The Lake

FORTY

Sitting in Warren’s kitchen, nursing a mug of his yummy chocolate drink, Deana relaxed. It felt good to be here in Warren’s home—especially in his friendly, slightly untidy kitchen.

Sabre retired to his den under the sink. He lay there, checking out Deana’s movements. Then, snuffling into his paws awhile, he closed his eyes.

But his ears stayed alert.

Like sentinels on guard.

Good old Sabre. Some dog, that. She smiled.

Then frowned slightly.

If only I knew what to tell Warren.

How much to tell him.

Or how little.

And not only about tonight, either.

She thought about Mace.

Warren deserves to be put in the picture.

What picture?

Dammit. There’s so much to say…

Oh God. If only things weren’t so complicated.

“Anybody home?” Warren watched her, his brows raised.

“Sure. Can you keep a secret?”

“Try me.”

“Well, you’re right, Warren. Mom doesn’t know I’m out tonight. She doesn’t know about the other nights, either. Jesus. She’d go hairless if she did know.”

It was a start, anyway…

“I see. Go on.”

“Something happened to us. To Mom and me. About ten days ago. I can’t explain it yet. But trust me it’s been a horrible experience. People died. Violently. It’s been bad, Warren.”

He hugged his chocolate, stared into its creamy depths. Giving her time to choose her words.

“Mom’s been concerned for my safety—and I for hers, come to that. We’ve both been in danger.” Deana stopped, then carried on, more cheerfully this time. “But in the end, it turned out okay. Thing is, I don’t want Mom worried about me going out at night. She’s been through such a lot.

“I told her I met you when I phoned your store for a book.”

Warren looked up sharply.

Deana smiled.

“Get Shorty by Elmore Leonard. Is modern gangster stuff something you stock?” He nodded. She went on. “So, Warren, I’d be really grateful if you’d keep our… nighttime assignations to yourself. Oh, also your visit to the house.”

“I see. Had an idea there was more. I have a nose for mysteries.” He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “Murder She Wrote was a favorite show of mine.

“Okay,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll go along with that. But let me tell you here and now, I don’t like unsolved mysteries. And I don’t go for subterfuge, either. Especially where Mom and daughter are concerned. So maybe, least said, soonest mended, huh? Give you time to sort things out with Mom.”

Deana nodded. For a moment there, she’d been about to confide in him.

Give him the works.

Tell him her feelings about Mace.

But now was not the time to mention Mace.

Later. Maybe.

Pity.

She’d have dearly liked to discuss him with Warren.

But maybe later. Much later.

Get too heavy and Warren might cry off.

“So.” Warren smiled at her encouragingly. “I’m invited to dinner, am I?”

“Sure are.”

“Best bib and tucker?”

“Mmmm… Not necessarily. Smart casual, I think. Mom’s kinda casual herself.”

“Ah.”

“So how about evening after tomorrow? You doing anything that night?”

“Er… Let me see.” Warren took his time. Humming a little. Studying the ceiling, as if checking out the evening after tomorrow. He looked at his wristwatch. It showed 12:14.

“Let’s get this straight. It’s already tomorrow, so does that make our date tomorrow evening or the one after that?”

They burst out laughing. Deana felt relieved. She’d been feeling quite tense, talking about the stuff she and mom had gone through these last few days.

She was glad to relax a little.

“Tell you what, Deana. Ask your mom which night is okay, and give me a call—at the store or at home. Phone’s on answer when we’re out at work.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.” She felt good and warm inside. Things were so easy with Warren.

“Anything else I should know? Subjects to avoid—current political situation, weather in Florida, stuff like that?” He threw her a warm smile. Then, turning serious, he added, “Given that you’ve both gone through a sensitive time just lately.”

His gaze held hers. It was as if he were telling her not to worry. Things would turn out okay. That he’d be there for her.

“Nope. Just talk books. Sports, like swimming and tennis, Mom loves those. And movies—seventies stuff. Oh, and food. Compliment her on the food.”

“Your mom likes to cook?”

“Sort of. She owns the Bayview Restaurant in Tiburon.”

FORTY-ONE

Sheena studied the redwoods out back.

Not really seeing them, because her mind was elsewhere. She’d gone way back; saw her ten-year-old self in class. Big for her age, awkward, alone. Writing wasn’t her strong point, but here she was, struggling with an essay on the life of a fuckin’ sperm whale. She looked at her spidery joined-up writing, all blotchy with ink.

Then, behind her, the fuckin’ teacher said in that cold, icy voice of hers, “Sheena Hastings. I do declare, the standard of your work gets worse. See me after class!”

All eyes turned toward her. Mary Jo Hassler sitting in the row behind, sniggered. Titters rose in waves from the rest of the class.

Her head jerked back.

Mary Jo. Tugging at her long dark braids.

She remembered how her eyes had watered up, how ashamed she’d felt… She’d never been much good at writing.

Christ. She’d hated her childhood. And school most of all. Who fuckin’ said schooldays were the happiest days of your life?