By the time Stephen opened the door, Scooter was beside himself with anticipation. For an instant, it seemed he didn’t know which deserved his attention first—Macy or the bag of burgers—but the burgers soon won out. She couldn’t blame him. At the moment she was more interested in the food, too.
Then she sneaked a glance at Stephen and felt the need to confirm that. She really, really was.
“Welcome to my castle,” he said on the way to the kitchen. “Which is probably just a little smaller than the master bedroom in your palace.”
Probably, she admitted. The house was compact: small square living room, double doors opening right into the kitchen with its dining table, bedroom visible from the living room, second room—office, apparently—visible from the kitchen. It was cozy and snug, the shine long since worn off the wooden floors, the walls a nice neutral buff, the furniture well-worn and actually inviting. She always felt as if she should perch on the edge of the antiques in her house, but this sofa and chairs welcomed lounging.
The place reminded her of old times, before she met Mark Howard of the Georgia Howards.
She took a seat at the kitchen table as Stephen emptied the bag. He didn’t bother with plates or napkins other than what had been tucked inside at the drive-in, discarding the greasy outer ones. He sat across from her, pinched off two bits of burger to stick Scooter’s pills in and gave them to the dog, then took a hearty bite for himself before fixing his gaze on her. “How’s the packing going?”
“Slowly.” She savored her first bite—a year and a half since her last SnoCap fix!—then swiped a crispy fry through ketchup. “It’s easy to figure out what I want.” Nothing. “I’m saving some stuff for Clary, but all the antiques, the family heirlooms…”
“Does your husband not have a family that wants them?”
“His mother’s in North Carolina, but she has enough family heirlooms of her own.” And Lorna blamed the Howard family for everything her only child had done, including his suicide. She didn’t want anything associated with them. “There’s a cousin, Reece, but she doesn’t want any of it, either.” The family had cost her too much, as well.
“So what are the options? Estate sale and invest the money for your daughter?”
Macy took her time chewing. The locals probably knew she and Clary had more money than she could ever spend, but there was no need for her to admit that. So far, Stephen had treated her pretty much like a normal person—albeit needy and a tad jumpy. But money changed people’s perceptions, and she needed to be treated like any other woman.
“Probably,” she agreed, though the thought of expending even that much time on Mark’s possessions soured her stomach. “Or make some museum donations.”
He blinked and his brows arched. “Huh. I wouldn’t know a museum-quality piece if I stepped on it. And you let Scooter in the house not once but twice?”
At the sound of his name, the dog lifted a hopeful gaze, then lowered it again when Stephen snorted. “Hell, you let me in? I’m not exactly known for my dainty feet and grace.”
“They’re just things,” she said with a lift of one shoulder. Hating the sound of herself callously dismissing priceless treasures, she gestured to the room on the right. “I wouldn’t have imagined a vet could do a whole lot of work at home.”
Not that it looked much like a vet’s office. There were tons of books, but even at this distance it was obvious they weren’t textbooks. Dry-erase boards competed with movie posters for wall space, and she wasn’t sure what kept the desk from collapsing from the weight of the mess on it.
“Different work,” he said casually.
She studied the dry-erase boards, covered with cramped writing, some items circled, arrows pointing to others, then caught sight of several small plaques hanging between them. They looked like awards of some sort. Vet of the Year? Best Neighbor Surrounding Woodhaven Villains? “What kind of work?”
He gazed into the room himself for a moment before saying, “I’m a writer.”
She hadn’t expected that answer. In truth, she’d had no idea what to expect. But once he’d said it, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had a little bit of a nerdy aura about him—the glasses, the uncombed hair, the conversations with Scooter. Sort of an absentminded-professor thing. “You write for veterinary journals?”
“On occasion. My last article was on feline diarrhea.” Said with a self-deprecating look.
“A very important subject to cats and the people who clean up after them.”
His grin was quick, boyish. It reminded her how appealing boyish could be. “Mostly I write books. Epic fantasy. A universe far, far away. Villains and quests and warriors and saving the world.”
She’d met authors before—professors in college who were published, historians come to speak to the local historical society, ditto a few horticulturists at the garden society. The Howard family was the subject of its very own book: Southern Aristocracy: The Howards of Georgia. Granted, they’d paid the author to write it and the only copies that existed outside the family were in various Southern libraries.
But a fiction writer—excluding the Howard family biographer—was different. Someone who wrote for the pure pleasure of writing, for the simple entertainment of others…that was cool.
“Have you published anything?”
A faint grimace flashed, though she suspected he’d tried to hide it.
“I’m not the first person to ask that, am I?”
“Pretty much everyone asks. I’ve had five books out. The sixth one is scheduled for this summer, and I’m working on the seventh.” Finished with his hamburger, he pushed to his feet, went into the office and returned with a hardcover novel, setting it beside her.
“S. K. Noble.” She wiped her hands thoroughly on a napkin before picking it up. The cover was rich purple, the artwork in the center an image of a mysterious man with storm clouds swirling above the mountains behind him. “How cool. I’m sorry. I don’t read fantasy.”
He sprawled back in his chair, reaching down to scratch Scooter with one hand. “No need to apologize. What do you read?”
“The Cat in the Hat. Goodnight, Moon. Sesame Street books. Anything with bright pictures, words that rhyme and messages short enough for the attention span of a three-year-old.” She flipped the book open, pausing to read the brief biography on the inside jacket. Too bad there was no photo of the author. In his office, with him looking as disheveled as it did, it would be charming. “How do you manage both working at the clinic and writing?”
Paper crumpled as he scooped up the wrappers from their lunch and tossed them in the trash can under the sink. Instead of returning to sit, he leaned against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankle. “Clinic until noon three days a week, plus every other Saturday. Write at home the rest of the time.”
Guilt tickled her nape. “I’ve taken up an awful lot of your writing time,” she said as she stood. “Today, yesterday…”
“Everyone takes a break now and then, especially for food. We don’t miss any meals around here, do we, Scooter?”
The
