imagined the dust particles flowing in with the air, carrying the faint scent of Mark’s cologne into her lungs, and with a sudden shudder, she pivoted toward the French doors that opened from the family room onto the patio.
In all her years in the house, the backyard was the one place she’d felt truly comfortable. It had been her space, her choices, her retreat. The stone patio gave way to lush grass, to the shimmer of the pool and the gardens and beds that spread everywhere.
She could breathe out here.
The only request she’d made of Brent, who’d handled her affairs for the past eighteen months, had been that he hire Bo Larkin to take care of the garden, and he’d done it. Bless his heart, he would have done anything to help her get better.
She walked across the grass, satisfied to see that Bo had been as meticulous in her work as Macy was herself. How had Bo felt, though, caring for a garden that no one saw besides her and the lawn service guys? All that time and effort…
As she neared the corner of the house, a snuffle outside the privacy fence caught her attention. It was followed by rustling, grunting and slithering, and for an instant the hairs on her neck stood on end. Swallowing hard, Macy took the last few steps that blocked her view of the narrow side yard…and saw a big yellow dog happily trampling the daylilies that grew in the corner of the bed. A hollowed-out area under the gate explained the noise.
“Hey,” she said sharply, and he looked up at her, tongue lolling from his mouth, before laying his head on his paws.
“Scoo-ter!”
The shout came from the street, a man’s voice, and the dog’s ears pricked before he hunkered in a little more.
“You’ve run away, haven’t you?”
Big brown eyes watched her.
“Scoo-ter!”
The Lab managed to make himself a little flatter, closing his eyes, for a moment appearing as if he were asleep. Then he opened one to a slit to peek at her. She stopped her smile before it could form and moved past him to the gate.
“Scooter, dang it, you know you’ve got to take your medicine,” the voice muttered. “Do I have to chase you all over the neighborhood every time?”
Macy glanced at the dog, still pretending to sleep, then unlatched the gate. At least someone in the world was apparently having a normal day, even if it did mean chasing down his recalcitrant dog. She wondered if he knew how much to appreciate that. She would give up every dime of her fortune to learn what “normal” was supposed to be now.
When she tugged the heavy gate open, Scooter’s owner was nearing her driveway. He was tall, lanky, wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt and glasses, with his brown hair standing on end, as if he’d combed his fingers through it in frustration. A red leash was draped around his neck.
He was a stranger to her, luckily. She really would have hated for the first person she saw to be someone she knew, someone like her friend Sophy’s mother, Rae Marchand, who lived three houses down, or Louise Wetherby from the end of the block. Either woman could put any gaggle of teenage girls to shame with their gossiping skills. Rae was pretty harmless about it, but Louise liked to leave her victims bleeding from the sharpness of her tongue. Macy intended to avoid both women during her stay.
“Hey,” she called. “Would Scooter, by chance, be a yellow Lab with a fondness for making his bed in my daylilies?”
Switching directions, the man grimaced. “I’m sorry. He’s on meds right now, and he knows I give them at noon, so he’s started making his escape about ten minutes before.”
Automatically, Macy checked her watch. It was 12:05. “You think your dog can tell time?”
Her dry tone quirked one of his brows. “You think it’s coincidence he’s taken off at the same time every day for a week?” Without waiting for a response, he went on. “If he’s damaged the flowers, tell me where I can replace them or send me a bill or something.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” She stepped back to allow him through the gate. The dog was still feigning sleep, though with one ear cocked up to hear better.
“Scooter.” His master—well, owner, since he didn’t seem to have much mastery over the dog—crouched in front of him. “We talked about this, didn’t we? You’re not welcome in anyone’s yard but your own.”
Macy restrained a smile. For so many months, the only people she’d dealt with outside her family were so overwhelmingly serious. For that matter, with the exception of Clary, the family members were too serious, too. Now here she stood in her backyard with a man who had discussions with his dog about proper behavior and, apparently, expected the animal to understand. It wasn’t normal, but it beat her usual days by a mile.
The man hooked the leash onto Scooter’s collar. “Come on,” he said sternly. “Apologize to the lady, then we’re going home.”
For a moment the dog remained motionless, then he leaped to his feet, eyes wide, looking as surprised as if he’d really been woken from sleep. He jumped at his owner with enough force to knock the man down if he hadn’t been prepared, then panted and strained toward the gate as if eager to be on his way.
“Apologize, Scooter.”
Happiness draining from his face, the dog walked over to Macy, head ducked down, eyes peering up at her, then rubbed his head lightly against her knee. He really did look contrite, and finally her smile formed.
“Apology accepted,” she murmured, feeling silly.
“By the way…” The owner straightened, standing six inches taller than her. “I’m Stephen Noble. Scooter and I live down around the curve.” He gestured toward the north, which gave her one important piece of information: he wasn’t part of the Woodhaven Villas subdivision. He hadn’t been one of her and Mark’s neighbors.
Though he probably still knew everything that had happened. He did live in Copper Lake, after all, and he didn’t seem the least bit hermit-ish.
“Macy Howard.” She watched his face closely for some reaction—even in Charleston and Columbia, in the beginning, her name had drawn some response—but not from him. “Have you lived here long?”
“About ten months. I came to work with Dr. Yates for a while and decided to stay.”
Inwardly cringing at the mention of a doctor, Macy breathed deeply. “So you’re a physician’s assistant or a nurse or…?”
His eyes—hazel behind the glass lenses—shadowed, then he laughed. “No. Dr. Yates is a vet. So am I.”
Relief washed through her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be recovered enough to comfortably deal with medical personnel. And being a vet certainly helped explain why he thought his dog could tell time and why he had regular discussions with him.
“I’ve never had any pets,” she said as explanation why she didn’t know that detail about Dr. Yates. Mark had chosen whom they socialized with, and a veterinarian had never made the list.
She had never been the snob Mark was; by his standards, her own family wouldn’t have been good enough. They didn’t have old blood and old money, prestige and
