Copper Lake Confidential. Marilyn Pappano
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settled across from each other at the small dining table that separated the kitchen from the family room. Scooter took up a position exactly between them, looking excitedly from one to the other.
“He’s a beautiful dog,” she commented. “I’m thinking of getting one for my daughter and me.”
“Your daughter?” Stephen stood and crossed the few feet into the kitchen. “Knife?”
She nodded toward the block on one counter pushed far out of reach of little fingers. “Clary. She’s three. She’s in Charleston with my brother and his wife. They’re coming up Friday to help.”
Returning with a paring knife, he cut a slice of pizza into Scooter-sized pieces, fed one to the dog, then took a bite of his own slice. “You have any particular breed in mind?”
The one time she’d broached the subject with Mark, he’d listed the breeds he would find acceptable—in other words, very expensive—before giving a flat refusal. She had been disappointed by both responses but hadn’t really expected anything else. After all, an over-the-top belief in their own superiority was a defining characteristic of the Howard family, and Mark liked order. A yappy puppy would have upset that.
With those expensive, purebred animals in mind, she replied, “Something without a pedigree. One that needs a home and is good with kids.”
“There’s a no-kill shelter just outside town. Unfortunately, they have plenty that meet your requirements.”
Macy chewed her first bite, and the pleasure she’d briefly anticipated bloomed through her. It was almost enough to make her moan. After swallowing, she asked, “Is that where Scooter came from?”
“Nope. A client bought him sight unseen, didn’t do any training, then wanted me to put him down because he didn’t behave. He’s been with me ever since.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised, but my husband’s grandmother generally turned down visits with her only great-grandchild because Clary refused to be merely seen and not heard.” Miss Willa had had no patience for the baby, just as Mark would have had no tolerance for an exuberant dog. He’d killed people for no more reason than he wanted to. It was doubtful he would have spared a dog that was less than perfect.
Revulsion rippled through her, her fingers gripping her glass until the tips turned white. She took a couple of deep calming breaths and was grateful to hear Stephen go on talking, though for a moment the words were dampened by the hum in her ears.
“—is afraid she’s never going to get grandkids, much less great-grandkids,” he was saying when she could focus. “I tell her she should have had more than just the two of us. I doubt ‘procreate’ even makes Marnie’s list of things to do in this lifetime, and I—Well, gotta have a wife before I have kids.”
“You’re not married?”
“Not for a long time. Sloan and I met in vet school, graduated together and both got jobs in Wyoming. I did small animals, she did large. I hated the winter, she loved it. I didn’t want to stay, and she didn’t want to leave.” He shrugged as if his marriage and divorce had been that simple. No sign of regret in his voice. No heartbreak in his eyes.
She gave the obligatory I’m sorry, and he shrugged again, a loose, easy movement.
“Sometimes things don’t work out. She’s happy there. I’m happy here.” He reached for a second slice of pizza. “What about you? Is there an ex-husband somewhere?”
Her hand trembled, and a chunk of onion fell to her lap. She set down the pizza, grabbed a napkin and wiped the spot it left on her dress while her mind raced. Wouldn’t it be okay to lie, to simply say, “We’re divorced. He’s out of the picture”? It wasn’t as if she were staying in Copper Lake or would even see Stephen again once she left next week. Not every person who asked was entitled to the truth about Mark. It could be her little secret.
Her dirty little secret. Just as Mark had his.
He’d wound up dead because of his.
She took a drink to ease the dryness in her mouth, then folded both hands together in her lap, out of Stephen’s sight, and opened her mouth to tell the lie. But the wrong words came out. “No. He’s an ex only in the sense that he’s not around. He, um, died a year and a half ago.”
That was the first time she’d said the words out loud. She hadn’t had to tell her family when it happened because the sheriff did it for her. She hadn’t had to tell Clary because her daughter was too young to ask. Everyone else had found out through the media or the very efficient gossip network.
Granted, she’d told the bare minimum just now. She didn’t mention that he’d been trying to kill his cousin, Reece, and Jones, the man she’d married soon after, after they’d unearthed a bone from one of Mark’s and his grandfather’s victims. She didn’t try to find words to say that he’d shot himself in the head when his murder attempt failed. She couldn’t even imagine telling anyone that she’d been married to a cold-blooded sociopath.
“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Stephen said in a quietly comforting tone, the one he likely used when he had to deliver bad news to his patients’ owners. “That must be tough.”
“It would be tougher if I still loved him.” Immediately she clapped one hand over her mouth. Oh, God, had she actually said that out loud? To a stranger?
Shoving her chair back with a scrape, she jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen, face burning, palms sweaty. Her stomach was knotted, making her hope she wouldn’t have to dash for the bathroom. She damn well needed practice at this social interaction thing if she couldn’t even control the words that came out of her mouth.
A low whine came from Scooter, followed by a soft word from Stephen, then the sounds of the dog enjoying another bite of pizza. Macy stood in the middle of the kitchen, back to them, hugging herself, wondering what to do next.
Deal with it. You made the comment. Now stop acting like a nut job and go back to the table.
Grabbing a handful of napkins they didn’t need, she slowly retraced her steps and sat down. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say—I don’t normally bring that up in conversation.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t repeat it to anyone.” He slipped another bite to Scooter, then changed the subject. “I haven’t been to Charleston yet. Is that where you’re from or did your parents move there later?”
Her breathing slowed, her fingers slowly unclenching. “I’ve lived there all my life, except for here and in college. My parents bought my grandparents’ house after they passed, so there have been Irelands living in it for more than a hundred years.” Her smile felt crooked, though she gave it her best. “Mom and Dad are celebrating their fortieth anniversary with an extended tour of Europe. It seemed as good a time as any to take care of things here and—” She considered choices: start living again. Put the past behind us. Get away from the shame and the scandal. “—move on.” That was bland enough.
“Do you think you’ll stay there? Just get a place of your own?”
“I think I might close my eyes really tight, point to a spot on a map and go there.” She didn’t see herself in Charleston five years from now, or even five months from now. Emotionally, she needed her family close, but emotionally she needed distance. Yes, she needed their support, but too much support made her dependent. Even now, when she was adamant about getting back to her life, she hadn’t been able to give much thought to where she wanted that life to play out. She had to start relying on herself, making decisions and standing by them. She needed to take control again.
“Pick a spot in the southern half of the country. It gets danged cold above the Mason-Dixon line.”
Again her smile was weak. “I kind of like cold.”
“Says the woman who’s lived all of her life in the South. Spend a winter in Wyoming.