Spirit Lake (20 page)

A giddiness skipped through her, opening windows, beckoning in fresh air for her soul. If she chose to tonight, she didn't have to remember anything about their past. They could sit here ... like a couple in love talking about growing old together. Talking about a future.

The new winds swirling around inside her dusted off her heart and got it pumping again. A fever followed the rush through her veins. She never felt this with Kipp. Never. Why not? Was it that he was more comfortable being with his buddies? Had she liked it that way? Was it safer for her heart to allow people to think she and Kipp were in love? So that they would allow her her peace? Had she always been yearning—waiting, saving herself—for the true bliss that came with Cole's attention to her?

Heat settled onto her cheekbones. She had to be careful the winds of emotions didn't turn into destructive tornadoes. Opening her heart was dangerous. Love was impossible for them.

Turning his knife over and over, he smiled over at her. “You're the bravest person I know."

Her mouth went dry. “By taking you in?"

“Of course that.” He shrugged. “Also, by coming to this place, knowing it was special to you and Kipp. We could have dodged your mother another way instead of coming here."

“There aren't that many supper clubs. She's got her spies here somewhere. She belongs to every club in a five-county area."

A man in a red shirt and dark hair, half hidden by his menu and their waitress, sat in the far corner. His gaze caught Laurel's then dipped back to his menu.

Laurel glanced back to Cole. “I may have found my mother's spy."

When he went to turn, she quickly said, “No, don't look. Let mother think we're having the time of our lives. She'll hate knowing I'm falling for a hobo."

“And are you?"

His question shocked her heart into a faster beat. “Decidedly no."

But heat pushed at her cheeks again, this time from confusion and memories scorching her.

She nodded toward the corner of the room. “That man is sitting where they always put the Christmas tree. Day after Thanksgiving, a big deal. Kipp ordered T-bone steaks for us. He finished his and half of mine. He was so nervous."

She'd said too much, but Cole blinked expectantly so she finished. “He'd forgotten the ring."

“As in engagement ring?"

“What it amounted to is that I dragged the question out of him, now that I think about it."

Cole frowned, obviously confused. “Kipp still brings a smile to your face?"

She peered into Cole's tanned face, her eyes following the gentle lines etched from years of work under the sun. Cole was the reason she could put perspective on Kipp. That era was indeed done, faded, because Cole had returned now and he was real. Her heart was free to make choices. Slip into the darkness, or come into the light. Her life lay before her in new, clear delineations.

“Yes,” she said, her body growing lighter, some of the burden of the past evaporating, “I can smile. For all the good times."

She secretly thanked Cole for allowing her this affirmation.

A new waitress appeared then, with the same revealing costume as the first and with an even bigger valley dipping toward Cole in a way that made his eyebrows arch and Laurel smirk to see his discomfort.

With pen twitching, the waitress winked at Cole. “Name's Jenny, Jen. That's a northern pike over in that fish tank. You guess the weight by Friday night and you get him filleted by Big Al plus a gallon of Al's special German potato salad. I deliver it to your house."

Discombobulated by the presentation, Laurel and Cole wrenched their heads away from Jenny and in the direction of her pointed pen. A built-in fish tank created part of the wall separating the pine-paneled dining room from the waitress station and restrooms.

Cole said, “Mister Pike looks comfy in there. We'll pass and order something else."

Laurel stifled a guffaw. “The special'll be fine for me."

“Me, too,” Cole said.

The waitress scribbled. “Out of home fries. Mashed okay?"

“Hold the gravy,” Laurel said.

“Pour it on for me,” Cole told Jen, winking.

Laurel rolled her eyes at him.

The waitress cooed, “Excellent choice. Anything to drink, sir?"

He was staring at her cleavage, and said, “Whatever's on tap."

“I could be later,” Jen quipped, sashaying off.

Cole gawked after her. “Do you think she's serious?"

“During the fall hunting season, maybe. I'd forgotten how awful this place is."

“I've got an idea. When she comes with the food, let's have her box it up and we'll go on a picnic."

Her nerves rode a roller-coaster down her spine. “I haven't been on a picnic since—"

It was more than the sudden cock of his head that stopped her. His grin grew lopsided, flinching at one corner. Then his dark eyes grew beyond mellow and sexy. They became knowing.

Cole picked up her hands, sending panic sizzling up her arms. “We haven't been on a picnic since the one in the meadow as teenagers. Let's go. Just for fun. We both need it. One night, let's be kids again, Laurel Lee."

The eager grin on his face weakened her will. What harm could come from it? One night, he'd said. He always lived his life that way. The focus on one day, one night at a time. Nothing more. She must keep reminding herself of that. And oh, she needed him. His steely arms around her, his confident mouth pressing hers, his bronze skin scorching her paler limbs. Had the quick attic tryst ever been real, or was it only a recurring dream teasing her, leading her on down a path. Like Gretel, going too deeply into the woods for her own good.

“A picnic it is.” The explosive yearning overruled her common sense.

They soon climbed into the battered maroon pickup borrowed from Gary. Laurel held the dinner boxes on her lap.

When Cole winced, failing to start the truck, she asked, “Your leg? Want me to drive?"

“Nah. It comes and goes."

“It should be healing by now."

“It's fine."

“I didn't take that bullet out under the best of conditions. I could—"

He braced one arm atop the steering wheel, plunking the other along the vinyl seatback behind her. His dark eyes mellowed. “You take good care of me, Laurel Lee, but you've got to stop worrying about me. About any of this. I don't want to remember you with that frown after I leave."

“After you leave."

The air stilled. His beautiful dark eyes took on ragged edges.

Cold perspiration sheathed her. She clutched the boxes. “It will be lonely without you.” There, she'd said it.

Could he possibly feel anything for her beyond the refuge she offered for him?

“And I'll miss you,” he said, his eyes steady.

Her heart lurched. Screwing up her courage, refusing to allow the evening to disintegrate, she declared, “We'll go to the old mansion and eat there. I'll help you look for clues again. There has to be something we missed. Mike left the crayon box there, not somewhere else for you to find it. A new pair of eyes, a new angle in different light, and we might see the clue and you'll have what you need to put your Mr. Rojas away forever."

A corner of his mouth twitched. “You're one hell of a woman, Laurel Lee. You're sure?"

“You hungry?” she asked, groping for courage to mask her reservations.

“Starving.” His eyes told her he wasn't talking about food.

He started the truck, then pulled out of the parking lot and onto Hwy. N.

Laurel rode in silence, listening to him chatter about the scenery and the clear sky, glorying in his companionship in the truck cab's cocoon.

This is only one night, she reminded herself. What harm could come of being with him?

* * * *

THE MAN FROM the corner table emerged from Al's in time to see the maroon pickup heading south, back toward Dresden.

Grinning, he got in his rental car, and was soon driving south, thinking how he needed to trade in this four-door for a van, something enclosed and private, big enough for the giant minnow cage he'd bought. Laurel Hastings would be cramped traveling and sleeping in it, but it would only be temporary, until they left all this far behind. He'd keep her like a pet, for her own safety.

Driving along, catching sight of the pickup every so often, he cracked a self-satisfied smile, even looked at it in the mirror. He'd covered his backside by calling his boss in Miami as he was supposed to. Now, he'd steal this woman right out from under all their noses. Hadn't he already done that with the Texas chick? Of course, she'd died enroute. But it wasn't his fault. Putting her in the coffin had been clever. He was sure she'd have enough oxygen in that big thing for the trip north with him. But he wouldn't make that mistake again. That's why an airy minnow cage would be just right for Laurel Hastings.

Chapter 11

LOOKING FOR HIS scissors, Buzz Vandermeer shuffled through the stacks of press releases, hand-written recipes from the locals, computer disks and other such items that eventually he'd have to get into the new newspaper layout software he was trying to learn. He was still trying to live down Una's grocery ad that was supposed to come out “Mr. Lucky Chicken Fryers, $1.98 a Pound.” The “F” in Fryers got switched with the “L” in Lucky. For a retired English teacher, the episode gave him the hives every time he thought about it. Now he double-checked everything on the screen, spending longer hours at that and less on keeping a clean office. He finally found the scissors.

The
Minneapolis Tribune
, which got tossed at his office door in a plastic sleeve every morning, had run an intriguing photo on an inside page. There was a couple in it, a shapely blonde he didn't recognize, and a man who looked vaguely familiar.

The story said the blonde came from a prominent Texan family. She hadn't been seen in days after being spotted at a Miami marina. Another woman, a Lisa Shaw who worked near the marina, was missing too. But the bare-chested man in the photo intrigued Buzz the most. He was Cole Wescott, champion hydroboat racer and treasure diver. He also hadn't been seen in days and the article insinuated he was about to be charged with kidnapping or murdering the two women. Wescott's boss, Marco Rojas, said he last saw his employee with the women.

Buzz placed the photo in his scanner, then watched its pixels materialize on his computer screen. He stared for a long time at the eyes and the mouth. What was it about them?

He began altering the photo. Lighten the eyes. No, that didn't do much. Bring the mouth out of its smile. Hmm. What about hair? The photo was obviously some advertising shot, with the hunk's hair clipped short and airbrushed. Put some hair on him....

Buzz sat back. It was the hobo, Atlas, who had come to riffle through his morgue a few days back. And he lived with Laurel, the daughter of the sweetest woman this side of Spirit Lake.

Her sweet smile stuck with him the whole time he printed the enhanced photo of Atlas and walked out the door and down the street with it. Madelyn's daughter was in danger. The photo shook between his quaking hands. If Dresden had a serial killer in its midst, Buzz Vandermeer was about to crack the biggest story of his career. He hoped the sheriff was in.

* * * *

HUNGRY, THEY had decided to eat on the verandah steps of the old mansion.

Cole leaned forward now on the top step, arms slung casually over his bluejean-clad knees. He wore the same blue polo shirt she'd washed for him, and it made her think he should really stay in one place long enough to accumulate more shirts.

Putting down his plate, he announced, “What if it's the meadow Mike wanted me to see? It's full of colors, like his crayons. Remember the flowers there?"

A flush painted her body with raw heat. “Of course I remember."

They'd first made love there. He had been consumed with the need. Heat niggled her core.

“You go ahead,” she said, “I should get home."

But he hauled her into his arms before she could protest, cradling her head against one shoulder with fingers splayed against the back of her head. His heaving chest pumped warmth into her. He was so alive. “I'll miss you."

She gloried in his admission. “Rojas can't have you,” she whispered.

“I won't let him win, Laurel Lee."

A shiver undulated down her body. “You always have to win,” she said, lips barely able to form the words against his shirted shoulder. Winning and conquering were what he was about. It dawned on her now ... had he merely conquered her once upon a time? Having power over someone was not love, she reminded herself.

“Please come to the meadow with me. Don't go home yet,” he pleaded.

In the meadow they'd always felt free. It was a sanctuary. The best hiding place.

“We'll find something there,” he said. “I can feel it."

Her heart flip-flopped again, giving in. “I'll go.” If he was never coming back, she could go with him to their meadow. One last time.

But oh the memories....

They used to meet where the two paths forged into one, breathless, energy pulsating in their loins, fingers tugging impatiently at buttons and belt loops as they tumbled along
.

They started off toward the meadow, walking steadily through the overgrown path Cole must have taken when sneaking out under his Great-Aunt Flora's nose. Laurel would slip away from helping her father build the cabin.

Starting from behind the mansion, Cole never hesitated, even with his limp. He moved by rote through tall grasses and around spiky sumac and scrub oak growth. He pushed hard, almost breaking into a run when brush gave way to stubbly grass for short stretches.

Dread kicked up in her stomach. He needed to be in the meadow too desperately, she thought.

He would hide behind the trees, chasing, hurrying her
.

They skirted the bay with its bullfrogs croaking.

Cardinals darted through the leafy brush, their chipping call and loud whistles alerting woodland neighbors of the lovers’ approach. She remembered it well
.

Laurel felt herself swallowed up in the primal world. Yard by yard, it insulated them from the noises of reality, the voices trying to control what was in their hearts. Didn't people know how lonely they were when not together? How each felt like one shoe without its mate? That's how this secret garden had courted them then, too. It told them in every hush behind a leaf parted with tenderness, in every dewdrop poised on a fern frond, that being together was right.