The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

by Nora Roberts

  And that, he thought, was the answer to Fiona’s question.

  Why Orcas?

  Water drew him—kicky surf on beaches, wide river, busy creeks, quiet inlets. That yen had pulled him from Spokane to Seattle. That, he mused, and the city itself—its style, its openness to art. The nightlife, the movement, he supposed, had appealed at that stage of his life.

  As Nina had, for a while.

  He’d had good years there. Interesting, creative, successful years. But . . .

  Too many people, too much movement and not enough space.

  He liked the idea of an island. Self-contained, just a little apart and surrounded by water. Those wicked, twisting roads offered countless views of blue and green and the pretty boats that plied it, the green-knuckled clumps of rough land that seemed to float on it.

  If he wanted more he could drive into a village, have a meal, watch the tourists. If he wanted solitude, he could stay home—his island on the island. Which, he admitted, was his usual choice.

  And which, he thought with a glance toward Jaws, was why his mother had pushed a dog on him.

  Watching those ears flap and the tail thump, he acknowledged his mother was right. Again.

  He pulled in the back of Sylvia’s shop and raised the windows, leaving a three-inch crack. “You stay here. Don’t eat anything.” At the last minute he remembered distraction, reached over and took a chew toy from the glove box.

  “Play with this,” he ordered.

  When he carted in the first load, he caught the scent of home cooking—a little spicy—and spotted a Crock-Pot on the shipping counter.

  He poked his head into the shop. Sylvia, pretty and bright in one of her colorful skirts, chatted up a customer while her clerk rang up sales for another.

  Business was good, he thought. Another plus for the day.

  He gave her a quick wave, started to back out.

  “Simon! This is perfect timing. This is Simon Doyle,” she told the customer. “Simon, Susan’s over from Bainbridge Island. She’s interested in your wine cabinet.”

  Sylvia gave him a blinding smile and a subtle “Come over here” signal.

  This was the part he hated. But trapped, he stepped over.

  “I was just telling Susan how lucky we are you moved to Orcas and let us display your work. Susan came over for the day with her sister. Also lucky for us.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Susan offered a hand sporting a perfect French manicure and a canary diamond. “It’s beautiful work.”

  “Thanks.” He rubbed his hand on his jeans. “Sorry. I’ve been working. I’m just dropping off some new pieces.”

  “Anything as impressive as this?”

  “Smaller pieces, actually.”

  The sister wandered over, holding an earring up to each ear. “Susan, which pair?”

  Susan angled her head, tipped it side to side. “Both. Dee, this is the man who made the bowl I’m buying for Cherry’s birthday, and this cabinet I can’t seem to walk away from. Simon Doyle.”

  “I love the bowl.” Dee gave Simon’s hand a hard, fast shake. “But she saw it first. Sylvia said you might be persuaded to make another.”

  “Simon’s just brought some new pieces in.”

  “Really?” Dee glanced from Sylvia back to Simon. “Any bowls?”

  “A couple,” he began.

  “Why don’t I go unpack so you can take a look,” Sylvia suggested.

  “That’d be great. First pick,” Dee said, giving her sister a little poke.

  “There’s more in the truck. I’ll go—”

  “No, no, I’ll take care of it.” Sylvia patted Simon’s arm, then gave it a warning squeeze. “Why don’t you tell Susan more about the cabinet? It’s our current showpiece,” she added, then glided off before Simon could find an escape hatch.

  He hated the selling part, the feeling of being on display as much as the work.

  “I love the tones of the wood.” Susan traced a hand down the grain. “And then the detail. It’s elegant without being ornate and showy.”

  “It suits you.”

  Her face lit up. “That’s a clever thing to say.”

  “I’d tell you if it didn’t. You like the understated and the unique. You don’t mind if it’s impractical, but you’re happier if it serves a purpose.”

  “God, you nailed her. Psychic woodworker,” Dee said with a laugh. “You’d better buy it, Susan. It’s karma.”

  “Maybe it is.” Susan opened the doors again, slid open one of the drawers. “Smooth as silk. I appreciate good work.”

  “Me too.” He noted that Sylvia had stocked it with some excellent wineglasses and a couple bottles of good wine.

  “How long have you been working with wood?”

  “According to my mother, since I was two.”

  “Time well spent. Sylvia said you moved to the island. From where?” He felt his skin begin to itch. “Spokane via Seattle.”

  “Doyle,” Dee murmured. “I think I read something about you and your work some time ago, in the art section.”

  “Maybe.”

  Susan tilted her head again, as she had when judging her sister’s earring choices. “Not much on self-promotion, are you?”

  “The work should speak for itself.”

  “I absolutely agree with that, and in this case, it does. I’m buying it.”

  “Ladies,” Sylvia called from the doorway. “Why don’t you come into the stockroom. Dee, I think we have your bowl. Simon, I brought the puppy in. I hope you don’t mind. I know this is taking a little longer than you planned, and he was so happy to see me.”

  “A puppy.”

  “Careful,” Dee said as her sister bolted for the stockroom. “She’ll want to buy him, too. She’s wild about dogs.”

  It took another thirty minutes, with Sylvia cagily blocking his escape and Jaws being stroked and cuddled into delirium. He loaded boxes and bags into their car and decided the entire event had been more exhausting than pulling a stump.

  Sylvia dragged him back into the stockroom and into a circling dance while Jaws barked and leaped. “Simon! Those two women didn’t just make our day, they made our week! And they’ll be back, oh yes, they’ll be back. Every time Susan looks at her wine cabinet, or the vase, or Dee uses the bowl, they’ll think of the shop, and of you. And they’ll be back.”

  “Go, team.”

  “Simon, we sold pieces as we unpacked them. And the cabinet? I honestly thought we’d have it on display until well into the tourist season. You have to make me another!” She plopped down on the little sofa where she’d served her two customers lemon water.

  “Then I’d better get to work.”

  “Be excited. You just made an excellent amount of money. Ch-ching. And we sold pieces that those two ladies will enjoy. Really enjoy. My day needed a lift, and this really did it.”

  She bent down to pet Jaws. “I’m worried about Fee. There was an article on Perry and the recent murders in U.S. Report this morning. I went by to see her, but she was already gone. Her unit works today.”

  “I heard.”

  “I talked to Laine, her mother. We both decided not to call her while she’s out practicing.”

  “You talk to her mother?”

  “Laine and I have a good relationship. We both love Fee. I know she’ll have heard about the article by now, and I know it’ll upset her. You could do me a big favor.”

  He felt his skin start to itch again. “What kind of favor?”

  “I made her minestrone.” She gestured to the Crock-Pot. “And a round of rosemary bread. She should be getting home soon, if she’s not home already. Would you take it by?”

  “Why? You should take it by.”

  “I would. I planned to, but it occurs to me it’d be good to have someone else around, someone closer to her own age. And this one.” She stroked Jaws again. “It’s hard to be blue around this guy.”

  She tipped up her face, and even knowing she was using her eyes deliber
ately, he couldn’t fight it.

  “Would you mind, Simon? I get so emotional when I think of what she went through. I might make it worse. I’d really feel better if I knew she had a good meal, maybe a little company.”

  HOW WAS IT, Simon wondered, that some women could talk you into doing the opposite of what you wanted to do?

  His mother had the same talent. He’d watched her, listened, attempted to evade, maneuver, outfox—and she could, without fail, nudge him in the opposing direction.

  Sylvia was cut from the same cloth, and now he had a Crock-Pot and a loaf of bread, an assignment—and that contemplative walk on the beach was over before it had begun.

  Was he supposed to let Fiona cry on his shoulder now? He hated being the shoulder. He never knew what to say or do.

  Pat, pat, there, there. What the fuck?

  Plus, if she had any sense—and he thought she did—she’d want solitude, not company.

  “If people let other people alone,” he told Jaws, “people would be better off. It’s always people that screw things up for people anyway.”

  He’d just give her the food and take off. Better all around. Here you go, bon appétit. Then, at least, he’d have his studying, measuring time, his design time over pizza and a beer.

  Maybe she wasn’t back yet. Better. He could just leave the pot and loaf on the porch and be done with it.

  The minute he turned into her drive, Jaws perked up. The pup danced on the seat, planted his paws on the dash. The fact that he could without doing a header to the floor caused Simon to realize the dog had grown considerably in the last couple weeks.

  He probably needed a new collar.

  Reaching over, he slid his finger between the collar and the fur. “Shit. Why don’t you tell me these things?”

  As he drove over the bridge, the pup’s tail slashed—door, seat, door, seat, in a jubilant rhythm.

  “Glad somebody’s happy,” Simon muttered.

  The truck sat in the drive; the dogs raced in the yard.

  “We’re not staying,” he warned Jaws. “In and out.”

  He let the dog out first and considered that what with stump hauling with Gary and Butch, a visit to town, the adoration of women and now the unscheduled playdate with pals, this had turned into the canine version of a day at Disney World for Jaws.

  He retrieved the pot and the foil-wrapped bread.

  Fiona stood in the doorway now, leaning casually on the jamb. And to Simon’s puzzled surprise, she was smiling.

  “Hi, neighbor.”

  “I had to go in to Sylvia’s. She asked me to drop this off.”

  She straightened to take the lid off the pot and sniff. “Mmm, minestrone. I’m very fond. Bring it on back.”

  She moved aside to let him pass and left the door open as she often did.

  The fire crackled, the whiff of soup spiced the air, and she smelled like the woods.

  “I heard you got your stump.”

  “Is it out on the newswire?”

  “Grapevine’s faster. I ran into Gary and Sue on my way home. They were heading to their son’s for dinner. Just set it on the counter, thanks. I was going to have a beer, but Syl’s minestrone requires a good red. Unless you’d rather beer.”

  The plan to get in and out shifted, weighed by curiosity. The grapevine was fast, he thought. She had to know about the article. “The red’s good.”

  She crossed to a long, narrow cupboard—she really could use a wine cabinet—to select a bottle. “So, a sink?”

  “What?”

  “The stump.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a corkscrew without any rooting around. “Gary said you’re going to make a sink. A stump sink. It’s going to be the talk of the island.”

  “Because not that much goes on here. I’ll get your tree planted in a couple days.”

  “Works for me.”

  He studied her face while she pulled the cork, saw no signs of distress, shed tears, anger. Maybe the grapevine had broken down after all.

  She poured the wine, plugged in the cord on the pot. “Let’s give it a few minutes,” she said, and tapped her glass to his. “So, a solarium.”

  “A what?”

  “You said I should think about a solarium, south side. Open the kitchen. How would it work?”

  “Ah . . . that wall.” He gestured with his glass. “Load-bearing so you’d need support. Maybe a couple of beams, columns—keep it open but give it a sense of entry. Wall out, beams up. Take it out ten, twelve feet. Maybe pitch the roof. Skylights. A good, generous window would give you a view into the woods. Maybe wide-planked floors. You’d have room for a table if you wanted an alternate to eating in the kitchen.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “It’d be some work.”

  “Maybe I’ll start saving my pennies.” She took a sip of wine, then set the glass down to get a jar of olives out of the refrigerator. “You know about the article.”

  “Apparently you do.”

  She transferred olives from bottle to a shallow dish. “James read it before we met up this morning—and passed the word to the rest of the unit. They were all so worried about bringing it up, not bringing it up, nobody could concentrate. So they finally told me and we got started on our work.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “No. This is my version of an appetizer, by the way.” She shoved the olives toward him. “No, I didn’t read it, and I won’t. No point. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened before, and nothing I can do to change what’s happening now. I knew it was coming, now it has. Tomorrow it’ll be yesterday.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Syl sent my favorite soup. She thought I’d be upset.”

  “I guess.”

  Fiona picked up her wine again, pointed at him with her free hand. “You know very well, as she’d have told you—and maneuvered you into coming by so I wouldn’t be alone.”

  The dogs rushed in then, a happy pack of fur. “You’re not alone anyway.”

  “True enough.” She gave everyone a rub. “You figured I’d be upset—and probably couldn’t outmaneuver Syl.”

  “Does anybody?”

  “Not really. I am upset—but in a controllable way. I’ve already had two brooding days this month, so I’m not allowed another one.”

  He found himself unwillingly fascinated. “There’s a limit?”

  “For me there is. And now I have soup and . . .” She peeled back the foil. “Mmmm, rosemary bread. This is exceptional. I have a stepmother who’d take the time to make it for me, a neighbor who’d bring it by even though he’d rather not, and my dogs. I’m not allowed to brood. So we’ll have dinner and conversation. But I’m not going to sleep with you after.”

  “Cocktease.”

  She nearly choked on the wine. “You did not just say that.”

  “Say what?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “See? This is better than brooding. Let’s eat.”

  She ladled out bowls of soup, put the bread on a board and poured some sort of dipping sauce into a dish.

  “The candles,” she said as she lit them, “aren’t for seduction. They just make the food taste better.”

  “I thought they were to make me look prettier.”

  “But you’re so beautiful already.” She smiled, spooned up soup. “To Syl.”

  “Okay.” He sampled. “Wait.” Sampled again. “This is really good. Like dinner-in-Tuscany good.”

  “She’d love to hear that. Mostly, I think Sylvia’s developed too close an attachment to tofu and strange grains of rice. But when she does minestrone, she’s a genius. Try the bread.”

  He broke off a hunk, dipped. “She called your mother.”

  “Oh.” Distress came into those clear blue eyes. “I should’ve thought of that. I’ll call them both later and let them know I’m all right.”

  “You’re right about the bread, too. My mother bakes bread. Baking’s kind of a hobby for her.”<
br />
  “I can bake. You know you buy that cookie dough in rolls, slice it, stick it in the oven?”

  “My specialty’s frozen pizza.”

  “Another fine skill.”

  He went back to his soup. “Everyone I know who’s divorced hates all parties involved. Or at least coldly disdains.”

  “My father was a very good man. My mother’s a lovely woman. At some point they just stopped being happy together. I know there were fights, and anger, probably some blame tossed around, but for the most part they handled it as well as it can be handled. It still hurt unbelievably, for a while. But then, it didn’t, because he was a very good man, and she’s a lovely woman, and they were happy again. And, oddly, came to like each other again. Then Dad met Syl, and they were . . . well, they were just beautiful together. She and my mother took the time, made the effort to get to know each other, because of me. And they just hit it off. They really like each other. My mother sends Syl flowers every year on the anniversary of my father’s death. Sunflowers, because they were my father’s favorite. Okay.” She pressed her hands to her eyes briefly. “Enough of that. It gets me weepy.

  “Tell me what you did today besides hauling a stump out of the woods.”

  Before he could speak, the dogs wandered back in. Jaws scented the air and bulleted for the table. He plopped his paws on Fiona’s leg and whined.

  “Off.” She snapped her fingers, pointed to the ground. He sat, but the tail swished and the eyes shone with anticipation. She shifted her gaze to Simon.

  “You feed him from the table.”

  “Maybe. He keeps at me until—”

  He broke off when she huffed out a breath. She rose, walked to the pantry. She got out small chew bones. One for Jaws, and one each for the three dogs who looked at the pup with pity.

  “These are yours.” She laid the bones across the room. “Go ahead. Distract,” she said to Simon. “Replace, discipline. As long as you give in and feed him from the table—and people food isn’t good for his diet—he’ll keep begging. And you’re teaching him to be a nuisance by rewarding bad behavior.”