Copper Lake Confidential. Marilyn Pappano
through all her treatment that focusing on long-term goals didn’t work for her anymore. She had to take life one day at a time. Take these stairs one step at a time.
Mark’s cologne smelled stronger as she climbed—too strong, it seemed, for a house that had been locked up for a year and a half. But it was a very distinctive scent, one created just for him, and the sense of smell was such a very strong one. Just a whiff of baby lotion took her back to Clary’s infancy, and cinnamon transported her to her grandmother’s kitchen with an apple pie in the oven.
The stairs made a straight run to the second-floor landing, a gracious space with a sofa, built-in bookcases and a view through a large round window of rooftops, trees and the Gullah River. To the left was Clary’s room, the nursery, a bathroom and two guest rooms. To the right was the master suite.
She turned right, automatically assessing furnishings as she walked: portrait of Clary at one year old, keep; prissy demilune table that had come down from Mark’s family, discard. Engagement photo of Macy and Mark, keep in case one day Clary wanted it; massive oil painting of a former Howard’s ship at sea, discard.
The bedroom door was closed. Doors were meant to be closed, Mark had preached, a habit that went at least as far back in the family as his grandmother. Macy wrapped her fingers around the cool knob, twisted it and swung the door open.
Whatever emotion she’d expected didn’t come. The room was so distinctly stamped with Mark’s personality that, even though she knew it intimately, it was as if she’d never been there. Dark woods, heavy furniture, murky palette…how had she ever slept in this space? Laughed? Made love? How had she breathed in here?
Breathing was no problem now as she walked through the room. She felt distant, removed from the moment. The book she’d been reading the day he died still sat on the lacquered table next to the sofa in the sitting area. The jewelry chest, almost as tall as she and ornately carved, still stood against the wall, the cherrywood gleaming from its recent cleaning. She opened the bottom drawer, then closed it before sliding open the next one. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings, watches—too much gold and too many gems for a woman who’d never really cared about jewelry.
The first and second drawers, peeked into on tiptoe, held cuff links, Mark’s watches and a half dozen antique pocket watches. He’d known exactly which Howard ancestor each had belonged to.
She opened the third drawer last, the only one that they’d shared. This had been their everyday stuff: matching Rolexes, the first necklace he’d ever given her, their wedding rings.
She had refused to have the ring buried with him. Finding out the truth about him, learning that the man she’d loved didn’t really exist—she couldn’t have borne having that connection with him through eternity. The only thing she was grateful to him for was her daughter, and considering that grief and sorrow and scandal had taken her second daughter from her, she figured they were even. She owed him nothing.
Shoving the drawer shut, she continued her walk-through of the suite. His closet, his bath, her closet, her bath. There she stopped at the window, fingers parting the wooden blinds enough to give her a view of the backyard that had given her such pleasure, of the pool and the guesthouse. That had been her idea, a place for family to stay when they visited, where Miss Willa could live if she ever had to leave Fair Winds.
She sniffed. Mark’s grandmother had left the family home, all right. After the funeral, she’d gone to Raleigh with her and Clary to stay with Mark’s mother. A month later she’d gone to sleep and never woken up.
She never would have stayed in the guesthouse anyway. Except for Brent a few times, no one ever had.
Movement at one of the windows caught her eye, and abruptly she blinked. It must be a reflection from the setting sun, she told herself, or the shadow of a bird flying overhead. But the sun was too low to cast reflections or shadows at that angle. She leaned closer, until her nose was pressed against a wooden slat, and stared harder through the narrow slit.
It was still there, pale and sort of oblong in shape, like a hand parting the blinds at the right height for a person to peek out just the way—
She swallowed hard. Just the way she was doing.
Dread washing over her, she jumped back as if the slats had burned, then kept moving backward until the tile floor changed to carpet. There she spun around and raced down the hall and the stairs to escape.
The aromas of a thin-crust pizza with heaps of onions and cheese scattered with the best of Luigi’s toppings filled Stephen’s car as he turned into Woodhaven Villas. The only thing keeping him from grabbing a piece already was the fact that he was driving, and the only thing protecting the pie from Scooter was the doggy seat belt securing him in the backseat. He was voicing his mournful disapproval when Macy Howard came running out of her house.
Running, Stephen mused. In heels. Not very gracefully, granted; he wouldn’t have imagined her body could move so ungracefully. It just didn’t fit with the image of a Southern belle. But still, running.
She came to a stop in the driveway near the minivan, though not actually stopping. Her hands patted her sides, the way a person did when feeling for keys or a cell phone in pockets, but her dress didn’t appear to have pockets. She looked from the van to the closed garage door, then back in the direction she’d come from, and her face, he saw, was ghostly pale.
Already knowing what his choice would be, he debated it anyway: Luigi’s pizza hot from the oven or damsel in distress? Before he even completed the question, he’d brought the car to a stop at the end of Macy’s driveway.
Scooter whined as Stephen unbuckled his belt. “I know, buddy,” he agreed. “But this’ll just take a minute, okay?”
He got out of the car and had closed half the distance between him and Macy before she became aware of him. For an instant, the blood drained from her face so completely that he was surprised she didn’t fall unconscious at his feet. Then recognition came, and she took a great heaving breath. “You.”
Was it a greeting or accusation? “Yeah, it’s me.” Again. He gestured awkwardly. “Is everything okay?”
Her cheeks pinked, and she ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Yes, of course. Well, maybe…” She stared at her trembling hand when she lowered it—her entire body was trembling—then grimaced. “Maybe not. I—I thought I saw somebody. Out back. Well, not out back. Actually, in—in the guesthouse.”
So she’d startled and run out of the house without either keys or cell phone. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the police—”
“No.” Her color drained again and she reached out, though not far enough to make actual contact. “Um, no. No, no, no. Please.”
“If someone’s broken in—”
“No.” She breathed deeply. “If you could—could just…take a look with me?”
Stephen could say he’d never wanted to be a hero, but he’d be lying. He wrote fantasy, after all, which was all about heroics. But it would be truthful to admit he’d never been hero material. He was a bit of a geek, the total opposite of a jock, and believed in his heart that everything could be resolved without resorting to violence. Hell, the only fight he’d ever been in had ended when the other kid threw the first punch—the only punch—and bloodied his nose. He’d learned his strengths and limitations that day, and confronting a possible burglar definitely fell under limitations.
“Look, the Copper Lake P.D. is good. My sister works for them. They can have an officer here in no time, and I’ll wait until…” He let his words trail off when her head-shaking became emphatic enough to send her hair swinging.
“No police. It’s—it’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just…” She looked as if she didn’t have a clue what she would do.
Stephen sighed silently. “All right. No problem. Just let me get Scooter. I don’t want to leave him alone in the car.”
Her