The Witness (17 page)

“There’s always something. What do you like to do?”

“I like my work.” Obviously reluctant, Abigail sat.

“I feel for people who don’t. Besides your work?”

“I work quite a lot.” When Sunny just cocked her eyebrows, Abigail struggled to find more. “Bert requires exercise, so we walk or hike. It was part of the appeal of this property, that there was enough land. I work in the greenhouse or the garden. It’s satisfying. I like to read. I like television.”

“So do I, more than they say you should. But what do they know? And you like solitude.”

“I do.”

“When I was raising three kids, I used to think I’d pay any price for a few hours of alone.”

“I didn’t realize your son had siblings.”

“Two older sisters.”

“You’re very young to have children that age, in their thirties, I assume.”

“I was nineteen when I came to Bickford. I’d been rambling around for about two years.”

“You … you left home at seventeen?”

“The day after I graduated high school. I’d put too much time into that to walk away from it. But once that was done, I was gone.” Sunny snapped her fingers. “I didn’t get along with my parents, which is no surprise, as we saw everything, I mean everything, from opposite sides. We still do, mostly, but we’ve made amends. When I came here, I met a young schoolteacher. He was shy and sweet and smart, and had beautiful hazel eyes. I seduced him.”

“I see.”

“That part was easy, I was quite beguiling,” she said with a laugh. “What wasn’t easy was coming to realize I was making love with someone I’d fallen in love with. I was so sure I didn’t want that kind of life. The man, the home, the roots, the family. But he was irresistible. He wanted to marry me. I said no, none of that for me.”

“Marriage as an institution is part of our culture’s fabric, but it remains only a kind of contract, and unnecessary, as it’s easily broken.”

“You might be speaking my own words from that time. When I learned I was carrying Mya, I agreed to a kind of handfasting. I was dabbling in Wicca back then. We had a lovely ceremony by the river, and moved into a tiny cabin, oh, not half the size of this. No indoor plumbing, either, and I was fine with that.”

She sighed into her coffee at the memory. “I had two babies there. And it wasn’t quite so fine. My man wanted a real marriage, a real home. He’d let me have my way for nearly three years. I realized it was time to
let him have his. So we loaded up the babies, went to the justice of the peace, made that legal contract. And with the money I’d made from my art—I got a greeting-card contract, and that was reasonably lucrative. And the money he’d saved from teaching, we bought that ramshackle of a house off Shop Street. We started fixing it up, and Brooks came along. I never regretted a moment. Not one.”

Abigail wasn’t sure it was conversation when a virtual stranger imparted a synopsis of her life story. But it was fascinating.

“You’re very fortunate.”

“Oh, I am. How’s that pie?”

Abigail blinked, glanced down. She’d eaten nearly half, as she’d been caught up in Sunny’s story. “It’s wonderful.”

“I’ll give you the recipe.”

“I’ve never made a pie. It’s just me. A pie doesn’t seem practical.”

“There’s nothing practical about a pie. We’ll trade. I’ll give you the recipe for one of yours.”

“I don’t know what you’d like.”

“Surprise me.”

After an internal debate, Abigail walked over to her laptop, called up her recipe file. She printed out her recipe for chicken paprika. “You can adjust the spices to taste.”

“This looks great. I think I’ll stop at the market on the way home, pick up what I don’t have, and try this tonight. Here, let me write out the recipe for the pie.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse.

“You have it memorized?”

“I’ve been making this pie for too many years to count. It’s Loren’s favorite.”

“You smile when you say his name.”

“Do I? We’ve been married—I count from the handfasting—for thirty-six years. He still makes me happy.”

That, Abigail thought when she was alone again, was the most vital and compelling statement on a relationship. That happiness could last.

She studied the recipe in her hand. She’d transcribe it onto the computer later. Dutifully, she gathered up the plates and cups, and with some surprise noticed the time.

Somehow she’d just spent more than thirty minutes in her kitchen, having pie and coffee and fascinating conversation with a stranger.

“I suppose that means she’s not a stranger now.”

She couldn’t decide how it made her feel, couldn’t decipher it. She looked at her work, looked at her dog.

“Hell. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Y
OU DID WHAT?
” Brooks gaped at his mother.

“You heard me very well. I took a pie over to Abigail’s. We had a nice chat over pie and coffee. I like her.”

“Ma—”

“I think socially awkward’s a good term for it. She’s not shy, just rusty when it comes to interaction. Once we got going, we did just fine. We exchanged recipes.”

“You …” At his desk, Brooks dropped his head in his hands. “Did you hear me last night?”

“Of course I did.”

“It may be she’s on the run. It may be she’s in trouble. It may be, if that trouble finds her, dangerous. And you just breeze on over with pie?”

“Huckleberry. I had to make two so your father wouldn’t get his feelings hurt. She’s got a wonderful kitchen. And looking at the recipe she gave me, I’m betting she’s quite a cook. She also has cameras or some such thing set up all over the property. I saw on her computer screen. She has views of the drive, and the back and so on.”

“Christ.”

“She spoke French to the dog.”

That had him lifting his head again. “What?”

“I just wonder why somebody would teach their dog French, is all. She has very nice manners. She listens to you with her whole body. Something about her just pulled at me. I swear, I wanted to pet her like I did the dog.”

“You … you petted that big-ass monster dog?”

“She told it in French it was all right. He was very sweet. He’s devoted to her, I could see that. Never strayed more than two feet away. He’s a very good dog, and I’m sure a fine companion. But that girl needs a friend. Now, I’ve got to run by the store and pick up some things. I want to try this recipe she gave me.”

“Ma, I don’t want you going over there until I know more.”

“Brooks.”

He was thirty-two years old, and that tone, that look, could still make his balls shrink to marbles.

“You’re a grown man, but it still hasn’t come to the point where you tell me what to do. If you want to find out more about her, why don’t you go out there and be friendly, like I did?”

“And take her pie?”

“You might try a bottle of wine.”

H
E WENT WITH A NICE
, mid-range pinot grigio. It seemed reasonable, friendly without too many overtones. It also seemed like it was overthinking the whole thing, so he stopped thinking and just drove out there.

The rain that had blown in the night before teased out a little more green. Now, early-evening sun shimmered through those greening branches, splashed on the road, flickered on the busy water of the little stream that wound through.

He bumped his way up her drive, caught a glimpse of the smoke curling out of her chimney.

Then he saw her.

She stood, the big dog at the heel of her knee-high black boots. She wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and a gun on her hip.

He decided not to overthink the fact that everything about her at that precise moment struck him as grab-your-balls sexy.

It just was—right down to the edgy annoyance on her face.

He snagged the wine, slid out of the car.

“Evening.” He strolled toward her as if she wasn’t packing a Glock, didn’t have a dog who could probably sink its teeth into the jugular before he cleared his own weapon from its holster.

She eyed the bottle he carried. “What’s that?”

“It’s a couple of things, actually. One, it’s a pretty nice wine. Second, it’s an apology.”

“For what?”

“My mother. I was over there for dinner the other night, and mentioned I’d been out here. She hopped right on that. So … sorry for the intrusion.”

“So you’re intruding to apologize for an intrusion.”

“Technically. But it’s a pretty nice wine. So, been out for a walk?”

“Why?”

“You got some mud on your boots. Some rain last night. It gets things greening up, but it brings the mud, too. Do you always carry a gun when you walk your dog?”

She always carried a gun, period, but that wasn’t any of his business. “I was target shooting. The wine isn’t necessary.”

“Wine’s not necessary, but it’s one of those enjoyable perks that comes along.” He turned it so the pretty straw-colored wine caught the light. “Where are you set up, for target practice?”

“Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you keep coming here, with your wine and your pie? What is
wrong
with you people? What are you grinning at?”

“Which question do you want me to answer first?” When she merely
gave him a stony stare, he shrugged. “In order, then. I’m a naturally curious sort of man, plus cop. So questions are part of it. It’s likely I got some of that curious from my mother, who came out here, with pie, because she was. And because she’s a friendly sort of woman. I already explained about the wine. From my point of view, nothing’s wrong with us. We just are what we are. Your point of view might come in different. I was grinning because I’d wondered if there was any temper in there. It lights you up. It’s nice to see the light. Did I cover it?”

His eyes were amber in the late-afternoon sun, and his smile appealing. She thought he owned that easy, conversational style the way other men owned socks. “You think you’re charming.”

“Yeah. That’s probably a flaw, but who wants perfect? I answered your questions, but you didn’t answer mine. Where are you set up?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“A couple of reasons. One, that curiosity again. Second, as a cop, knowing I’ve got a woman who carries habitually? I’d like to know if she can handle what she carries.”

“I’m an excellent shot.”

“So you say. I could tell you I can tango like an Argentinean, but unless I demonstrate, I might be lying—or exaggerating.”

“It’s doubtful every Argentinean can tango.”

“Like one who can, then.”

“If I demonstrate my shooting skills, will you leave me alone?”

“Well, now, Abigail, I can’t make a deal like that. I may have to come back. What if a gang of extremists tried to abduct you? Or aliens. We’ve got any number of people around here who’ll swear about those aliens—the E.T. kind, I mean. In fact, Beau Mugsley claims he gets abducted twice a year like clockwork.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Not according to Beau Mugsley. Don’t get him started on anal probes. And putting that aside, you’re an intriguing woman.”

“I don’t want to be intriguing.”

“And see that? Now you’re just more intriguing.”

“And if there’s intelligent life on other planets, I hardly think they’d spend their time attempting an abduction on someone who’s minding her own business.”

“You never know, do you?”

She simply didn’t know how to argue with someone like him, someone who made no
sense
and was so damn affable about it. Add in the tenacity and the cop curiosity, she determined she was stuck.

“I’ll satisfy your misplaced concern about my target-shooting skills. Then you can go.”

“That’s a good place to start.” He noted that she laid a hand on the dog’s head before she turned. “Ma tells me your dog speaks French,” Brooks said as he fell into step beside her. “I took two years in high school, mostly—okay, completely—because the French teacher was hot. Smoking. Not a lot stuck with me, but I had two years of gazing at the hotness of Ms. Gardner.”

“Studies show adolescent males often make decisions based on sex. Many fail to grow out of it.”

“Can’t really blame us for genetic makeup. That’s an impressive setup.” He paused to study her target area.

Where he’d expected a couple of circle targets, she had a trio of police-style silhouettes on draw pulleys backed by thickly padded boards. Ear and eye protection sat on a wooden bench along with spare clips. By his gauge, she had them set at a good fifty feet.

“I don’t have a second pair of ear protectors or glasses,” she said as she put them on.

“No problem.”

He stepped back, pressed his hands to his ears as she took position.

Cop stance, he noted, and she took it in a smooth, practiced motion. She fired six rounds without a flinch, then holstered her weapon before pulling the target in.

“Nice grouping,” he commented. All six center mass, in a tight, damn-near-perfect pattern.

“As you can see, I’m an excellent shot. I’m capable.”

“No question of that,” he said as she picked up her brass, dropped them in a bucket. “Mind if I try it out?”

She didn’t answer, but took off the ear protectors and glasses, passed them to him.

She looked back to where the dog sat, patiently waiting. “Pillow.”

“What?”

“I was speaking to my dog. Otherwise, he’d … object when you draw your weapon.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Brooks passed Abigail the wine, put on the glasses and the ear protectors.

“You use a Glock 22,” she noted. “It’s a good weapon.”

“Gets the job done.” Now he took his stance, loosened his shoulders, fired six rounds.

He glanced back at the dog as he holstered the weapon. Bert hadn’t moved.

Abigail drew in the target, stood a moment, studying the grouping that was a near twin of hers.

“You’re also an excellent shot.”

“I always figure if you carry, you’d better hit what you aim at. I got a good hand with a long gun. My mother’s got a flower child’s objection to guns, could be why I honed a skill with them. Standard rebellion, I suppose.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Have you shot anyone?”

“Not so far. I’d like to go on saying that. I had to draw my weapon a few times, but it never came to firing it.”