Private Lives

“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 Jack on a leash and jogged down a trail toward the Adirondack Lake, exercising himself and his dog. He saw Dudley at about the same time as Jack barked and stopped.

“Dudley, where is your mother?”

“She’s asleep, I think.”

He hunkered beside the boy. “How many times have you wandered out of the house without letting your mother know about it?”

Dudley looked him straight in the face, then he patted Jack on the back. “Lots of times.”

“Why do you disobey your mother?”

Dudley looked down at his feet and then gazed up at him with the saddest eyes that he’d seen in a child’s face. “The house is so small and I like it outside. I already did my lessons this morning.”

“Where is your father, Dudley?”

“He doesn’t live with us.”

“Then you have to learn to obey your mother. Come on.” He took the boy’s hand and started for Allison Sawyer’s house. To his amazement, Dudley didn’t resist going home. Indeed he seemed happy to hold Brock’s hand. He knocked on Allison’s front door.

“She’s asleep, Mr. Lightner, and I think she’s going to send me to my room.”

After a few minutes, the door opened and Allison stared up at him with a questioning expression on her face. For an answer, he looked down at Dudley.

“Oh, my Lord. Don’t tell me he was out there again,” she said in a voice laced with fear.

“You didn’t repair that lock, did you?”

She seemed defeated. “I have a deadline to meet and when he promised not to sneak out again, I decided to wait to change the locks.”

Better to shock her now than to cry with her later. He didn’t spare her. “Yesterday afternoon, I chased a wild boar from my gate. Those animals will attack a bear. If Dudley encountered one, I doubt you’d see him alive again.”

Her almost-plaintive expression opened a hole inside of him and he grasped her shoulder. “You don’t have to replace the locks. I’ll do it for you. Now. Today. You can’t watch him every minute. If it’s the money…”

She shook her head. “No, it isn’t that and I thank you for bringing him home. I’d die if anything happened to my child.”

“I know you would. I’ll be glad to run up to the store and get the locks and a chain for that fence, but I suspect you’d feel safer knowing you were the only one with the keys. I take it your windows lock. Right?”

“Yes, they do. Thank you,” she said. “I’ll drive to the store and get the locks, and I should have them around noon. Thanks. I…I appreciate your help, Mr. Lightner.”

She had a way of looking at him that made him feel as if he could twist iron with his bare hands. His breath shortened and he forced himself to look away from her. “It seems as if Jack is taken with Dudley. I suppose even dogs need playmates. I’ll see you later.”

“Can I go stay with Jack and Mr. Lightner, Mommie?”

“No, darling. We shouldn’t impose on our neighbor.” She wanted to move, but Brock wouldn’t let her. His gaze was like fingers stroking and caressing her body, warm and seductively.

He took a small notepad from his pocket, made a step toward her and said, “Call me when you get home. This is my cell-phone number.” He wrote the number on the pad, tore it off and handed it to her. A smile played around his mouth, making his full, bottom lip even more inviting. “The sooner we do this, the better.”