around him, okay?”
He nodded, but the effort was lost. She was definitely avoiding his gaze. “What kind of dog?”
“Saint Bernard.”
He pictured a big, stout animal with a barrel fastened under his chin. “What’s his name?”
Her eyes narrowed. Her lips twitched. “Cujo.”
SERA DIDN’T USUALLY run in the rain, but the stranger currently occupying the bed in the spare room had thrown her. After a restless night and knowing a stranger slept under her roof, she needed to think. And the best place to think was outside. She stood on the porch and breathed deep of the chilly, damp air. Gray clouds hung low over the fields. She couldn’t tell if the rain was over or if there was more to come.
“What do you think? Is it clearing up?” She glanced at her companion.
A tall, skinny mongrel with a coat the color of slate gazed up with concern. At the distant rumble of thunder, the dog turned and pressed his nose to the door. Of her two dogs, the animal who had appeared just the summer before was the more skittish one.
“The thunder’s moving away, Lucky.” But she opened the door and let him into the house, where he would disappear into the den and hide under the grand piano. Sera stretched and bounced down the stairs. She needed this run. It would relax her. She jogged through the arch and ran past the shed where she parked the truck. The empty space reminded her she had to figure out how to retrieve the old pickup from the ditch. The brushy branches of the big mock orange bush next to the building showed just a hint of green. Soon the shrub would be covered with thousands of snow-white blossoms and perfume the air with their sweet scent.
She ran past the field where tiny green shoots poked through the dark soil. Sweet corn was one of her most profitable crops. Few people grew their own, but most still loved the traditional sweet corn for summer picnics. She breathed deep of the damp air and continued her steady pace. She wondered if the newcomer was awake yet and how soon Cy Carter would arrive to claim his long-lost relative. Her breaths came shorter as she started up the incline to the top of the hill. Leaving the bare fields behind, she slowed and then stopped in the orchard. Fog shrouded the bare apple trees, but at least the rain had stopped. Usually at this point she could see Little Bear Creek, but fog hung so thick over the valley she couldn’t see the bottom of the hill.
Heat rose up her neck and onto her cheeks as she remembered running off the road the night before. She should have been watching for deer, but the man’s presence had distracted her. When she had slid across the seat to get out of the truck, he had reached up for her hood. But for a minute she thought he was standing there, hands up, waiting for her, as if he had lifted her down from the truck dozens of times. She had almost brushed away his outstretched arms. But the offer of help came so rarely she couldn’t resist. Then when she had accidentally fallen against him and they lay there in the dark and the blessed quiet, she had the strangest urge to put her head on his chest and close her eyes. The surrounding darkness and the rain dropping on the leaves had created a kind of comfortable bubble that seemed made just for the two of them. Serafina Callahan and Alexander Kimmel. When he’d begun complaining, she just wanted him to stop talking. Just wanted one more minute of peace and quiet. So yes, she had kissed him. But if she pretended it hadn’t happened...well, then, it hadn’t happened. She shook her head to dispel the image.
The still-bare branches reached into the fog like bony fingers. Singling out a lone tree, she framed the shot with the thumbs and forefingers of both hands. She really should go back and get her camera. Funny that her brain still went into picture-taking mode after all this time. She took one last look at the foggy tableau and started back down the hill. The rain picked up.
Aunt Hope would have coffee brewing by now. And if she were lucky, their impromptu visitor would be out of the spare bedroom and across the creek where he belonged.
* * *
HE OPENED HIS eyes to Big Ben, the old-fashioned windup alarm clock his grandfather used to keep by the side of the bed. Next to the clock sat a crystal dish full of peppermints. He definitely wasn’t sleeping in his own cramped bedroom on the Lower East Side. Rain drummed a steady rhythm on the roof. The bed was warm, and for a moment all he wanted to do was pull the comforter over his head and sink farther into the soft pillow that smelled like sunny days. The usual tenseness in his neck and shoulders was gone. Maybe he should put in for vacation. He wondered if he could actually relax for a week.
When he lifted his head off the pillow to glance out the window, his forehead throbbed with pain. He probed the bump over his eye as he glanced around the spacious room. The white metal bed frame sat high off the floor, which was covered with a rag rug. Sheer curtains hung in the windows, but since the sun wasn’t shining, the curtains had nothing to hide.
He lay back against the crisp pillowcase and closed his eyes. Thanks to the young couple with the van, he and Sera hadn’t walked far the night before, but rolling around in the sodden leaves had left him wet and muddy. She had marched him through a dimly lit kitchen, down a dark hallway and up the stairs to the guest room and the bathroom, where he had taken a hot shower. He hadn’t seen her since. He hadn’t seen Cujo either, concluding the woman just wanted to mess with his head. She was doing a good job. His carry-on sat on a straight-back chair next to the window.
Throwing on a T-shirt and jeans, he entered the hallway and was greeted with the sight of six closed doors. He must have been more disoriented the night before than he realized, because he tried three doors, opening into empty bedrooms before finding the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. His wet clothes from the night before still lay in the claw-foot tub. Then he descended the stairs into an entry. Gray light streamed through the side glass panels of the big front door, where a coatrack and bench sat to the right. He peeked through the adjacent doorway. A grand piano occupied the space between two windows at the front. A large rolltop desk occupied the other corner. In between, a couch fronted a brick fireplace.
He followed his nose down the hall toward the back of the house. Somebody had made coffee. Pictures covered almost every inch of the flowered wallpaper decorating the length of the hallway. Two baby pictures, a faded wedding photo, graduation pictures of a boy and a girl. He stopped and stared at a younger Sera. The dark hair was poker straight. A photograph of an orchard in bloom.
Leaving the old photos behind, he continued down the hall. The house was silent. His hostess was still asleep.
The coffee smell grew stronger as he entered the warm kitchen. The only light came from the flames glowing through the grates of an old white cookstove. Spying a coffeemaker on the counter, he touched the glass pot. Still warm.
He opened the overhead cupboard door and reached for a mug. Yellow script and a slipper-shaped yellow flower adorned opposite sides of a brown cup. The Wildflower.
“Coffee’s not more than twenty minutes old.”
At the sound of the unexpected voice, the cup flew out of his hands. Alex had always considered himself to have quick reflexes. He snagged the cup just before it hit the floor.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Alex looked around the dim kitchen. He still couldn’t see where the voice had originated. The kitchen table in the middle of the room was unoccupied, a sugar bowl and salt and pepper shakers in the middle. In the corner opposite the cookstove was a rocking chair with an afghan, next to a lumpy dog pillow. At the sight, he stiffened. So
