The Winter Lodge (5 page)

Neither Rourke nor Jenny talked about what had happened, of course. Each worked hard to buy into the assumption that it was best left in the past, undisturbed.

But of course, neither one of them had forgotten. The peculiar awkward tension, the studied avoidance of each other, were proof of that. Jenny was sure that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget. There were very few things she knew for certain, but one of them was this. She would always remember that night with Rourke, but she would never understand him.

The shower turned off, and a few minutes later, he came in with a towel slung low around his hips, his damp hair tumbling over his brow. He was unbelievably good-looking: six-foot-something tall, with broad shoulders and lean hips. He had the kind of face that made women forget their boyfriends’ phone numbers. Jenny’s best friend, Nina Romano, always said he was way too good-looking to be a small-town policeman. With that chiseled jaw, dimpled chin and smoldering blue eyes, and that oh-so-memorable scar high on his right cheekbone, he belonged on billboards advertising high-end liquor or the kind of cars no one could afford. Jenny felt a clutch of pure lust, so sudden and blatant that it drew a laugh from her.

“This is funny?” he asked, spreading his arms, palms out.

“Sorry,” she said, but couldn’t seem to sober up. Her situation was just so completely awful that she had to laugh in order to keep from crying.

“I’ll have you know, this bed has been known to bring women to tears,” he said.

“I could have gone all day without hearing that.” She dabbed at her eyes and then studied him closely. She’d never known a man to have so many contradictions. He looked like a Greek god but seemed to be without vanity. He came from one of the wealthiest families in the state, yet he lived like a working-class man. He pretended not to care about anyone or anything, yet he spent all his time serving the community. He found homes for stray dogs and cats. He took injured birds to the wildlife shelter. If something was wounded or weak, he was there, simple as that. He’d been doing it for years. He had lived many lives, from spoiled Upper East Side preppie to penniless student, to public servant, making choices that were unorthodox for someone of his background.

He kept so much of himself hidden. She suspected it had to do with Joey and what had happened with him, with the three of them.

“…staring at me like that?” Rourke was asking.

She realized she’d been lost in thought, and she gave herself a shake. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I was thinking about your story.”

He frowned. “My story?”

“Everybody has one. A story. A series of events that brought you to the place you are now.”

The frown eased into a grin. “I like law and order, and I’m good with weapons,” he said. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“Even the fact that you joke around to cover up the real story is interesting to me.”

“If that’s interesting, then you ought to be a fiction writer.”

Aha. He pretended he wasn’t interesting. “You’re a good distraction,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“My whole life just went up in smoke, and I’m thinking about you.”

That seemed to make him nervous. “What about me?”

“Well, I just wonder—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t wonder about me or my story.”

How can I not? she thought. It’s
our
story. And something about the fire had changed things between them. They’d gone from avoiding each other to…this. Whatever “this” turned out to be. Was he drawn to her by his urge to protect, or was there a deeper motivation? Could the fire be a catalyst in making them face up to matters they both avoided? Maybe—at long last—they would talk about what happened.

Not now, Jenny thought. She couldn’t do that now, on top of everything else. For the time being, it was easier to engage in meaningless flirtation, skirting the real issues. Over the years, she’d gotten very good at that.

“I’d better hit the shower,” she said. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the wash, but they’re not dry yet.”

“You washed my clothes.”

“What, you wanted them dry-cleaned?”

She didn’t say anything. She knew that everything reeked of smoke and she ought to be grateful for the favor. Still, it was mind-numbing to realize she had exactly one set of clothes in this world.

He opened the bottom bureau drawer, revealing a fat paper parcel marked with a laundry-service label. “There’s a bunch of stuff in here. You can probably find something to fit. Help yourself.”

Frowning with curiosity, she tore open the parcel and inspected the contents, pulling out each piece and holding it up. There was a baby-doll top, a push-up bra, an array of impossibly tiny women’s underwear. She also found designer jeans and cutoffs, knitted tops with plunging necklines.

She straightened up and faced him. “So what are these, prizes of war? Souvenirs of sex? Things left behind by women who have walked out on you?”

“What?” he asked, but the sheepish look on his face indicated that he knew precisely what. “I had them cleaned.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“Look, I’m not a monk.”

“Clearly not.” She held a thong at arm’s length, between her thumb and forefinger. “Would
you
wear something like this?”

“Now you’re getting kinky on me.”

“I’m keeping the boxers,” she stated. As she headed to the bathroom, she paused, her face just inches from his bare chest. The damp steam that came off him smelled of Ivory soap. “I’d better get going. Like you said, it’s going to be a long day.”

She stepped into the bathroom. The radio, she discovered, had been set on her favorite station.

On the counter were three clean, folded towels—the exact number she preferred to use, in the proper sizes—one bath sheet and two hand towels.

Sure, it was flattering to imagine he was attracted to her. But that was all in the past; he hadn’t said a dozen words to her in years. He had barely noticed her until now. Until she was in her most vulnerable state—grieving, homeless, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He didn’t notice her until she needed rescuing. Interesting.

Jenny had to lie back on the bed and suck in her gut in order to get the borrowed jeans zipped over the boxer shorts. According to the designer tag in the waistband, the pants were her size. The jeans had probably belonged to someone named Bambi or Fanny, the sort of girl who enjoyed wearing things that looked as though they had been applied by paintbrush.

The bra was a surprisingly good fit, even though the push-up style was hardly her thing. She pulled on a V-neck sweatshirt, also tight, white with crimson trim and the Harvard seal smack-dab over her left boob.
Veritas.
It was probably as close as she’d ever get to a Harvard education.

Later she came into the kitchen, her borrowed socks flopping on the linoleum. When Rourke saw her, his face registered something she had never seen before, something that was so quickly gone, she nearly missed it—a sharp, helpless lust. Gosh, she thought, and all it took was dressing like a Victoria’s Secret model.

“Ho Ho?” he said.

“Hey, these clothes came out of
your
closet,” she said.

He scowled. “No, I mean Ho Ho.” He held out a package of iffy-looking chocolate snack cakes.

She shook her head. “You might be the coffee whisperer, but that—” she indicated the packaged Ho Hos “—is atrocious.”

He was dressed for work now, looking as clean-cut as an Eagle Scout, the youngest chief of police in Ulster County. Ordinarily it took years of experience and clever department politicking to reach chief’s status, but in the town of Avalon, it took no more than a willingness to accept an abnormally small salary. He treated his job seriously, though, and had earned the respect of the community.

She helped herself to a plump orange and sat at the kitchen counter. “You’re working on a Sunday?”

“I always work Sundays.”

She knew that. She just didn’t want to admit it. “What next, Chief?” she asked.

“We go to your house, meet with the fire investigator. If you’re lucky, they’ll make a determination as to the cause of the fire.”

“Lucky.” She dug her thumbnail into the navel of the orange and ripped back the peel. “How come I don’t feel so lucky?”

“Okay, poor choice of words. All I meant was, the sooner the investigation finishes up, the sooner the salvage can start.”

“Salvage. This is all so surreal.” She felt a sudden clutch of anxiety in her gut and remembered something. “You said you washed my clothes?”

“Uh-huh. I just heard the cycle end.”

“Oh, God.” She jumped up and hurried into the tiny laundry area adjacent to the kitchen and flipped open the washer.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, following her.

She yanked out the checked chef pants she’d had on. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she drew out the little brown plastic bottle. The label was still attached, but the bottle was full of cloudy water. She handed it to Rourke.

He took the bottle from her, glanced at the label. “Looks like all the pills dissolved.”

“You now have the most Zenlike, serene washing machine in Avalon.”

“I didn’t know you were on medication.”

“What, you thought I was handling Gram’s death without help?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why would you think I could do that?”

He set the bottle on the kitchen counter. “You are now. You have been all morning. I don’t see you freaking out.”

She hesitated. Braced her hands on the edge of the counter for support. Then she realized the posture accentuated her boobs in the tight sweatshirt and folded her arms. On a scale of one to ten, the doctor had asked her the night Gram passed away, how anxious did she feel? He told her to ask herself that question before taking a pill so that popping one didn’t become a habit.

“I’m a five,” she said softly, feeling a barely discernible buzz in her circulation, a subtle tension in her muscles. No sweating, no accelerated heartbeat, no hyperventilating.

“I know those aren’t your clothes,” Rourke said, “but I’d say you’re at least a seven.”

“Ha, ha.” She helped herself to another orange. “The doctor said I’m supposed to ask myself how anxious I feel on a scale of one to ten, consciously assessing my need for medication.”

Rourke lifted one eyebrow. “So if you’re a five, does that mean we should make an emergency run to the drugstore?”

“Nope. Not unless I feel like an eight or higher. I’m not sure why I don’t feel more panicked.

After everything that’s happened, it’s a wonder I’m not having a nervous breakdown.”

“What, do you want one?”

“Of course not, but it would be normal to fall apart, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think there’s any kind of ‘normal’ when it comes to a loss like this. You feel relatively okay now. Let’s leave it at that.”

She sensed something beneath his words. A certain wisdom or knowledge, as though maybe he had some experience in this area.

The morning air felt icy and sweet on her face as she followed him outside. He made sure the dogs had food and water and that the heater in the adjacent garage was on so they could come in out of the cold if they needed to. He closed the gate and then, with a flair of chivalry, he opened the door of the Ford Explorer, marked with a round seal depicting a waterwheel in honor of Avalon’s past as a milltown, and the words Avalon P.D.

Then he came around and got in the driver’s side and started up the car. “Seat belt,” he said. He noticed her looking at him and she wondered if he could tell she was thinking about what an enigma he was to her, the first person to distract her from her grief over Gram. He was being chivalrous because he was chief of police, she reminded herself. He would do the same for anyone.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. “You’re looking at me funny again.”

She felt her face heat and glanced away. She was supposed to be in despair about losing her grandmother and house, yet here she was having impure thoughts about the chief of police. Please don’t let me be that girl, she thought.

“Other than these clothes,” she said, “I’m fine.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s focus on today. On right now. We’ll deal with things one by one.”

“I’m all ears. See, I don’t know the drill. No idea what happens after the house burns down.”

“You make a new start,” he said. “That’s what.”

His words took hold of her. For the first time since Gram died, she began to see the situation in a new light. Drowning in grief, she had focused on the fact that she was all alone now. Rourke’s comment caused a paradigm shift.
Alone
became
independent.
She had never experienced that before. When her grandfather died, she’d been needed at the bakery. After her grandmother’s stroke, she’d been needed at home. Following her own path had never been an option…until now. But here was something so terrible, she wished she could hide it from herself—she was afraid of independence. She might screw up and it would be all her fault.

Although she’d stood around the previous day and watched her house burn, even feeling warmth from the embers, she felt a fresh wave of shock when she got out of the car. With all the equipment gone, there was nothing but the scaly black skeleton surrounded by a moat of trampled mud, now frozen into hard chunks and ridges.

“What happened to the garage?” she asked.

“A pumper backed into it. It’s a good thing we got your car out yesterday.”

The loss barely registered with her. It seemed minuscule in the face of everything else. She could only shake her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, patting her shoulder a bit awkwardly. “The fire investigators will be here soon, and you can have a look around.”

She felt an unpleasant chill. “Are you thinking this fire was set deliberately?”

“This is standard. If things don’t add up for the fire investigator, he’ll call for an arson investigation.

The insurance adjuster said he’d be here soon. First thing he’ll do is give you a debit card so you can get the basics.”

She nodded, though a shudder went through her. A swath of black-and-yellow tape surrounded the house at the property line.