That Night on Thistle Lane

“Dylan, why do I have the feeling you aren’t taking my concerns seriously?”

“Because I’m not. You’d have even more women flocking to you if they could see you in your sword-fighting duds.”

Sword-fighting duds. Noah shook his head. Expecting Dylan to appreciate proper fencing terminology was a waste of time. No doubt he felt the same when it came to Noah and the nuances of hockey.

“The costume has a cape, too,” Dylan added.

“There’s no hope for you, my friend.”

Dylan shrugged as he drank some of his own water.

“You used to be the most eligible bachelor in San Diego,” Noah said.

“Best-looking. You were always more eligible. You just have a habit of choosing the wrong women.”

Noah tucked his water bottle into the side mesh pocket on his pack and got to his feet, lifting the pack onto one shoulder. “What wrong women?”

“Hollywood babes for starters,” Dylan said, standing with his pack.

“Only recently. I haven’t been the same since I got dumped by that computation engineer my senior year at MIT. She was brilliant, cute—”

“Not that cute. I remember her.” Dylan jumped onto the trail. He didn’t seem to consider that he might slip and hit his head, twist an ankle or fall off the damn mountain. Of course, he landed lightly on his feet. “She wasn’t as cute as your latest actress.”

“Her show just got canceled, and she’s not cute. She’s gorgeous.”

“Smart?”

“Yes, I guess so. We didn’t get that far before we went our separate ways.”

“Not many people are smart compared to you. It’s a relative term.”

Also one Noah seldom considered, but he had learned through hard experience that not everyone thought the way he did. And what did he know about relationships? His latest “relationship,” with the cute/gorgeous actress of the canceled Sunday-night show, had lasted three weeks and ended that spring. He’d known from the start it wasn’t an until-death-do-us-part match, but he’d thought it would last at least through the summer.

He was the one who had ended it. Just had to be done. Expensive dinners, gifts and such were one thing. Manipulating him to bankroll a movie she could star in was another.

“It’s good you had this time to enjoy nature,” Dylan said without any evidence of sarcasm.

“Right. Sure. I didn’t even bring a cell phone.”

Waving off a mosquito that seemed to have singled him out, Noah joined Dylan in heading down the mountain. In a few minutes, they were in dappled shade, and he could hear water tumbling down a rock-strewn stream. Several hikers passed them, ascending the rugged, steep trail. There were no guaranteed safe trails up Mount Washington, but thousands climbed it without incident every year. Preparation and the right equipment were key, but so was the right mindset—a clear understanding of one’s abilities and a willingness to turn back if conditions warranted. A foolish risk on Mount Washington could prove dangerous, even deadly.

When he’d decided to start his own business, Noah had assessed his situation with the same clarity and objectivity as he had when he agreed to join Dylan and his hockey friends hiking in the White Mountains. He’d realized within weeks of forming NAK that he needed Dylan McCaffrey on his team. They’d grown up together in suburban Los Angeles, but Noah had gone on to MIT and Dylan into the NHL. After a series of injuries ended Dylan’s hockey career, he had blown most of his money and was sleeping in his car when Noah knocked on his window asking for his friend’s help.

Dylan’s instincts and no-nonsense view of people and business helped Noah get NAK going and keep it going. Its success had exceeded their dreams. Now Dylan was marrying a woman from a small New England town and reinventing his life.

Noah had no idea what he was doing beyond taking a hot shower when he was back in civilization.

More mosquitoes descended on him when he rounded the next bend in the trail, but by then he didn’t care. He could hear cars. After three nights sleeping in a tent, he was ready to check into a five-star Boston hotel, even if a B-movie swashbuckler costume was waiting for him.

* * *

Dylan had booked a room at the sprawling Mount Washington Hotel, a National Historic Landmark that opened in Bretton Woods in 1902. Noah would have happily stayed there for several days and enjoyed the resort amenities and the spectacular views of the surrounding mountains, but he and Dylan had to get to Boston.

They took turns in the shower and changed into fresh clothes.

Noah didn’t shave. Dylan grinned at him. “Four days’ beard growth is essential for a swashbuckler, I take it.”

Noah shrugged. “I’m just hoping it will help keep anyone from recognizing me.”

He slipped into a black sport coat, which he wore over a silky black T-shirt and black trousers—the uniform he’d adopted after graduating from MIT. He didn’t remember why, except it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Dylan insisted it was because he wanted to appear older. Maybe it had been. Whatever the reason, now people expected him to show up head-to-toe in black.

He cupped his iPhone in one hand and started out into the hall.

“How many messages did you have?” Dylan asked as they left the room.

“What makes you think I looked?” At his friend’s roll of the eyes, Noah answered with an exaggeration. “Ten thousand.”

“You mean ten, and one you answered.”

It was close. That was Dylan. He could read people.

They headed down wide, elegant stairs to the main lobby, then outside onto a sweeping porch overlooking expansive lawns and the stunning mountains where they’d spent the past four days and three nights.

As they walked to Dylan’s car, he frowned at Noah. “Everything okay?”

“I got bit by mosquitoes. Do you worry about West Nile virus?”

“No, and you don’t, either. What’s up?”

Noah shook his head as he climbed into the passenger seat of Dylan’s Audi. He’d bought the car for his Knights Bridge residence now that he was spending most of his time on the East Coast. Noah didn’t offer to drive.

He needed to think.

In fact, he’d had one call from San Diego that made him uneasy. He would have to return it once they arrived in Boston. He had no choice.

He could see that Dylan was on alert. He would help in a heartbeat if Noah was in trouble. NAK trouble, personal trouble. It didn’t matter.

This time, Noah didn’t want Dylan to get involved.

The San Diego call was his problem.

Dylan seemed to guess that asking more questions would get him nowhere. His years on the ice, practicing, playing with a team, had honed his natural instincts about when to make a move, when to hold back. Noah had always been more of a solo operator.

As he started the car, Dylan took a breath, obviously reining in an urge to interrogate Noah. Finally he said, “Olivia’s done a lot of work on her house since you were there in April.”

“That’s good,” Noah said neutrally. Olivia’s house had needed a lot of work.

“We’re tearing down my place,” Dylan added.