Snowfall On Haven Point

“I’ll have to take your word on that. Be nice to Andie, okay? You know things haven’t been easy for her.”

Yeah, he knew. His gut twisted. Detective Robert Warren had sat in the county jail for months after his plea deal and had been transferred to the state penitentiary only a few weeks earlier. Marsh had purposely kept his interactions with the man to a minimum and had made sure Warren had no cause to claim his treatment at the Lake Haven County Jail was anything less than proper and humane, especially considering the sheriff’s own personal connection to one of his victims. Wynona.

It was one thing to know in the abstract what Warren had done to Andrea Montgomery. Facts on a report, testimony during his sentencing hearing. It was something else entirely when he thought about that soft, sweet-smelling woman and her cute kids having to live in fear for the better part of a year because she had once trusted the wrong man.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_42767744-949e-59c3-9d14-a7b03495864a)

“THESE ARE ABSOLUTELY PERFECT,” Andie exclaimed the next day as she looked at the cheery watercolors laid out on her neighbor’s kitchen table, a garden of flowers blooming with soft, lovely color to take the edge off the wintry day.

She shook her head in amazement. “We had one short conversation about you designing something for me, that’s all, yet you came back with exactly the right concept for my clients.”

“Oh, I’m so happy you think something will work!” Louise Jacobs glowed with pleasure. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Ever. I’ve always just painted for my own enjoyment, really. It was such a challenge—but a wonderful one.”

“I knew you could do it. I have loved the watercolors you sell at Point Made Flowers and Gifts and I had a suspicion my clients in Boise would, too. It’s the perfect mood and tone for their natural remedy spa services, exactly what I wanted, and I am certain they’re going to love it.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me. I’ve been trying for weeks to capture the right tone and mood for their website redesign and ad campaign, but nothing seemed to feel right. I couldn’t get to the heart of it, but you’ve managed it. You have a gift, my friend.”

Louise beamed. “I’m so happy you like them.”

Andie saw the possibility of a very successful partnership moving forward. “If you’re all right with it, I’ll buy each one for the price we talked about.”

“Oh, you don’t have to pay me anything. I was happy to do it. I should pay you, actually. I needed the distraction and it was so nice to be back in my studio. I haven’t been able to pick up my brushes in months. Not since...”

Her voice trailed off, eyes bleak with grief. Andie touched her hand. “I’m so sorry, my dear. How are you doing?”

Louise looked down at the bouquet of watercolors for a moment, then offered a strained smile. “I’ll be glad when the holidays are over. Everyone told me how hard all the firsts would be. It’s so true.”

“Yes. It is.”

Jason had died in November, the week before Thanksgiving. Andie had no clear idea how she’d made it through that first December. She had been in a fog of shock and disbelief that her perfect world had imploded so wildly.

Last December had been tough in its own way, for reasons she didn’t want to think about.

Louise and Herm’s only daughter had died just five months earlier. No doubt the wound still felt jagged and raw.

“I wish we didn’t have to celebrate the holidays this year, but Herm wants us to go ahead with all our usual traditions, even though none of us has much holiday spirit. He thinks we need to build new traditions with Christopher, now that he’s living with us.”

Andie looked around the comfortable open-plan house, artfully decorated with greenery, ribbons, candles in slim holders. “It’s so warm and cozy in here. I’m sure that’s helped him feel more at home.”

As if on cue, a thin, gangly boy with shoulder-length dark hair and a semipermanent scowl wandered into the kitchen. Louise’s thirteen-year-old grandson stopped short when he spotted the two of them.

“Oh. I didn’t know somebody was here.”

“Hi, Christopher.” Andie smiled at the boy, whose scowl seemed to deepen in response. “No classes at the middle school today?”

His blue-eyed gaze flashed to his grandmother for an instant before turning back to her. “Um, sick day. I think I’m coming down with something.”

Judging by his bloodshot eyes and his greenish features, she suspected his sickness might be morning-after regret. Once in a while after a bad day on the job, her husband used to go on a bender and his symptoms were remarkably similar.

“Oh dear. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Guess we’ll see. Nana, what’s there to eat?”

Louise pursed her lips, her eyes worried. “I made Scottish shortbread this morning.”

He gave a revolted look. “Isn’t that like head cheese?”

“That’s sweetbread, dear. Shortbread is basically a bar cookie made with butter and sugar. They’re in the tin.”

“Right here?”

She nodded and he opened the tin. After a moment’s consideration, he picked up a couple of them and took a bite from one as he opened the refrigerator and stared inside.

“If you’re ready for lunch, I can make you a sandwich or there’s leftover chicken noodle soup from last night I could warm up,” Louise offered.

He closed the refrigerator door. “This is probably good,” he said around the mouthful of cookie. “I’m not that hungry.”

“You can’t just eat a cookie,” Louise exclaimed. “Especially if you’re coming down with something.”

“I said I wasn’t that hungry, okay?” he snapped and abruptly stalked out of the kitchen.

Louise watched him go, eyes glassy with unshed tears. All her pride and excitement about the watercolors and Andie’s approval of them seemed to have drained away during the short interaction with her grandson.

“How is he doing?” Andie asked gently.

One of those tears slipped out and slid down her friend’s cheek and she brushed it away with an impatient hand. “His mother’s dead and his father wants nothing to do with him. He’s stuck living in a new town he hates with his boring old grandparents who have never raised a boy and don’t know how to talk to him. He hates school, hates his teachers, hates doing homework. He’s made a few friends, but...” Her voice trailed off.

“But?”

“I’m not sure they’re the nicest young people. They seem to run wild at all hours of the day and night, with no parental supervision that I can see.”

Louise seemed so disheartened that Andie couldn’t help giving her a little hug.

“He’ll make it through this. Please don’t worry. Time is the great healer. It’s a truism because it’s just that—true. That’s all he needs. He’s got you and Herm, two of the very best people I know. That’s far more than many children have in similar circumstances.”

Certainly more than Andie had known. Oh, how she wished she could have had someone like Louise in her life, someone sweet and kind and welcoming.

“He’s a good boy,” Louise said, wiping away another tear. “He’s just so angry all the time.”

Andie remembered that anger after her own mother died, along with confusion and fear and overwhelming grief. Puberty was tough enough, all raging hormones and intensified emotions. The loss of a parent made that transitional time that much harder, even when the parent hadn’t been the best a kid could ask for.

“I’m sorry,” Louise said after a moment. “You didn’t come here to listen to my problems.”

“That’s what friends do.”

“How are you these days?”