“At first I’d’ve said rude, abrupt and downright unfriendly, but with a little more exposure, I have to put it down to socially awkward.”
“Poor thing.”
“The poor thing carries a Glock on her hip to the fancy market.”
“A gun? When are people going to realize that going around armed is just asking for—”
She broke off when he tapped a finger to her lips.
“I know how you feel about guns, gun control and what you see as a perversion of the Second Amendment, Sunshine.”
She huffed, shrugged. “It can never be too often repeated. But go on.”
He told her about the market, going out to her place, the dog, the locks. By the time he got to his digging into her licenses, and the number of registered handguns she owned, Sunny decided the story called for a second beer.
“What’s she afraid of?”
“See that? Exactly. That’s what I want to know. And as chief of police around these parts, that’s what I need to know. But to finish up, then Sylbie came in.”
Once he’d told her the rest, her outrage over the guns had subsided, and her focus shifted. “That just breaks my heart.”
“What?”
“Honey, she’s so alone. Of course she’s socially awkward when she’s got herself barricaded up by herself, and against God knows what. She’s not sounding like one of those survivalists or those crazies thinking they’ve gotta load up on the guns and locks for the revolution or the Rapture. You said she does programming, and security business. Maybe she found something or invented something. Now the government’s after her.”
“Why is it always the government, Ma?”
“Because I find it often is, that’s why. She could’ve been a cyber spy or something like that.”
“I love you.”
She slitted her eyes, kicked him lightly in the shin. “Now you’re using those fine words to be amused and patronizing.”
He couldn’t quite disguise the smirk. “Let’s just say she didn’t strike me as the espionage type.”
“Well, they’re not supposed to, are they? They’re supposed to blend.”
“In that case, she’s a crappy spy, because she doesn’t blend.”
“All right, maybe she’s on the run from an abusive boyfriend.”
“I didn’t find anything in her record about filing charges.”
“Some women don’t go to the police. Some just run.”
He thought of Missy and her latest black eye. “And some stay. One thing I know, the way she’s loaded up and barricaded, whatever she’s hiding from—if that is the case—it’s bad. And if the bad finds her, it finds her here. I’m responsible for here, and whether she likes it or not, for her.”
“I love you.”
“Was that amusement and patronizing?”
“No.” She cupped his face. “That’s just fact.”
9
As Sunny wound down the road toward Abigail Lowery’s cabin, she doubted her son would approve. But she had a habit of doing as she pleased, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone—unless they deserved it. In any case, her son’s visit there the day before gave her the perfect excuse to drop by.
She parked, mentally clucked her tongue at the gas-guzzling SUV.
Still, she approved of the house, the way it nestled right into the landscape. She could see beds were being prepped for spring planting. And the glimpse of a corner of a greenhouse caught her eye and her envy.
It was a fine morning for a visit, she determined, with spring whispering on the air, the leaves a pretty haze of green on the trees, and the hint of wild dogwoods scattered around.
As insurance, she’d baked a huckleberry pie that morning. No one resisted her huckleberry pie.
She got out of her car, went up and knocked on the door.
When it opened a few cautious inches, she beamed out a smile.
“Hi, there. I’m Sunny O’Hara, Brooks’s mama.”
“Yes.”
“I know Brooks came out to see you yesterday, and it made me think I should do the same. I thought, why, that girl’s been here for nearly a year now, and I haven’t paid her a call.”
“Thank you, Ms. O’Hara, but—”
“Sunny. I baked you a huckleberry pie.”
“Oh.”
In her life, Sunny had never seen anyone more baffled by a pie.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I have work, so—”
“Everybody can take a few minutes for pie. Do they call you Abby?”
“No, no, they don’t.”
“Well, Abigail’s a sweet, old-fashioned name. Abigail, I ought to tell you straight off I’m a woman who tends to get her way. You’re going to find it’s easier to just invite me in for a few minutes rather than deal with me coming around until you do. Now, I expect you’ve got a gun on you or nearby. I don’t approve of guns, but I won’t lecture you about it. Yet.”
She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”
“I don’t want to be rude, but—”
“Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”
Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.
She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.
Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.
“There, now, that wasn’t so—oh, what a gorgeous dog.” Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost our Thor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”
Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie. “Ami,” she said to the dog. “Ami, Bert. You can pet him now.”
Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “Ami? That’s French. Are you French?”
“No. I speak French.”
“How about that. Bert, you speak French, too? You’re so handsome. He has hazel eyes, a little like Brooks’s. What a good dog you are.”
Her eyes filled, and she sniffled back the tears as she straightened. “Sorry. I’m just not over the loss.”
“Death is difficult.”
“It certainly is.” Sunny flipped back her braid, let out a breath as she glanced around. “You’re very tidy, aren’t you?”
“I … I suppose, yes. I prefer things in order.”
“I guess I like chaos, mostly. Anyway, I can never keep anything tidy for long. I have a painting that would work very well in your living room. It’s what I do. I’m an artist.”
“I see.”
“I paint mainly mythical and mythological studies. Fairies, mermaids, gods and goddesses, dragons, centaurs—that sort of thing.”
“Mythology is fertile ground for artists and storytellers. Ah … did you paint the murals on the house off Shop Street?”
“Yes. That’s our house.”
“It’s very interesting. The work is very good.”
“Thanks. I enjoy it. How about some coffee to go with that pie?”
Abigail stared down at the pie. “Ms. O’Hara.”
“Sunny.”
“Sunny. I’m not good company.”
“Oh, honey, that’s okay. I am.”
However awkward and unsettling it might be, it had to be easier—and more efficient—to simply let the woman have her few minutes. And that would be that.