“As are you,” he answered with a grin. I was lounging against a needlepointed throw cushion, my legs twisted up in his. He propped himself up on one arm and looked down at me, leaving his other arm nicely wrapped around the curve of my hip.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching up to touch the locket I wore around my neck.
“It was my grandmother’s,” I explained. “My father’s mother. Look.” I opened it up to show him the tiny old-fashioned pictures, my grandmother on one side and my grandfather on the other. “I never knew them—they died before I was born. But my father was an only child, and my brothers would look funny wearing it, so it came to me.” I didn’t tell him that sometimes I studied their faces and wondered if one day my own granddaughter would wear this locket, with the pictures of my grandparents replaced by ones of me and my husband.
“Nice,” he said. He gave me a deep, searching look, and then bent his head to kiss me some more. But he stopped before his lips reached mine and picked his head back up.
“Rachel, there’s something I really should tell you.” His voice suddenly held a somber note. My heart skidded to a stop. I knew he was too good to be true. I waited for the other, very heavy shoe to drop.
“Is this the part where you tell me about your wife and three children back in San Francisco?” I asked, striving to sound lighthearted. With my luck, there were probably four children and an adorable Wheaton terrier named Rags or Bailey or something equally adorable.
He chuckled. “No, no wife. Never married. No kids. Nothing like that. I promise. I’m even straight.” As if I needed reassurance on that front.
“Hmmm. Then you need to tell me about your fatal disease, which also happens to be contagious?”
“Nope. Last time I checked, I was in pretty good health. A few gray hairs, but that seems to be the extent of it.”
“Okay, then,” I said, struggling up to a sitting position. “I think I know what it is. You still live with your mother.”
“You have a very active imagination.”
“You clearly have never sampled the dating scene in New York.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Seriously, there is something you should know.” I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the words that would destroy any future we might have had together. Oh well, I tried to console myself, at least we’d had one nice hour of heavy necking before it all came crashing to a halt. I began pasting Peter’s picture into the mental scrapbook that housed the faces and memories of love affairs past.
“Go on,” I said. “The suspense is really more than I can bear.” I steeled myself for what was undoubtedly going to be a deal-breaking confession.
“It’s just that—” He paused, searching for words. To my astonishment, I realized that he was beginning to blush. Perhaps I was the one with a contagious disease. “It’s been a long time since I met someone I really, really liked. And, I know this is completely premature and not the best of timing and everything and we couldn’t live farther away from each other without moving to entirely different hemispheres. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t know quite how to say this.”
If he didn’t say whatever it was soon, I was going to have to kill him.
Fortunately, he finally blurted it out. “It’s just that I think I’m falling in love with you. Ever since we met last night, and then this morning, and then again when we were out on the raft. You’re so beautiful and smart and funny. And every time I’m with you, I feel like everything’s falling into place. Like you’re the missing piece.”
I looked away, speechless and overwhelmed, trying to absorb his words. He couldn’t have said anything better, not even if I’d written the lines myself.
“I’m freaking you out, aren’t I?” he asked, trying to read my thoughts.
“No,” I said slowly. “No,” I said again, meeting his gaze. “It’s just that you are too good to be true.”
“It is true. Everything I said. I swear it.”
“Then will you kiss me some more?”
“I’m completely at your service.”
“Good answer.”
It was less than two hours later that I discovered he was a murderer.
CHAPTER 22
A creaking noise out in the hallway startled us out of another prolonged session of kissing.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Anyone there?” called Peter. There was nothing but silence in the hallway. “Probably just the house settling. It must be at least a century old,” he said. “And everyone’s been asleep for ages.”
“I don’t know how they can sleep.” It was funny how declarations of love and truly superb kissing could wash away exhaustion. It must have been one in the morning, but I felt well rested, even energized.
“Me, neither. Hey—I have a brilliant idea. Any interest in a midnight swim?”
The prospect was so romantic that I completely forgot just how icy the lake water had been in broad daylight. “That sounds wonderful.”
We hurried upstairs to change into swimsuits. Emma didn’t wake as I slipped in and out of her room. I met Peter in the kitchen, and we let ourselves out the door and headed toward the lake. He grasped my hand in his as he led us down the moonlit path.
“It’s so quiet,” I said.
“Peaceful,” he agreed as we arrived at the beach. His white T-shirt glowed in the moonlight as he took it off and tossed it on the overturned canoe. I left my sarong and the towels I’d grabbed next to it and started to join him at the water’s edge before I remembered my locket. I hastily undid the clasp and left it alongside our discarded clothes; I would feel terrible if I lost it in the lake.
“I don’t think wading in is going to work,” said Peter after sticking a toe in the shallows. “Too cold. Come on.”
He took my hand again and we walked out to the end of the dock. We stared at the icy water.
“Okay. Last one in is a rotten egg.”
“More like first one in is a frozen egg?” I responded.
“Why don’t we do this together?” he suggested. “On the count of three.” I agreed, and still holding hands, we jumped into the dark water. Not surprisingly, it was even colder than it had been that afternoon. But somehow, being there with Peter, I didn’t mind.
After lots of splashing around interspersed with kissing—which was even more impressive given the extra challenge of having to tread water at the same time—we made our way back to the shore. My teeth were chattering as we toweled ourselves off, and he wrapped me in a bear hug, stilling my trembling lips with his warm ones.
“How do you do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Keep your lips so warm?”
“The fire of passion, obviously. Come on—I should get you inside before hypothermia sets in.”
We hurried up the path. “Now I have a brilliant idea,” I said.
“What?”
“Hot chocolate.”
“Do you even know how to make it?”
“No, but you probably do, don’t you?”
He chuckled. “I might be able to figure it out.” We let ourselves back in through the kitchen door. By the single light left on over the sink, we scrounged up the necessary ingredients and equipment.
I perched myself on the counter next to the stove as he poured some milk into a saucepan and lit a flame under it. I watched him stirring in cocoa powder and sugar.
“How interesting,” I said. “I always thought you just added water to one of those little packets and put it in the microwave for a few minutes. I never realized it was so complex.”
“It’s much better this way. Authentic. No preservatives or partially hydrogenated anything.”
“Preservatives and partially hydrogenated things are two of the major food groups, along with caffeine and alcohol. Besides, it seems like a lot more work to make it from scratch. And the packets sometimes have mini marshmallows in them.”
“Sorry, no mini marshmallows. Can you find something to drink out of?”
“Sure.” I slipped off the counter and found a couple of earthenware mugs in a cabinet. He divided the steaming liquid between them and deposited the saucepan in the sink.
“This is so nice,” he said, when we were seated at the kitchen table, sipping the cocoa. “I’ve been so stressed from work, and then everything with Richard—well, I suddenly feel so relaxed.”
“Is work that stressful?” I asked.
“Yeah. You know how it is with a startup. It’s a constant race—all you want to do is build the business, get the products to market, but you spend most of your time trying to scrounge up financing.”
“I know. I’m actually supposed to start work on a take over. My boss, the ‘drunken preppie’ I was on the phone with this morning, just told me about it. Some young tech company’s about to default on a loan and the vultures are circling.”
“The economic climate’s done in a lot of startups. It’s definitely a good time to be a vulture.”
“Apparently, our client prefers to be called Smitty. And I prefer to be called a financial advisor.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You’ve stopped shivering.”
“The magic of cocoa. You’re an excellent cook.”
“But a complete dunce at napkin folding. Good thing you’re here. We make a great team.”
I giggled. “You have a cocoa mustache.”
“I do?”
I nodded and wiped his upper lip with my finger. He put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled my head towards his. His mouth tasted deliciously of chocolate when he kissed me.
A few minutes later he deposited me at Emma’s door. Drowsiness had kicked in, and I hadn’t protested when he suggested that it would be wise for us to get some sleep. After one last lingering kiss, we parted ways.
Emma was still peacefully asleep, her breathing deep and regular. I quickly brushed my teeth and combed the knots out of my damp hair before slipping into some embroidered satin pajamas Hilary had bought me in Hong Kong. I slid under the fluffy duvet of the other twin bed with a sigh of pleasure.
I was in that nebulous state of almost-sleep, cocooned in the down comforter, when I remembered my locket. My hand went to my throat and it wasn’t there.
“Drat,” I whispered. I must have left it at the lake. I couldn’t imagine that it would go anywhere before daylight, but it made me nervous to know it was out there. I could picture it catching the eye of a nocturnal bird, who would spirit it away to decorate its faraway nest. With a sigh, I threw back the covers and got out of bed.
I grabbed my flip-flops and tiptoed out of the room. I hurried down the carpeted stairs; the creak of a loose board seemed to ricochet in the silence of the sleeping house. I felt my way through the darkened rooms into the kitchen, pausing to jam my feet into the flip-flops. The hinges whined as I opened the door, and I was careful to shut it behind me so it wouldn’t slam.
The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, and it was difficult to pick out the path to the lake without its light. I hurried along as best I could, cursing when I stubbed my big toe on a tree root. The still night had seemed so tranquil and welcoming when I’d been with Peter; now it seemed threatening, as if danger skulked among the pines that lined the path. A gust of wind stirred the branches and rippled through my loose pajamas. I thought longingly of the smooth sheets and cozy blankets on my bed in Emma’s room.
I finally reached the beach, but not before stubbing my other big toe on another tree root and narrowly avoiding a wipeout when I tripped over a strategically placed rock. At least Peter wasn’t along to witness my display of grace and coordination.
I could barely make out the dim outlines of the canoe in the murky light. I bent and ran my hand along its hull, searching for the locket, but all I got was a nasty splinter in my index finger. Fortunately, it was big enough and long enough that I could extract it by gently pulling on the end.
With more caution, I returned to my search. I gingerly felt up and down the hull of the canoe but to no avail. I took a few steps back, hoping that I’d catch a glimmer of gold but saw nothing but shadows.
A rustling in the trees distracted me. I jumped. The dark had me more scared than I wanted to admit, even to myself. “Hello?” I called. My voice sounded thin and hesitant.
There was no answer, but there was more rustling. I saw a shape move, and a shiver of fear jolted up my spine. I grabbed one of the loose oars next to the canoe, thinking I could use it as a makeshift weapon against whatever evil might lurk in the undergrowth.
Then, a lone deer leaped soundlessly from the thicket and onto the narrow beach. It paid no attention to me but padded gracefully up the shore a bit and began lapping at the water.
Bambi. I’d been afraid of Bambi. I let out the breath I’d been holding and almost laughed aloud.
I dropped the oar and returned to the mission at hand, first circling the canoe and then kneeling alongside it. Swearing softly, I started sifting through the sand, wondering what I was going to do if I couldn’t find the necklace. Perhaps Mr. Furlong had one of those handheld metal detectors I’d seen advertised on late-night television, trumpeted as a surefire way to turn up buried treasure. I doubted it; Jacob and Lily didn’t have much of a need for supplementary income.
After several minutes of fruitless sifting, I leaned back on my heels and brushed the sand from my hands. There was no way I was going to find anything in the dark, and I was probably making matters worse. I should stop before the locket was completely hidden by a pile of sand. I’d come back in the morning, when I could see. I’d bring a strainer or a colander or something, and I’d draft my friends into helping me.
I got to my feet, taking one last look at the deer, wondering if it was a male or female. This one didn’t have antlers, but I couldn’t remember which gender got the antlers. It looked delicate, with cute little white spots and big dark eyes, but I decided it was a boy. I took small steps in his direction, trying not to panic him. If I was going to be trapped in nature for a weekend, it would be nice to at least be able to pet a deer. Too bad I hadn’t thought to bring a salt shaker so that I could fashion an impromptu salt lick.
He looked up from the water as I approached but didn’t move. “Here, Bambi,” I said softly, holding out my hand, palm down, the way I’d been told you were supposed to do with strange dogs. Bambi stepped forward, his nose twitching. I was within a couple of feet, nearly close enough to touch, screwing up my nerves to give him a little stroke between the ears, when he suddenly jerked his head toward the trees. Quick as lightning, he vaulted away into the underbrush.
So much for communing with wildlife. I turned to make my way back to the house.
I saw a glint of white from the corner of my eye, but I didn’t have time to figure out what it was. I heard a whoosh in the air above me, then a crack as something made contact with my head. The dark night erupted into color, and I felt myself crumple to the sand.
CHAPTER 23
The next thing I knew, there were strange lips on mine, blowing air into my lungs. I coughed, feeling water pouring out of my mouth. “Ugh,” I said, starting to sit up but somehow unable to lift my head, which felt as heavy and as capable of clear thought as a bowling ball. “Ooh,” I groaned. I never realized I could feel so hungover without actually being dead. And I wasn’t even hungover.
“Rachel? Can you hear me?” The faces in front of me swam into blurry focus.
“Jane? Sean? What are you doing? Where am I?”
“Jesus, Rach, what happened?” Given their greater experience with and appreciation of country life, they’d thought to bring a flashlight with them, and by its light I could make out the look of concern on Sean’s face as he helped me into a sitting position. I looked around. We were on the beach, and not too much time could have passed, because it was still quite dark.
“I don’t know,” I answere
d slowly, confused. “I’d come down to get my locket. Peter and I went for a midnight swim, and I left it here by accident. But I couldn’t find it, and then Bambi ran away.” God, my head hurt.
“Bambi?” asked Jane.
“The deer.”
She turned to Sean. “Do you think she could have a concussion?”
“Look, Rach, Jane and I found you passed out here on the beach. We both woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep, so we came down for a midnight swim. We found you lying here, facedown. Your head was in the water.”
“If we hadn’t come when we did you could have drowned,” said Jane. Her usual calm was gone. “Sean knows CPR, thank goodness.” None of us would have guessed that CPR would turn out to be such a valuable skill this weekend.
I reached a tentative hand up to my aching head. A bump was rising from the crown, which I had a feeling would go all too well with the one on my instep, my two stubbed toes, and the puncture from the splinter in my finger. Too bad being a klutz wasn’t the sort of thing people looked for on a résumé.
“I think maybe I fell and hit my head on something,” I said sheepishly.
“On what? There’s nothing around you,” Jane pointed out, using the beam of the flashlight to scope out the sand and the water.
“I don’t know. A rock or something?” I tried to remember, but my head hurt too much. “You know how clumsy I am. If there’s something to trip on or slip on or hit my head on I always manage to find it.”
“Come on,” said Sean. “We should get you back inside.” I let them hoist me up. My legs felt shaky, and I saw silver spots before my eyes for a moment, but my vision soon cleared. They flanked me, each keeping a firm grasp on one of my arms, as we trudged up the path. With the aid of the flashlight, I managed to avoid doing any further damage to myself on the way to the house.
Back in the kitchen, they deposited me on a chair. Sean began examining the back of my head, and I heard Jane rummaging in the pantry. “There’s definitely a lump,” Sean announced.
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