Carla Neggers - The Widow

“I’ve been knocking out walls.”

“Cathartic?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it is. It’s just one of those things that needs to be done.”

“Did you stake out Mattie just now, or did you hear him and investigate?” Owen walked over to her with the two glasses and handed her one. “I’m guessing you laid in wait for him.”

“You’re guessing wrong. I was curious, and just took a walk over there-”

“In the dark.”

“Correct.”

“Without a flashlight?”

“I didn’t need one, really, out in the open on the rocks, with the stars and the moonlight. Once my eyes adjusted, I was fine. There was one short stretch of woods that was a little tricky.”

Owen sat on the chair opposite her. “And a flashlight would have warned Mattie you were on the way.”

She tasted the wine. “So it would have.”

“Are you ever off?”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean, ‘off’? Crazy? Out of control?”

“I mean, do you ever turn off your inner detective?”

“Ah. That ‘off.’ I have no jurisdiction here. Why?”

“I’d just like to know when I’m talking to Abigail, my pretty dark-eyed neighbor, and when I’m talking to Detective Browning, my pretty dark-eyed cop neighbor.”

“They’re one and the same.” She drank more of her wine. “So, how did Linc do on your hike?”

“Fine. He’s in better shape than he thinks he is. He asked about you-why you’re here, that sort of thing.”

“That’s understandable. Whenever I’m here people get stirred up. I remind them of a lot of unanswered questions. And Linc.” She shifted, staring at the fire. “Chris’s death was hard on him. He was just thirteen. He idolized Chris.”

“I remember.”

“Think you can help him?”

“Traipsing Linc Cooper up and down mountains wasn’t exactly what I had planned for the summer.”

“What did you have planned?”

Her voice held none of the suspicion and frustration it had when she was out on the rocks with Mattie, and her eyes shone in the glow of the orange flames. Owen could see the plaster dust on her hands, in her hair, and thought of her alone in her dead husband’s house, knocking out walls.

“I don’t know what I had planned,” he said.

“That could be just what you need-to have a few weeks with no plan.”

He smiled. “My grandmother would say that describes my whole life. She says I’m a tumbleweed at heart.”

“Maybe that’s why you like Maine. All the granite around here isn’t going anywhere. It gives you a sense of permanence that you don’t have in your life right now.”

“So philosophical.”

She laughed. “Now you’re scaring me.” She got to her feet, took another sip of the Chianti before setting the glass down on a side table. “I don’t want to keep you. Thanks for the wine.”

Something about his tone-his expression, whatever-had spooked her, made her self-conscious, aware. Owen rose, setting his wineglass next to hers. “Linc thinks you’re going to end up selling your place, too. I told him it wouldn’t feel right not having a Browning out on these rocks.”

“The real Brownings are all gone now. Too many of them died young. Chris, his parents. God knows how many ancestors. I swear his grandfather lived to ninety-five just to spite the odds.”

Owen touched a finger to her jaw. He felt the heat of the fire on one side of him and, on the other side, the cool night air coming through the partially open door. Her skin was warm, soft. “Abigail.”

She took an audible breath. “I’ll never have that kind of love again. A first love. I know that.” She seemed to make herself look at him, her gaze clear, unwavering. “But don’t think I haven’t loved again. Or that I can’t.”

“What about falling in love again?”

“I haven’t-not in the way you mean. I have a good life. I have wonderful friends and colleagues, a great family, rewarding work. That’s a lot.”

“Enough?”

“I don’t live in the past, if that’s what you mean. I want answers to Chris’s death. I want justice for him. But that’s not the only thing that gets me up in the morning.”

With the tip of his finger, Owen traced the outline of her mouth, saw her shut her eyes for a split second longer than a normal blink, telling him she wasn’t unaffected by his touch.

“What about you?” she asked. “You haven’t married.”

“Not yet, no.”

“Then it’s something you think about-something you want.”

But he took a step closer to her, easing his hand behind her neck, breaking her concentration. He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d first become attracted to her. Maybe he’d always been attracted to her, but she’d seemed so untouchable, so remote. Chris Browning’s widow. But over the years-a glimpse here and there on the rocks, a friendly chat from time to time when they’d run into each other on a walk, at the hardware store, in the post office. He’d never expected to act on his attraction. And, yet, here he was.

His mouth found hers for a whisper of a kiss, but he knew he was holding back-he knew he had to put a hard brake on how far he wanted to go with her. She sank the fingers of one hand into his upper arm, not to balance herself, he realized, but to communicate that he’d gotten to her. Her lips opened to the kiss, and he responded, his tongue mingling with hers, her grasp on his arm tightening.

He lowered his arms around her middle and lifted her slightly off her feet, drawing her against him. How easy it would be to slide her pants over her slim hips and take her right here, in front of the fire.

Slipping his hands inside her waistband, he splayed his fingers against her firm, warm flesh.

“Damn, Owen,” she said, taking her mouth from his and throwing her arms around his neck. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes were shining, and under her shirt, her nipples were clearly visible. She pressed herself against him and found his mouth again. “Damn.”

“Tell me what you want.” He slid his hands deeper into her shorts, the flesh hotter, wetter. How had they come this far, this fast? One quick move on his part, and she’d be fully exposed. “Tell me, Abigail.”

She smiled. “I think it’s obvious what we both want.” She settled her feet back onto the floor and dropped her arms from his neck. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

“And you don’t?”

“Well…” She seemed to realize she had nowhere to go with that one. “That’s not the point. Or maybe it is.”

But they both knew when to give in to an impulse, and this wasn’t the time-if only, Owen thought, because they both also knew it was more than an impulse. Something real was going on between them and had been for a long time.

He stepped back from her. “Another glass of wine?”

She smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

Linc heard the clatter of a bicycle on the driveway outside, in the dark, and knew it was Mattie Young.

Who else would it be?

His father looked up from his book and frowned. “What was that?”

“I think it’s one of my friends,” Linc said, already on his feet. They were in the front den, pretending they were a normal family. Him, his father, his sister. “We’re supposed to make arrangements to hike the Bubbles tomorrow.”

“Oh. Wonderful.”

Linc had known his father would like that one. The thought of his one-and-only son doing something physical, besides playing video games, would appeal to him. He wouldn’t risk inadvertently dissuading Linc by interfering-which Linc counted on. He’d seen how his father had reacted when he’d told him about hiking with Owen. The restrained approval, as if going overboard would turn Linc right back to being a couch potato.