Rainshadow Road (Friday Harbor #2)(51)

* * *

Alex went out to the front porch, taking care to leave the front door unlocked. The muffin was cradled in his hand, the unbleached parchment liner slick with the residue of butter, the dome cobblestoned with streusel.

He sat on a cushioned wicker chair, hunching over the food as if someone were likely to rush forward and snatch it from him.

Lately he’d had a tough time eating. No appetite, no ability to be tempted, and when he did manage to take a bite and chew something, his throat clenched until it was difficult to swallow. He was always cold, desperate for the temporary heat of liquor, always needing more than his body would tolerate. Now that the divorce had gone through, there were plenty of women offering any kind of consolation he might want, and he couldn’t work up any interest in them.

He thought of the little blonde in the kitchen, almost comically beautiful, with her big eyes and perfect bow-shaped mouth … and beneath the tidily buttoned clothes, the voluptuous curves that approximated an amusement park ride. Not at all his taste.

As soon as he took a bite of the muffin, a saliva-spiking mixture of tartness and sweetness nearly overwhelmed him. The texture of it was dense and yet cakelike. He consumed it slowly, his entire being absorbed in the experience. It was the first time he’d been able to taste something, really experience a flavor, in months.

He finished it bite by disciplined bite, while a sense of relief flowed through him. The grooves of tension on his face eased. He would swear on his life that Zoë had put something in the muffins, something illegal, and he didn’t give a damn. It gave him a clean, good feeling … a feeling of sinking into a warm bath after a raw day. His hands had stopped shaking.

He sat still for a minute, testing the sensation, sensing that it would hold at least for a little while. Heading back into the house, he picked up his toolbox and slunk up the stairs toward the attic with catlike quietness. He was intent on keeping the good feeling, determined not to let anyone or anything interfere with it.

On the way up he passed by Sam, who was carrying a slender young brunette with big green eyes. She was swathed in a robe, one of her legs wrapped in a bulky splint. “Alex,” Sam said without stopping, “this is Lucy.”

“Hi,” Alex muttered, also not stopping, and he continued to the third-floor attic.

* * *

“Are you okay here?” Zoë asked Lucy, after Sam had left them alone to talk.

Lucy smiled. “I really am. As you can see…” She gestured to the gargantuan green velvet sofa, ice packs that Sam had settled around her leg, the cream-colored throw blanket tucked at her sides, and the tumbler of water he had set beside her. “I’m being very well taken care of.”

“Sam seems nice,” Zoë said, her blue eyes twinkling. “As nice as Justine said. I think he likes you.”

“Sam likes women,” Lucy replied wryly. “And yes, he’s a great guy.” She paused before adding diffidently, “You should go out with him.”

“Me?” Zoë shook her head and gave her a quizzical glance. “There’s something going on between you two.”

“There’s not. There won’t be. Sam’s very honest, Zoë, and he’s made it clear that he will never make a permanent commitment to a woman. And although it’s tempting to just let go and have fun with him…” Lucy hesitated and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s the worst kind of heartbreaker, Zoë. The kind that’s so appealing, you try to convince yourself that you could change him. And after everything I’ve been through … I’m not strong enough to be hurt again quite so soon.”

“I understand.” Zoë’s smile was warm and compassionate. “I think it’s very wise of you, Lucy. Sometimes giving up something you want is the very kindest thing you can do for yourself.”

Fifteen

After Zoë’s visit, Lucy relaxed on the sofa with her cell phone and an electronic reading tablet. Sam had packed fresh ice bags around her leg and brought her a tumbler of cold water before heading outside to confer with his vineyard crew. They were busy removing leaves to expose developing grape clusters to the sun, and hand-tilling the ground with spades.

“I’ll be out there for forty-five minutes to an hour,” Sam said. “My phone’s on. Call if you need something.”

“I’ll be fine.” Lucy pulled her face into a grimace as she added, “I have to call my mother and tell her what happened. It’ll take all my skills of persuasion to keep her from flying up here to check on me in person.”

“She’s welcome to stay here.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. But the last thing I need is for my mother to hover over me.”

“Offer still stands.” Approaching the settee, Sam bent to pet Renfield, who was sitting beside Lucy. “You watch over her,” he told the bulldog, who regarded him solemnly.

“He is good company,” Lucy said. “He’s certainly quiet.”

“Bulldogs aren’t generally barkers.” He paused and shot Renfield a chiding glance. “But there is the flatulence.”

Renfield reacted to the comment with a look of extreme dignity, causing Lucy to laugh. She reached down to rub the dog’s loose-skinned head as Sam left the house.

Although the morning wasn’t yet over, the day was already hot, the sun burning through a slack canopy of clouds. Screen windows on both sides of the house let in stray breezes from the ocean.