The One Safe Place (5 page)

“On Doug Lambert.”

“Yes.”

“But it's only been one day. Surely it's too soon?”

“Yes. I know.” She took a deep breath. “I know it is.”

They worked in silence another moment, and then she spoke again.

“It's just that…they did expect to hear from the florist today. The one who might have sold him the roses.”

“The roses?” Reed was careful to keep any overly curious quality from his voice. He didn't want to pry, but he wanted to know everything he could. And it would do her good to talk about it. After her tears last night, she had seemed much more relaxed. She had let him guide her to the bedroom door as limply as an exhausted child.

“They found three rose petals in my kitchen that
day, next to my sister's body.” She scrubbed at an already clean glass so hard her knuckles turned as white as the suds. “The problem was that these roses hadn't come from Doug's regular florist. He sent me roses all the time, but not this kind.”

Reed wanted to take the glass out of her hand. She was holding it much too tightly. But he didn't dare break the flow of words.

“These roses were a much rarer variety. At first the police thought that meant it hadn't been Doug after all. But Detective Bentley sent the petals to a botanist, who said it was a variety called ‘Faith.'”

Reed made a noise in spite of himself.

A shiver seemed to pass through her, and the glass slipped, plopping into the water. She fished it out again with trembling fingers.

“I think that was when Detective Bentley began to believe me. He finally found the little shop that sold them. It was two blocks from my apartment. We're waiting for the owner to get back from vacation, to see if he can identify Doug as the man who bought the roses that day.”

“Of course it was.”

“Yes.” Her voice was even huskier than usual. “But they need evidence. For a jury. For a conviction.”

Reed moved closer to the sink. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry that call wasn't Detective Bentley.”

“It's all right.” But her voice cracked, and he knew it wasn't true.

She turned to hand him the glass. As he reached out, it fell from her shaking fingers and smashed on the wooden floor, splinters of crystal scattering in all directions.

He bent quickly, and so did she. As they knelt, their faces were only inches apart, and he could feel waves of stress pulsing from her. Her brown eyes were almost black, and a sharp sliver of glass glinted on her shirt, right over her heart.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, and he could feel her struggle to hold herself together, to keep her emotions from flying into a hundred different pieces, just like the glass. She gathered shards quickly, filling her palm. “Please. I'll clean it up.”

He caught her by the wrist. “It's all right,” he said.

“No, it isn't.” She bit her lower lip hard and inhaled deeply. The pulse in her wrist was like a jackhammer under his thumb.

“I hate this,” she said. “This isn't me. I'm not like this.”

“Like what?”

She held out her palm full of sparkling bits of glass. “Like this. Clumsy. Incompetent. You probably won't believe it, but I have my own business. I'm good at what I do. I don't break everything I touch.”

“Of course you don't.”

“And I'm not weak. I never cry. Never. I don't know what happened to me last night. I'd hate for you to think that I—”

A sudden noise in the kitchen doorway stopped her.
She looked up and saw Spencer standing there, staring at them curiously. She glanced at Reed, who let go of her hand. She stood up, all the ferocity instantly draining from her expression.

“Hi,” she said to her nephew. “Don't come in, honey. I broke a glass, and it's all over the place.”

The little boy didn't protest. He waited in the doorway, holding on to Tigger's collar to keep the puppy safe, too. They finished cleaning up the shards quickly, and then, at a nod from Faith, Spencer walked in, holding out a large piece of paper.

She took it with a smile. “What's this? Oh—how cute! I'll bet you drew this for Dr. Fairmont, didn't you?”

Spencer didn't answer, of course, but he didn't snatch the paper back, either, and even Reed could see that the little boy was comfortable with Faith's deduction. His somber brown gaze transferred to Reed, as if he were waiting for his reaction.

“Look,” Faith said, handing it over. “It's the kittens you were talking about at dinner.”

The kid was pretty good. Reed could clearly see three tiger-striped kittens sleeping inside a large, domed birdcage. Spencer had even added a colorful parrot on top of the cage, staring down, bewildered by what had become of his home.

Reed chuckled and looked over at Spencer. “Nice job,” he said. “It's very good, and it's funny, too.”

Spencer didn't smile, exactly. But he worried at his lip, as if he had to work to keep himself from smiling,
and that was good enough for Reed. It felt good to see even the tiniest bit of pleasure on that pinched, freckled face. Kids weren't meant to be so sad.

“Spencer, what's that?” Faith bent down and tugged on a bit of leather that stuck out of the little boy's back pocket. “You brought Tigger's leash? Why?”

Spencer darted a quick look over at Reed, and Faith made a low sound of sudden comprehension. “Oh, I know. Maybe you've decided that you would like to go out with Dr. Fairmont to see the kittens?”

The little boy answered by leaning down and affixing the leash to Tigger's collar. The puppy immediately began turning around in frenzied circles of joy.

Faith looked up at Reed, delighted surprise written all over her lovely face. Apparently it was something of a miracle that Spencer would actually be willing to go out into the night with a stranger, even to see newborn kittens.

“Sure,” Reed said easily. “I'd love to take him along.”

Oops—he must have phrased that wrong. Spencer's brow wrinkled deeply under his shaggy brown bangs. He tugged on Faith's sweater. When he got her attention, he walked to the far counter and grabbed her purse. He came back and handed it to her.

The implication was unmistakable. Spencer wasn't going anywhere without his aunt.

“Reed?” She lifted her eyebrows. “Do you have room for all of us?”

“Of course,” he said. “It'll be fun.”

And he realized that, much to his surprise, he actually meant it. He had thought he'd have trouble relinquishing his accustomed solitude—and yet here he was, downright pleased that he wouldn't have to make the long drive out to the Lofton estate alone.

Someone knocked on the kitchen door. Spencer froze, then sidestepped behind Faith's legs, dragging Tigger with him. Soon all you could see were his little white-knuckled fingers around her hips.

“It's probably just Theo,” Reed said reassuringly. “She'll be wanting her casserole dish.”

Faith put her hand behind her back to stroke Spencer's head. “Can't be Theo,” she said with a smile. “Theo doesn't knock.”

Reed grinned back—he could easily imagine Theo saying something as haughty as that. So who was it? Mentally crossing his fingers that it wasn't any kind of emergency, he opened the door.

It was an emergency, all right. Somehow he managed not to groan out loud. It was a bona fide, four-alarm, social faux pas emergency.

It was Pauline Ferguson, the young owner of Waterworks, the newest retail store on Main Street. Pauline, the red-haired beauty from South Carolina who had been chasing Reed for months, trying to coax him into casting off his mourning and rejoining the social scene at her side.

He was supposed to be at her house right now, picking her up for their first real date.

She was angry, but far too clever to show it. Only the bright flash of her green eyes gave it away. Reed had once seen that same flash in the eyes of a furious, wounded fox.

“Oh, hell, Pauline. I'm so sorry. I completely forgot.”

That didn't help, naturally. But it was the truth. And if she wanted to date him, she was going to have to accept the truth. He'd forgotten their date because it honestly didn't mean very much to him. He wasn't ready for a “relationship” and he'd told her so, a hundred times. He'd only said yes because she wouldn't accept a no.

She had assured him that she wasn't interested in anything serious, either, her divorce was too recent, couldn't they just keep each other company? But in those two flashing seconds he saw that she'd been lying.

If only he could just call it off. He'd much rather see whether the kittens, who were as small as hamsters, as blind as bats and as cute as hell, could make Spencer smile.

But he was stuck, of course. He wasn't selfish enough to insult Pauline like that. He introduced Pauline to Faith—and to Spencer, though Pauline had to take his word for it that a little boy was actually attached to those clutching fingers.

“I hope you're feeling flexible about tonight's date,” he said with a smile. “I need to go to the Lofton farm before I can do anything else. And I
promised Spencer and Faith they could come along. Dina Lofton has some newborn kittens that are pretty darn cute.”

Pauline was no fool. She smiled, the picture of flexibility. The wounded fox was completely hidden behind the easygoing Southern charm.

“Of course I don't mind. You know I adore kittens.”

But Spencer began tugging frantically at Faith's sweater, pulling at her purse, trying to make her take it off her shoulder. His meaning was clear. He was no longer interested in going anywhere.

“It's okay, Spencer,” Reed said. He felt irrationally annoyed with Pauline, who didn't realize the damage she'd done just by showing up. “We can still go. We'll all pile into the truck together. It'll be fun.”

Spencer froze—and then he came out from behind Faith's legs slowly. He gave Reed one long, blank look. He reached over and plucked his kitten sketch very carefully from the kitchen table. And then, with Tigger prancing in happy ignorance behind him, the little boy left the room.

 

F
OUR HOURS LATER
, Reed let himself into the house quietly, hoping he wouldn't wake his houseguests. He was tired, and he needed to be alone.

The date had been a disaster.

Pauline hadn't done anything wrong, exactly. She was as clever as a chameleon, and she'd adapted herself to his mood, going from gaily high-spirited to
sensitively low-key in a blink. Her message came through neon-clear:
See? I'm the perfect woman. I can be whatever you want.

But there was one thing she could never be, no matter how clever she was. She could never be Melissa.

Oh, heck, that was a stupid thought, and he knew it. He could almost imagine Melissa rolling her eyes at his maudlin nonsense. She had told him toward the end that if he never married again she would consider it a personal insult. Hadn't she shown him how wonderful a good marriage could be?

For the first time in a long time, he wished he still drank. He'd like to forget everything about this blasted night, from the mute betrayal in Spencer's face when he realized he wasn't going to get to see the kittens, right up to the disappointment in Pauline's face when she realized Reed wasn't going to kiss her good-night.

Damn it. Damn it.
Damn it.

Why did everyone want something from him that he didn't have?

He yanked the lid from the garbage can, deciding that action would have to replace the easy oblivion of liquor. Luckily, Autumn House never ran out of chores to exhaust his body into sleep. He might as well start by taking out the trash.

Right on top, though, were a dozen torn pieces of sketch paper with strangely familiar colors all over them. Two of the pieces fluttered to the floor. Picking
them up, he tilted his head, trying to imagine the picture intact again.

The orange and brown of tiger-striped kittens. The blue, red and yellow of a parrot.

Damn it.

“I was going to take that bag out,” Faith said suddenly from the kitchen doorway. “But I wasn't sure exactly where to put it.”

He looked over at her, the pieces of paper still in his hand. She was already dressed for bed. She looked washed out, exhausted.

“It's okay,” he said. “You're not really the housekeeper, here, you know. You don't have to vacuum, or dust, or take out the trash.”

“I know,” she said, twisting the sash of her moon-blue robe a little tighter. “But I have to do something. And you've been so generous, letting us stay here—”

She stopped as she noticed the torn papers in his hand. “Oh,” she said, slightly embarrassed. She obviously hadn't meant for him to see the evidence of Spencer's anger.

“It was a rough night,” she said. “He was a little…emotional.”

“I can see that.”

“I'm very sorry about what happened earlier,” she said. “Spencer didn't mean to be rude. It's just that he—”

“Faith, stop apologizing.” Reed hated those shadows under her eyes. When had she last had a good night's sleep? “You can't take the blame for every
thing that happens. It's not your fault Doug Lambert fell in love with you. It's not your fault he killed your sister. It's not your fault you had to leave New York so that he wouldn't kill you, too.”

“I know,” she said. But she bit her lip, and he felt a pang of remorse. She was probably struggling to avoid apologizing for apologizing too much.

His words were still vibrating in the empty kitchen, where low lights and midnight silence were creating an odd intimacy. They were like a married couple arguing softly so that they wouldn't wake the children. Except that they weren't married. She was his guest.

He rubbed his hand over his face, as if that might clear his head. He looked down at the torn picture again, and then looked at Faith, who had turned to leave the kitchen.