Private Lives. Gwynne Forster
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took a few steps closer to Brock and looked up at him. “I turned the lock and opened the door.”
Allison could see that Dudley had jettisoned her plan to avoid Brock Lightner and she didn’t know what she could do about it. The man gazed down at her intently, as if he were testing the water before diving into it.
“Don’t you think you should change the lock on that door? If he can get out so easily, someone may get in just as easily.”
The man’s eyes seemed to suck her in like quicksand. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t stop looking at him? “That’s…I’ll see if someone up at the general store can fix it for me,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like hers. “Thanks for your kindness. Come along, Dudley.”
“But, Mommie!”
“Did you hear me? I said come on.” She didn’t look at Brock Lightner because she knew he was judging her, and unfairly, too. But she had to protect her son and she didn’t know the man or his reason for being in Indian Lake. Dudley poked out his bottom lip and prepared to cry. But she ignored that, grabbed his hand with more force that she’d intended and turned to head up the road. She noticed that Brock tightened his hold on the dog’s leash and stopped.
“I thought you said he isn’t dangerous.”
“He isn’t right now, but he’s agitated because Dudley’s crying and you pulled him a little roughly. Jack has established a bond with Dudley.”
“Believe me, Dudley can test a saint when he puts himself to it. Goodbye.”
“Can we pick some raspberries, Mommie?”
“No, Dudley. We are going home. I have a lot of work to do.”
Later she put Dudley on a stool in her kitchen and looked him in the eye. “You did a very bad and very dangerous thing when you sneaked out and wandered into those woods. You heard what Mr. Lightner said about the wild animals. They can hurt you very badly. If you ever do that again, I am going to lock you in your room. Do you understand?”
The boy reached up and pinched her chin. “You ate some ginger snaps, Mommie. There’s a little piece right there.”
She stared at him for a second. He giggled, having learned how to charm his way out of trouble and, even though she knew he was trying to snow her, she laughed and hugged him. She couldn’t help it. He was the delight of her life. The ringing of the telephone saved her from further disciplining him.
“Hello.” She never identified herself when answering the telephone.
“Allison? This is Layla. How’s that rewrite coming?”
“Kicking and screaming. It’s like pulling hens’ teeth and they don’t have any teeth. There isn’t a whole lot you can say about white icing, Layla. But with so many people allergic to chocolate, cooks are going to have to learn how to make creamy white icing.”
“That’s why you’re doing this cookbook. The sales force is on my back, Allison,” Layla continued.
“It’s not due until next week.”
“I know, but you said you could have it in early. Oh, well. How’s Dudley?”
“Holding up my work, as usual. Otherwise, I’m happy to say he’s fine.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to receiving your precious manuscript in my hands next Wednesday.”
“Don’t worry. It will be there.” She hung up and hurried back to the kitchen where Dudley remained on the stool.
“Mommie, why can’t I play with Jack? If I can’t play with Jack, can I have a dog?”
“I don’t know anything about taking care of dogs. Now if you’ll let me work for a couple of hours, I promise to find you a guitar teacher. You did really well in your math and reading this morning. Why don’t you work on that map?”
“I’m going to start on a new map.” He jumped down and went to his room.
Maybe moving to such an isolated place had been a bad decision. Dudley needed playmates and he didn’t have access to libraries, museums or other activities. But what could she do? If Lawrence kidnapped Dudley and whisked him out of the country, as he’d threatened to do, she’d never see her child again. She made a pot of coffee and forced herself to focus on her work. Looking at the computer screen, her mind’s eye conjured up Brock Lightner’s sleepy, light brown eyes and the dimple in his left cheek that had seduced her into believing he was harmless.
Maybe the man wasn’t all that interesting and the problem wasn’t him but her loneliness. Maybe she should pack up and head west. She rubbed her hands as if in despair and closed her eyes. Snap out of it, Allison. You have to finish this book!
Brock decided to go back home and get to work. He couldn’t understand Allison Sawyer’s skittishness around him, although he could understand why an intelligent woman would not allow her child to go off with a stranger. As soon as he managed to find out where she’d lived before, he’d have all the information he needed to know. He hadn’t spent ten years as a successful private investigator for no reason. She was on the lam, either from the law or someone, and nothing would make him believe otherwise.
He remembered that he hadn’t talked with his mother for a couple of days and phoned her. “It’s great to be back up here,” he told her. “First chance I get, I’m going over to the big Indian Lake and try to catch some striped bass. At this small lake over here, people fish for pike and sunfish.”
“Don’t try talking around me, Brock. I want to know if you’ve definitely given up being a private investigator. I worry every minute. It’s so dangerous.”
“Good grief! Well, you can put that behind you. I’m writing an account of my experiences and that’s a good way to get it out of my system.”
“I don’t suppose there’re any nice girls up there.”
The chuckle that began deep in his throat exploded into a laugh. “Mom, the village probably doesn’t have more than two hundred and fifty people, if that many. The post office and the bank are three miles up the road. One supermarket nearby serves everyone in a ten-mile radius. How’s Dad?”
“Reginald’s playing golf. One day last week, he shot a seventy-two and there’s no living with him.”
It sounded like a complaint, but he heard the pride in her voice. “Good for him. I’ll be in touch.”
Now, if I can get one page written, I can say I’ve started. But do I write it as fiction or nonfiction? He’d thought about that question for weeks and hadn’t come to a conclusion. He called his brother, Justin.
“You want to sound clever or you want to make some money?” Justin said—always the practical one—when Brock put the question to him.
“I want to make some money and I want to get investigating out of my system.”
“Then you can figure out the answer,” Justin said. “I know what I’d do.”
“Write a fictionalized first-person account. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
He opened his laptop and started typing, attacking the story as if it were an enemy. After two hours, he printed out eight double-spaced pages, got a cup of coffee, went out on his deck and sat down to read what he’d written and decide whether he liked it or not. Jack settled beside his chair. He’d read for only a few minutes when Jack jumped up and growled. He’d never seen a wild boar up there, but there was no mistaking the tusks protruding from its mouth. He didn’t like shooting animals, but if he saw it again, he’d have to eat a lot of roast pig. He didn’t want Jack near the animal because it posed a danger even for bears. He walked out to the gate, threw a few sticks and drove the boar away.
The following morning, shortly after seven, he put