only with other nerds, who’d known he and girls weren’t a good match. He’d gained some confidence since then, but not enough to keep his voice from going all froggy on him. “Yeah, it does.”
“There’s so much you don’t know about me.”
“There’s plenty of time to learn if you don’t leave town.” Maybe even if she did.
“And what if you don’t like what you learn?”
“Let’s see...are you computer-phobic?” He waited for her to shake her head. “Are you kind to small animals and elderly people?”
“Of course.”
“Do you like chocolate?”
A nod.
“French fries or onion rings?”
“Fries.”
“Coffee?”
“Every morning.”
“Do you run for fun?”
She laughed. “Dear heavens, no.”
“Do you mind the smell of doggy breath in the morning?”
“Not as long as it’s coming from a dog.”
“Okay, that covers all the big stuff.”
She stared at him, her smile slowly fading. “You like things simple, don’t you?”
“Life is simple. You find a job you like and a person you love, you do good when you can, you work hard and play hard, you take care of those you bring into the world and you always remember to be kind to others.” He bent close to her. “No matter what Mark taught you, it doesn’t have to be any harder than that. Trust me.”
And then he kissed her, wondering if his trust me had sounded normal enough or if she’d heard the faint plea underlying it.
* * *
When Macy awakened Sunday morning, before she even opened her eyes, a familiar feeling settled in her chest, right above her cleavage. It was insubstantial, fluttering, the way she imagined a butterfly’s delicate wings might beat.
It was nothing, but it made her lungs constrict, and perspiration popped out across her forehead. Eyes still closed, she groped across the bed until she found Clary and scooted close to her daughter, nuzzling her soft brown hair, letting the scents of baby shampoo and bubble gum bath gel filter through the buzzing in her brain.
She was not having a panic attack. She was taking her medication regularly, and she’d been staying physically active, not just since she got here but since before her release from the hospital. Exercise was a great help in keeping the flutters and trembles and buzzes at bay. One day soon, her doctor said, she could probably come off the medication completely.
But not today.
A small hand touched her face, then fingers pried her eye open. “I know you’re awake, Mama. I see your eyes movin’ in there.”
Macy opened both eyes to find her baby grinning at her, wide-awake and as cheery this morning as she’d been cranky the night before. “Good morning.”
“Mornin.’ What’re we gonna do today? I wanna see Scooter.”
“I think we can arrange that.”
“I don’t wanna do any more packing. It’s bor-ing.”
“Well, maybe AnAnne can do something else with you while Uncle Brent and I pack.”
Then came a hint of last night’s crankiness. “I don’t wanna do it with AnAnne. I wanna do it with you.”
Macy’s heart tugged as she squeezed Clary closer. Her child had spent so much of her time in someone else’s care, and she’d been far too young to understand why. Her visits to the hospital, first with Brent and their parents, later with Anne, too, had been infrequent. The place had scared her, and she’d always cried when she had to leave without Macy.
“All right, sweetie. We’ll find something fun to do.” Brent and Anne, bless their hearts, wouldn’t mind working while she took Clary to the park or out for a treat.
Or maybe walked down to Stephen’s house for playtime with Scooter.
When this was all taken care of and she and Clary had settled—well, wherever—she was sending her brother and sister-in-law on the best honeymoon ever as thanks.
The sweat had gone away and the fluttering stopped, though the knot in her gut was slower to unwind. Not a panic attack. Not even a precursor to one, even if it was identical to all the other precursors she’d ever suffered.
Throwing back the covers, she gathered clothing for both of them and headed for the bathroom. “Come on, sweetie, up, up. Time’s a-wasting.”
Clary giggled as she rolled across the mattress, then slid to her feet. “That’s what Grandpa always says.”
“Well, Grandpa’s always right.” He was a role model for his children and grandchild.
Mark’s grandfather had been a role model, too, damn him.
They brushed their teeth and dressed, Macy in denim shorts and a purple tank top, Clary in a watermelon-print sundress with green-and-red polka-dotted flip-flops. With a white sunhat, she looked adorable. She skipped downstairs ahead of Macy and turned toward the kitchen.
The aromas of coffee and bacon drifted down the hall. Brent and Anne were early risers and, always thoughtful, Anne had fixed breakfast for them. They sat at the kitchen table, interrupting their talk to greet Clary.
“Guess what?” Clary helped herself to a piece of bacon from Anne’s plate. “Me and Mama are gonna do something special this morning. Aren’t we, Mama?”
Nothing like easing into a subject. Macy poured herself a cup of coffee before facing them. “If it’s okay with you guys. She’s bored with packing.”
“So are you, I bet,” Brent said.
Macy responded with the raise of her brows.
“Go ahead,” Anne added. “We’ll work in the library. All the books are going to the local library, right?” She made a shooing gesture. “Go on, take your coffee and get out of this house.”
“Thanks, guys.” Macy hugged each of them, then went to the island. She slung her purse strap over her shoulder, then hesitated. Her keys were supposed to be right there next to her bag. Maybe she’d left them inside...but why would she have put them inside after letting them into the house last night after dinner? “Have you guys seen my keys?”
Brent cut into the over-easy egg on his plate. “You had them in your hand when we came in the door.”
She glanced at Anne, who shook her head. “I was helping Clary carry the ice cream. I didn’t pay attention. Maybe you put them in the freezer?”
Macy checked. No keys. She rummaged through the papers on the island. Nothing. Brent and Anne left the table to help her look, and even Clary helped, though the first time she looked in a box and saw books, she lost interest.
“Here they are,” Anne called from down the hall.
Macy followed her voice into the living room, where her sister-in-law dangled the keys from her finger. “Where were they?”
Anne looked at Brent, then shrugged. “On the fireplace mantel.”
Under their wedding portrait. Macy chilled. Not once in the six years she’d lived there had she ever left her keys on the mantel. And not once last night after dinner had she set foot in the living room. She knew it.
“Th-thanks.” She too
k the keys from Anne, avoided making eye contact with either her or Brent and called for Clary. “Let’s go, pretty baby.”
“Have fun,” Brent said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
As she buckled Clary into her car seat, she considered how the keys had wound up on the mantel. 1) Brent had put them there. 2) Anne had. 3) Stephen had. 4) A ghost had. Or 5) she’d had another episode and done it herself. The only thing she could say beyond a doubt was that Clary hadn’t done it because she couldn’t reach the mantel, and there wasn’t a single piece of furniture in the room the girl could have moved by herself.
But why would Brent or Anne or Stephen move her keys? The idea was ludicrous. When had any of them had the chance? Brent and Anne had come in from dinner and gone straight to the guesthouse. When Stephen arrived, he’d been in the kitchen with Macy before they’d gone to the guesthouse. When he left, she’d walked him to the door, where he’d given her a couple of toe-curling good-night kisses. He’d never had the chance to go into the living...
Except the twenty minutes or so he was alone on the patio while she bathed Clary and put her to bed.
She shifted the van into Reverse and automatically checked the back-up camera but didn’t move her foot from the brake. What reason could Stephen possibly have for moving her keys? And why last night, when he was the only one whose time in the house was unaccounted for? If he’d wanted to play mind games with her, he’d had plenty of other opportunities.
But if it hadn’t been him, that left her. Why would she misplace her own keys? Because this whole trip to Copper Lake had her a little unhinged. Because she’d imagined an intruder in the guesthouse and misplaced the Fair Winds contract and the cologne bottle. Because she had a history of mental illness related to Mark and his passing. Because she was one of those people all her friends and acquaintances said things like Poor thing and Bless her heart about.
Because that fluttering and sweating and shaking this morning had been the precursor of a panic attack, even if she was taking her medicine and staying active.
Because she was losing control again.
Blowing out a heavy breath, she checked the camera once more, then backed out of the driveway. Even driving slowly, it took only a minute or two to reach Stephen’s house, where she parked on the side of the road next to the gate.
Copper Lake Confidential Page 15