The Winter Lodge

That seemed to make him nervous. “What about me?”

“Well, I just wonder—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t wonder about me or my story.”

How can I not? she thought. It’s our story. And something about the fire had changed things between them. They’d gone from avoiding each other to … this. Whatever “this” turned out to be. Was he drawn to her by his urge to protect, or was there a deeper motivation? Could the fire be a catalyst in making them face up to matters they both avoided? Maybe—at long last—they would talk about what happened.

Not now, Jenny thought. She couldn’t do that now, on top of everything else. For the time being, it was easier to engage in meaningless flirtation, skirting the real issues. Over the years, she’d gotten very good at that.

“I’d better hit the shower,” she said. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the wash, but they’re not dry yet.”

“You washed my clothes.”

“What, you wanted them dry-cleaned?”

She didn’t say anything. She knew that everything reeked of smoke and she ought to be grateful for the favor. Still, it was mind-numbing to realize she had exactly one set of clothes in this world.

He opened the bottom bureau drawer, revealing a fat paper parcel marked with a laundry-service label. “There’s a bunch of stuff in here. You can probably find something to fit. Help yourself.”

Frowning with curiosity, she tore open the parcel and inspected the contents, pulling out each piece and holding it up. There was a baby-doll top, a push-up bra, an array of impossibly tiny women’s underwear. She also found designer jeans and cutoffs, knitted tops with plunging necklines.

She straightened up and faced him. “So what are these, prizes of war? Souvenirs of sex? Things left behind by women who have walked out on you?”

“What?” he asked, but the sheepish look on his face indicated that he knew precisely what. “I had them cleaned.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“Look, I’m not a monk.”

“Clearly not.” She held a thong at arm’s length, between her thumb and forefinger. “Would you wear something like this?”

“Now you’re getting kinky on me.”

“I’m keeping the boxers,” she stated. As she headed to the bathroom, she paused, her face just inches from his bare chest. The damp steam that came off him smelled of Ivory soap. “I’d better get going. Like you said, it’s going to be a long day.”

She stepped into the bathroom. The radio, she discovered, had been set on her favorite station. On the counter were three clean, folded towels—the exact number she preferred to use, in the proper sizes—one bath sheet and two hand towels.

Sure, it was flattering to imagine he was attracted to her. But that was all in the past; he hadn’t said a dozen words to her in years. He had barely noticed her until now. Until she was in her most vulnerable state—grieving, homeless, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He didn’t notice her until she needed rescuing. Interesting.

Jenny had to lie back on the bed and suck in her gut in order to get the borrowed jeans zipped over the boxer shorts. According to the designer tag in the waistband, the pants were her size. The jeans had probably belonged to someone named Bambi or Fanny, the sort of girl who enjoyed wearing things that looked as though they had been applied by paintbrush.

The bra was a surprisingly good fit, even though the push-up style was hardly her thing. She pulled on a V-neck sweatshirt, also tight, white with crimson trim and the Harvard seal smack-dab over her left boob. Veritas. It was probably as close as she’d ever get to a Harvard education.

Later she came into the kitchen, her borrowed socks flopping on the linoleum. When Rourke saw her, his face registered something she had never seen before, something that was so quickly gone, she nearly missed it—a sharp, helpless lust. Gosh, she thought, and all it took was dressing like a Victoria’s Secret model.

“Ho Ho?” he said.

“Hey, these clothes came out of your closet,” she said.

He scowled. “No, I mean Ho Ho.” He held out a package of iffy-looking chocolate snack cakes.

She shook her head. “You might be the coffee whisperer, but that—” she indicated the packaged Ho Hos “—is atrocious.”

He was dressed for work now, looking as clean-cut as an Eagle Scout, the youngest chief of police in Ulster County. Ordinarily it took years of experience and clever department politicking to reach chief’s status, but in the town of Avalon, it took no more than a willingness to accept an abnormally small salary. He treated his job seriously, though, and had earned the respect of the community.

She helped herself to a plump orange and sat at the kitchen counter. “You’re working on a Sunday?”

“I always work Sundays.”

She knew that. She just didn’t want to admit it. “What next, Chief?” she asked.

“We go to your house, meet with the fire investigator. If you’re lucky, they’ll make a determination as to the cause of the fire.”

“Lucky.” She dug her thumbnail into the navel of the orange and ripped back the peel. “How come I don’t feel so lucky?”

“Okay, poor choice of words. All I meant was, the sooner the investigation finishes up, the sooner the salvage can start.”

“Salvage. This is all so surreal.” She felt a sudden clutch of anxiety in her gut and remembered something. “You said you washed my clothes?”

“Uh-huh. I just heard the cycle end.”

“Oh, God.” She jumped up and hurried into the tiny laundry area adjacent to the kitchen and flipped open the washer.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, following her.

She yanked out the checked chef pants she’d had on. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she drew out the little brown plastic bottle. The label was still attached, but the bottle was full of cloudy water. She handed it to Rourke.

He took the bottle from her, glanced at the label. “Looks like all the pills dissolved.”

“You now have the most Zenlike, serene washing machine in Avalon.”

“I didn’t know you were on medication.”

“What, you thought I was handling Gram’s death without help?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why would you think I could do that?”

He set the bottle on the kitchen counter. “You are now. You have been all morning. I don’t see you freaking out.”

She hesitated. Braced her hands on the edge of the counter for support. Then she realized the posture accentuated her boobs in the tight sweatshirt and folded her arms. On a scale of one to ten, the doctor had asked her the night Gram passed away, how anxious did she feel? He told her to ask herself that question before taking a pill so that popping one didn’t become a habit.

“I’m a five,” she said softly, feeling a barely discernible buzz in her circulation, a subtle tension in her muscles. No sweating, no accelerated heartbeat, no hyperventilating.

“I know those aren’t your clothes,” Rourke said, “but I’d say you’re at least a seven.”