he was thinking about something. But, judging by the paleness of her already-pale skin, Macy Howard had been preoccupied, too.
“I—I—” Her hands fluttered and a shiver passed through her, reminding him of a parrot he’d once treated. He still bore the scars on his left arm. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Never apologize. That was the First Rule in his protagonist Lucan’s life. One of these days Lucan would have to break that rule—if he didn’t, Sa’arca would rip his heart out; Warrior Women were funny that way. “You’re entitled to not pay attention.” He picked up the bundle, not much heavier than Scooter and not nearly as unwieldy. “Where you do want these?”
A little pink returned to her face, but she still looked as if she might bolt any second. “In the garage, please.”
The garage was big enough for three vehicles and so clean that his house looked like a pigsty in comparison. The walls were painted tan, and the floor was surfaced with some sort of grit in a darker shade. A worktable against one wall held the same collection of tools he had at home: screwdrivers in various sizes, a hammer, a few wrenches, a pair of pliers. Along with athletic, he wasn’t exactly mechanical, either.
A lawn mower, an edger, a trimmer and a plastic cart were gathered in one corner, all well-used, unlike the tools. Rakes and shovels hung on hooks on the wall; a shelf held motor oil, extra trimmer line, paper towels and paper leaf bags. The rest of the space was empty.
He rested the boxes against the wall near the door into the house. “Are you moving out?”
“I’ve already done that.” She deposited two giant rolls of Bubble Wrap nearby, then managed a weak smile. “I’m sorting through things. Deciding what to keep and what to get rid of.”
“Where do you live now?”
She hesitated. Unsure whether to tell him? After all, they were strangers. Then, with a lack of grace that wasn’t normal for anyone who could afford a house in Woodhaven Villas, she gestured. “I don’t actually live anywhere right now.”
Interesting answer. Ranked right up there with her blank look when he’d asked what she did earlier. Maybe she really was Macy Howard and this really was her house, or maybe she wasn’t and it wasn’t. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Marnie.
She pushed her hand through her hair, dislodging the suede band that kept it from her face. “I’ve been staying with my parents in Charleston. It’s time to get a place of my own. To move on. I just haven’t decided where.”
“Not in Copper Lake, huh?”
An expression of distaste crossed her face fleetingly. If he hadn’t made a habit of studying people since he decided he was a writer, he would have missed it. “Preferably not.” She left the garage to gather more packing materials, and he followed.
He’d never made a move where he hadn’t underestimated how many boxes and rolls of wrapping paper he needed, but that didn’t seem a possibility with Macy. Cartons and materials filled the minivan, with the exception of the driver’s seat. Even the passenger seat was filled with thick slabs of paper and rolls of tape.
Already moved out. Packing up stuff. No wedding ring. Staying with her parents. He was guessing there was a very unhappy divorce in her recent past. Not that he could really imagine any other kind of divorce. He’d heard urban myths about friendly ex-spouses making a better go as friends and coparents than as husband and wife, but he hadn’t witnessed the phenomena himself. His mom’s divorces—from the husband who had produced Marnie, then from his dad—had left her soured on men in general. His own divorce had involved as much fighting as the marriage, and they’d had precious little to fight over.
But there was no polite way to ask where her ex was while she sorted through and packed up their house, no matter how curious he was. Instead, he returned to the van for the next load.
Within minutes, the vehicle was empty and one bay of the garage had pretty much disappeared under the supplies. After setting down the last bundle of boxes, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, seeking something to say.
“Well.”
Macy’s smile was tight as she folded her arms across her middle, the classic body-language pose warning others to keep their distance. Unless she was cold, and she didn’t look cold. “Thanks for the help,” she said without meeting his gaze. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” He stood there a moment longer before taking a few steps backward then pivoting to stride the length of the driveway.
Well. Brilliant comment for someone who’d ranked respectably high in his vet med graduating class and made part of his living with words. Animals and characters who existed only in his head were so much easier to deal with.
But not nearly as interesting as Macy Howard.
Macy made it halfway to the door before her feet automatically stopped.
Was she ready to face the monster inside?
Immediately she corrected herself. Mark had been the monster. The house had merely been his lair. There was nothing inside that could hurt her; she’d already faced the worst hurt possible when she’d lost the baby. Nothing here could scare her; she might have run away before, but she was strong now.
With a deep breath, she went through the door almost as if life were normal. She’d managed to assemble one box, ready for use, when her cell phone rang. The ring told her it was Brent. Common sense told her he was calling because she’d failed to check in yet.
“Hey, bub,” she greeted him, making an effort to sound as if she were on a relatively even keel.
“You didn’t call.”
“I intended to as soon as I took a break for dinner.” Before he could ask, she went on. “The trip was fine, the house is fine and I’m fine. How’s my baby girl?”
“Missing you. Anne and I are doing our best to keep her happy.”
Macy pulled out a bar stool and eased onto the buttery soft leather. Poor Clary had spent much of the past eighteen months missing her mom, through the times when Macy had been physically present but not so much mentally to the months her absence had been physical, as well. Months in a psychiatric hospital—luxurious, costly and no place for a small child. “Give her a big hug and a kiss for me. I can’t wait to see her Friday. You, too. And Anne.”
“We’re anxious to see you, too.”
Anxious, she was sure, was putting it mildly. There were enough years between them—seven—that he’d always had a protective streak, but after Mark’s death, it had multiplied ten times. Where before he may have gotten mildly concerned, now he was truly anxious, edgy, burdened with worry over her mental status, her ability to handle the slightest of stressors. If she hadn’t won Anne over in her argument to come here alone, she never would have managed to leave Charleston without him by her side.
One more debt of gratitude to her sister-in-law. Anne had had enough family drama of her own. Her older sister had been a patient at the same hospital as Macy, which was how Anne and Brent had met. Now she’d married into a family with its own share of drama.
“So you’re doing okay. Really okay.”
