River Road (6 page)

L
ucy took a sip of her white wine.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“You were right,” Mason said. “Whoever did this job was a world-class DIY amateur.”

“That pretty much describes Aunt Sara. She had a lot of talents, but home repair was not among them.”

They were standing in front of the big fireplace, contemplating the tiles that walled up the front. A short time earlier, Mason had replaced the last of the burned-out bulbs in the ceiling fixtures that she had been unable to reach. After examining the wobbly stepladder in the hall closet, she had concluded that he’d had a point about the dangers of ladders.

The lights were on throughout the first floor now, but it seemed to Lucy that the house was as gloomy as ever and no room was darker than the front room, with its cold, closed-up fireplace. Things would be different when she would finally be able to get a real fire going.

Mason swallowed some of his beer, leaned down and used a chisel to poke at one of the tiles. Some of the grout that secured it to the backing crumbled into fine dust.

He straightened and set the beer on a side table. “The grout is in bad shape. I could probably take this down with my bare hands.”

“I wonder why she didn’t call in a professional to install the tiles,” Lucy said.

Mason shook his head and studied the raggedly arranged tiles with the expression of a doctor surveying a doomed patient. “We in the hardware business see this type of mistake over and over again. Someone insists on a do-it-yourself job to try to save a few bucks. The result is that it ends up costing more to fix the bad workmanship than the project would have cost if it had been done right in the first place.”

Lucy smiled. “Luckily, I can afford dinner. How long do you think it will take to remove the tilework?”

“Not long—maybe a couple of hours, start to finish. I’ll want to go slow so I don’t do any damage to the original fireplace surround.”

“A couple of hours.” Lucy glanced at her watch. “Why don’t we have dinner and then tackle those tiles?”

“Good idea.”

Mason looked remarkably cheerful, she thought. No, not cheerful, more like filled with keen anticipation. She could see it in his eyes.

It was just dinner. So why was she feeling a little rattled?

“How does pan-seared salmon sound?” she asked.

“Very good,” he said. “Terrific.”

“Follow me.”

She walked through the wide opening that divided the living room and the front hall and crossed into the old-fashioned kitchen. Mason followed hard on her heels.

“Can I do something?” he asked.

“You can set the table. Dishes are in that glass-fronted cabinet. Silverware is in the drawer next to the refrigerator.”

He went to work, looking extremely satisfied with himself.

“Nolan Kelly came to see me right after you left the store this afternoon,” he said.

“Did he?” She opened the refrigerator and took out the salmon that she had marinated in olive oil, lime juice and soy sauce. “I saw him sitting at a table in front of the café.”

“Figured you did,” Mason said. “He was with Jillian Colfax.”

“Yes, I saw her, too.”

Mason tore off a chunk of the bread and took a bite. “Thought so. Your aunt told you that Jillian married Quinn Colfax?”

“Sara mentioned it. No surprise there.”

“No,” Mason agreed. “She always had her eye on the prize. And the big prize in Summer River was the son of Warner Colfax.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Deke said they married a year or two after they both graduated from college.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t had kids.”

Mason folded a paper napkin with origami-style precision. “I don’t think things are turning out the way Jillian hoped they would.”

Lucy set the strainer filled with washed baby bok choy on the counter next to the stove. “Meaning?”

“Deke says everyone thought that when Warner Colfax took it into his head to fire up his very own winery here in the valley he would turn the job of running Colfax Inc. over to his son.”

“That didn’t happen?”

“Nope. Word is the old man brought in an outsider as CEO.”

“That had to hurt.”

“Probably.” Mason adjusted the handles of the knife and spoon so that they were perfectly aligned at the bottom edge of the folded napkin. “Quinn got stuck with a marketing job at the winery.”

“Jillian can’t be thrilled with that. Maybe it explains why they haven’t had children.”

“Maybe.” Mason placed the fork into position with great care. “You do know that Colfax bought out his partner’s share of what was then Colfax and Brinker, right?”

“Yes. Aunt Sara mentioned it. She said that Brinker was so devastated by the death of his son that he lost all interest in Colfax and Brinker. He sold his half to Colfax and a few months later died of a heart attack.”

“The first thing Warner Colfax did after buying out his partner was change the name of the company to Colfax Inc., which should tell you something.”

She smiled. “He wanted the world to know the company was his and his alone.”

“It’s natural. First thing Deke did when he bought the old hardware store was change the name. Aaron and I call our consulting firm Fletcher Consulting.”

“I get that. What surprises me is that Warner Colfax overlooked his own son when it came to selecting a CEO.”

“I’m guessing Quinn didn’t prove to be management material.”

“Think Jillian will leave him?”

“Beats me.” Mason positioned a glass. “But I’ve got a hunch that if she does, she’ll wait until after the merger is settled one way or the other. Too much money involved. Deke says the company is structured so that spouses, like Jillian, own a noncontrolling block of shares, but if there’s a divorce, the spouse loses those shares. According to Deke, that’s what happened to Warner Colfax’s first wife, Quinn’s mother. Warner dumped her for a woman who is less than half his age. The former Mrs. Colfax probably got a nice settlement, but she had to forfeit her shares in the corporation.” Mason paused for emphasis. “The idea is that all shares remain within the Colfax family.”

Lucy looked through the kitchen window, watching the evening light fade from the old orchard. “But now the rules have been broken because I inherited Mary Colfax’s shares.”

“Yes.”

Mason went quiet. She turned around and found him watching her with an intent expression.

“What?” she asked.

“I meant what I said earlier today, Lucy. You don’t want to get into the middle of the Colfax family feud.”

“Thank you for your advice,” she said very formally.

“But you’re not going to take it. You want to explain why not?”

“Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.”

“Then let’s try another subject. What are you going to do about Nolan Kelly? He’s after the listing on this place, and he’s not going to stop coming at you.”

“I know.”

“He was planning to drive out here to see you this afternoon.”

She went back to the frying pan. “Was he?”

“I told him you were busy shopping. Then he said he would drop by tonight. I told him you had other plans.”

She stilled in the act of picking up the bottle of olive oil. “You did?”

“Yeah. Figured I’d head him off at the pass for you.”

She turned deliberately toward him, one hand braced on the old tile counter. “Excuse me?”

“You know he’s just going to pressure you into listing the house with him.”

“So you took the liberty of informing him that I was busy all afternoon and evening?”

“Sure. Why not? You said yourself you didn’t want to talk to him about the property yet.”

“You took it upon yourself to inform him that I was unavailable.”

Mason’s brows scrunched together in a wary expression. “You look mad.”

“Annoyed. Irritated. But lucky for you, I am not yet mad. You’ve never seen me mad, and it’s probably best that way. But let’s get something straight here. You are not my personal secretary. I’m a big girl now. I can take care of my own business. I do not need anyone to schedule my life and my appointments while I’m in town. Are we very clear on that?”

Mason managed to look both crushed and bewildered. “I was just trying to do you a favor.”

She aimed a finger at him. “When I want a favor from you, I will request said favor. Do I make myself clear?”

“No favors.” He held up a hand, palm out. “No problem.”

Great.
Now she had probably hurt his feelings. Or not. It was hard to tell with Mason Fletcher.

She smiled.

“I’m glad we have an understanding,” she said. “You can finish setting the table now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He completed the process with his usual efficient, competent ease. Memories of the night he had driven her home from Brinker’s last party floated through her mind. She remembered how in control he had been that night—not only of the old truck but of himself. And she remembered something her aunt had said about Mason.
Someday that young man will either
learn to bend or he will break.

Thus far it did not appear that Mason had done much bending, and he certainly was not broken. But she could see shadows deep in his eyes, not depression or despair—at least she did not think that was what she saw. It was more like a kind of world-weariness mixed with resignation, as if he had spent the past few years searching for something he wanted or needed and was now beginning to accept that he might never find it.

“What brought you back to Summer River?” she asked. “Was it something that happened on the job, or was it personal?”

He looked at her across the table. “You said you didn’t need an administrative assistant to organize your life. Fine. I don’t need a counselor.”

She flushed. “Right. Sorry.” She tossed the bok choy into the pan with the salmon. “I do have a couple of questions about the night of Brinker’s last party. Can I ask?”

“Ask,” he said.

“I’ve never been able to buy the story that you took me away just because you thought I couldn’t handle myself in a crowd of hard-partying teens.”

“It wasn’t a story,” Mason said.

“You really thought that I would get stupid drunk? I may have been sixteen, but I wasn’t into drinking or drugs.”

“Your aunt never told you the truth, did she?”

She looked at him. “Guess not, since her story remained the same as your own—that I was too young, in over my head, blah, blah, blah.”

Mason picked up his beer and propped one shoulder against the refrigerator. “Okay, then, seeing as how you’re all grown up, here’s the truth. On the evening of the party I heard a rumor that Brinker had plans to target you that night.”

“What?” She felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. “I don’t understand.”

“What part about the word
target
don’t you get? He intended to drug you, rape you, film the rape scene and post the video online.”

“Good grief.” She leaned back against the counter and gripped the edges with both hands.
Thunderstruck
would not have been too strong a word to describe her reaction, she thought. “You
knew
that?”

“All I had to go on was the rumor, but I didn’t think it would be smart to take any chances. So, yeah, when I couldn’t get hold of your aunt, I went looking for you.”

“Every kid in town knew that I was going to be Brinker’s target that night?” she demanded, voice rising.

“I doubt it. Brinker kept his secrets close. But he did tell one person.”

“Who?”

“Jillian.”

“Jillian,” Lucy repeated, numb with the shock of it all. “I didn’t think she even knew who I was back in those days. She was the local prom queen and a cheerleader. I was just a kid from out of town who was spending the summer with her aunt.”

“She knew who you were, trust me.”

Lucy frowned, thinking it through. “Because she wanted Brinker, and Brinker wanted to target me.”

“Something like that. Whatever Brinker wanted, he got.”

“Why would he want me? I wasn’t his type. Jillian was his type.”

“It was just a horrible game to Brinker. The guy was a sociopath. If he’d lived, he probably would have become a serial rapist or maybe a serial killer. Who can say? You represented what he could never be—a sweet, decent kid. So he wanted to destroy you.”

She took a deep breath. “That’s very . . . insightful of you.”

“You learn a few things about human nature when you track bad guys for a living.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

She suddenly smelled the bok choy and salmon. Seizing a hot pad, she whirled around and yanked the pan off the heat. For a moment she stood there, staring at the contents of the skillet.

“You were right,” she said. “I really do owe you my thanks for saving me that night.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She met his eyes. “If Brinker had succeeded with his evil act, I would have been seriously traumatized. My life would probably have gone in an entirely different direction, and it most likely would not have been a good direction. So . . . thanks.”

L
ucy sat on the sofa, one leg curled under herself, and watched Mason take apart the wall of tiles that blocked the front of the big fireplace. It dawned on her that she liked to watch him, regardless of the task at hand—driving, flipping a wrench into the air, setting a table, removing tiles. She just liked to look at him.

It was weird to think that nothing had changed since he had dropped her off at her door the night of the party thirteen years ago. It wasn’t as if she’d spent the intervening years thinking about him or missing him. Her life had been fulfilling and, with the glaring exception of her love life, satisfying. She had a career she found interesting and challenging. She had good friends.

The point was that she had not been lonely since leaving Summer River and she had not been pining for Mason Fletcher. When she had thought about him at all, it had been with a mix of amusement and sympathy for the sixteen-year-old kid who’d had a crush on an older, out-of-reach male who, she now knew, had saved her from a vicious sociopath.

The bottom line was that Mason Fletcher had been a treasured memory of her youth, but she certainly had not obsessed over him. She was an adult now. She no longer viewed him from the perspective of a shy teen with a crush on an older boy. Now she saw him as an equal. The age difference between them was no longer an obstacle. And she found him even more fascinating than he had been all those years ago.

“How long do you plan to stay in Summer River?” she asked.

Mason used a small hammer to tap the end of a chisel. Another tile fell free. He caught it and placed it on top of the growing stack.

“Depends,” he said.

She let it go. Mason would talk only when he was ready, and that might be never.

“You know, I never would have envisioned you working in a hardware store,” she said.

“Why not? I like selling hardware. Hardware is real. Hammers, saws, drills, screwdrivers—they’re useful. When you think about it, civilization as we know it depends on stuff like that.”

“I hadn’t considered screwdrivers and hammers from that perspective, but I see what you mean. Personally, I’ve always considered good indoor plumbing the basis of civilization. It’s the reason I never saw the appeal of camping.”

“You can’t put a toilet or a shower together without good tools.”

“Good point.”

“What happened to your engagement?”

The question came out of nowhere, catching her off guard.

“It ended after about a year when I found him in bed with his administrative assistant,” she said.

Belatedly, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“You were engaged for nearly a year?” Mason gave her a severe look. “That should have told you something was seriously wrong.”

Now he had put her on the defensive.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, going for a little chill in her tone. “A lot of engagements last a year or longer. A long engagement gives two people an opportunity to make sure they are right for each other.”

Mason looked unconvinced. “I say if it takes you a year to decide whether or not you can make a commitment, something is missing.”

“Yes, well, turns out something was missing in the case of my engagement.”

He pried off another tile. “What?”

“Me, I think.”

He raised his brows. “Meaning?”

“I have commitment issues, according to my therapist. Something to do with being a child of divorce—all that shuttling back and forth between two feuding parents. Add in the fact that I didn’t like my mom’s second husband or my father’s second wife and they didn’t like me, and things get complicated.”

He smiled. “No shit?”

She smiled, too. “No shit.”

“Got a plan?”

“Absolutely. I finally decided to go the scientific route to finding the right partner. I registered at a very reputable, very expensive online matchmaking site. I’ve had thirty dates in the past few months. All of them were excellent matches, at least according to the computer algorithms that matched us.”

“But?”

She exhaled slowly. “But I’ve still got those darn commitment issues. What about you? Made any progress on the relationship front since your divorce?”

“Well, I probably still have communication problems.” He dropped another tile onto the stack. “But tonight I had dinner with a very interesting woman who has commitment issues, so things are definitely looking up.”

She laughed. “You’re right. You really are a glass-half-full kind of guy.”

“You miss your ex-fiancé?”

She stopped laughing and went with the truth. “Nope. The dirty little secret is that I was relieved when it was all over. Miss your ex-wife?”

“Nope. I was relieved, too, when I came home one day and discovered that she had walked out. It meant I could stop trying to fix myself. Lucky for me, she left before Fletcher Consulting started to make some money.”

He removed the last of the tiles and studied the wooden frame and backing for a moment. Then he reached for another tool.

A few minutes later, he eased the fame and backing out of the fireplace, revealing the dark opening.

“Looks like there is something inside,” he said.

Lucy uncoiled and sat forward on the sofa, trying to peer into the darkness. She could make out a large lumpy shape.

“Why on earth would Aunt Sara—” She stopped.

“Got a flashlight?” Mason asked. “If you don’t, I can get one from my truck.”

“Sara kept one in the kitchen. I’ll get it.”

“I think I’m going to need a clean towel, too.”

Lucy jumped up and went into the kitchen. When she returned, Mason took the towel and used it to remove a poker that had been lodged inside the fireplace.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I can’t be positive yet, but I’ve got a feeling that this is not going to be good.”

He set the poker aside and took the flashlight from her. He aimed the beam through the opening. She moved closer and looked into the deep fireplace.

“Looks like a copy of an old newspaper,” she said. “It’s sealed in a plastic bag.”

“Look closer.”

A cold chill iced her blood. “Is that a black garbage bag? Don’t tell me Sara stuffed the fireplace with trash before she covered it with tiles. That would be just too weird.”

“Garbage bags don’t have zippers,” Mason said. “It’s a body bag.”

“Good grief.” Lucy stepped back reflexively. “I can’t believe it.”

Mason used the towel again to reach into the fireplace. He removed the bag containing the newspaper. Lucy glanced at the banner.

“It’s a San Francisco paper,” she said. She glanced at the date and did the math. “Oh, crap. It was published in August, thirteen years ago. That’s the summer when Brinker was in town. Someone circled the headline,
Scorecard Rapist Strikes Again
.”

Mason turned the plastic bag over to view the other side of the newspaper. “There’s a driver’s license in here.”

Lucy stared at the photo of the young, astonishingly good-looking man. He was blond and blue-eyed, with a charismatic smile that promised dark thrills.

“Tristan Brinker,” she said.