Tymber Dalton (10 page)

He buried his face in her hair. “I’m sorry. I feel bad I dumped all this on you. I want to make you happy.”

He was back. Her Steve—the man she married.

For how long?

“I have to be honest with you—I worry you’ll start drinking again, the way you’ve been acting lately.”

He nodded. “I know.”

She gave him a squeeze and stepped back, searching his eyes. “Will you please consider going to see a counselor?”

“I’ll think about it.”

* * * *

The rest of Friday went better. Steve still spent most of the day in his study, but he came out for lunch without being asked, and he knocked off early to take her out to dinner. He actually showed some interest in her, but nature had a twisted sense of humor. The migraine she felt threatening most of the afternoon lifted, and she saw when they returned from dinner that her period had started. They settled for curling up on the couch in front of the TV.

So close
, she thought.
At least he made the effort.

Sami spent most of Saturday on the couch in front of the TV with her laptop. She had no energy or desire to do anything. Steve offered to make her lunch before retreating to his lair.

I need to give this some time,
she thought.

As if reading her thoughts, Matt called.

“You okay down there?”

“That’s spooky.”

“What?”

“I was just thinking about you.”

He fell quiet for a moment. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good. How’s my baby?”

“I’m assuming you mean Pog?”

She smiled, trying to strangle wistful memories into submission. “Of course.”

“You owe me a new pair of sneakers and a few tennis balls. Other than that, we’re good.”

“Oh, no! I’m sorry.”

He laughed. “Relax—the balls were old, and so were the sneaks. I gave them to him to play with.”

“Has he been a good boy?”

“Yeah, I’m going to miss having him around. How’s Boy Genius?”

“In his lair.”

Matt paused. Sami wasn’t sure she still had the connection until he spoke. “How are
you
doing?”

“I’m okay, just having a quiet day today.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She gripped the phone tightly. It never failed that when she needed him most, Matt was always there. “I’m…hanging in there.” She lowered her voice. “He’s not as bad as he was, but I don’t know if that’s because he’s really trying or because I told him I’d give him one last chance before I file for divorce. We got into it again yesterday morning. I suggested counseling again. This time he didn’t take my head off, but he hasn’t made an effort to call anyone.”

“You’re not going to call?”

“No. I can’t do this for him. I’ve done everything for nearly seven years now. I can’t change him—he has to want to change.”

They steered the conversation to work, Matt making suggestions about the latest manuscript she’d sent him. They talked a few minutes more, and she was ready to hang up when he stopped her.

“Sam, be careful. Okay?”

“Why?”

“I…I just want you to be careful. Promise?”

“I promise.”

She stared at the phone.
What was that about?

* * * *

Sami went to bed early, leaving Steve undisturbed in his study. She awoke to an eerily quiet house and the new bedside clock read 12:21.

He’s probably still working.

Sami changed positions and tried to sleep despite her irritation. It would be nice to actually sleep in bed
with
her husband once in a while.

I guess I should be used to it by now.

She heard a noise downstairs. Like a door in the kitchen, but it wasn’t the outside door.

Basement? What would he be doing down there at this hour?

She heard his footsteps down the hall, and then his study door shut again. Still working.

Her conversation with Matt replayed in her mind as she sank from consciousness. Be careful. What
had
he meant?

Sami woke at six and found Steve asleep next to her. What time had he come up? She arose without waking him and took a shower in the guest bath.

I shouldn’t complain. At least he works at home and makes good money doing something he loves.

She’d already poured her second cup of coffee when he crawled downstairs over an hour later.

He’s hungover,
she immediately thought, then caught herself.

That couldn’t be—there wasn’t any liquor in the house. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Sorry I didn’t come up until late,” he apologized.

“Early.”

He looked at her, started to say something, thought better of it, and nodded. “Yes.”

“What were you doing in the basement?”

“Huh?”

“I heard you go down into the basement last night.”

“I thought I heard a noise down there.”

“Oh.”

* * * *

Basement? What the hell?

The truth was, he not only didn’t remember going into the basement, he didn’t remember much between the hours of nine last night—when he remembered checking the time—and getting up this morning.

He sipped his coffee. Toothpaste and coffee didn’t go well together, but he’d had a foul taste in his mouth when he awoke. And a pounding headache.

“Do we have any aspirin?” he asked.

She looked at him, grabbed the bottle from a cabinet, and handed it to him. “Headache?”

He swallowed two, chased with coffee. “I think I need glasses. My eyes are bothering me.”

“If you didn’t spend sixteen hours a day on the computer, they wouldn’t bother you.”

She smiled behind her coffee cup, but he felt the bite in her tone.

And his own guilt. “I’m sorry, Sami. My writing’s going so well, you know what it’s like. When you get on a roll you have to ride it until it plays out. No telling when I’ll get blocked again.”

She put her cup in the sink and kissed him on the forehead. “Just don’t wear yourself out, okay?”

* * * *

Sami settled into a routine. Tuesday morning she decided it was a good day to start her research. Maybe Steve wouldn’t be the only one to benefit from their “vacation.” If she could dredge a real-life story out of the house’s history, it might be her next book. She spent the morning doing chores and working. After lunch, she opened Steve’s office door.

“I’m going into town. Want anything?”

He didn’t turn from his computer. “No.”

She paused in the door of his office. “Well, good-bye.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to work, okay?”

She fought the urge to slam the door behind her.

“Asshole,” she muttered.

His writer’s block had lifted—so he said. But his surly attitude was returning.

The horses were waiting when she stepped outside. The day already a scorcher, the morning news had promised afternoon thunderstorms. She secured the geldings in the pasture and drove to town.

The Brooksville courthouse was a mixture of old and new architecture where modern additions had been grafted onto the original structure. She’d been to Brooksville a few times when she lived in Florida, and was happy to see the downtown still maintained its small-town air. A huge oak shaded the grassy area where a war monument honored Hernando County’s dead veterans. Older two-story buildings flanked the main courthouse square, and the library was nearby. She parked in the courthouse lot and found the tax collector’s office.

Once she told them what she wanted, they directed her to an office across the street where the property appraiser’s office kept the plat maps. She trekked over and found the property identification number and legal description. With that in hand, back at the tax office they showed her to a computer terminal where Sami researched the property’s history.

The records went back past the turn of the century, when the entire area was free-range grazing land. The Oriole-Dade Mining Company purchased ten thousand acres and split it into separate properties. She followed the time line and narrowed it down to the individual owners, from George Simpson, the name on the tombstone, all the way to Shelly Johnson.

Sami wasn’t sure if Shelly Johnson was a mister or a missus, but she copied down the most recent address from the tax records. Johnson had owned the property since the mid-sixties. Over the years there were several transfers of ownership only to have Johnson take control of the property again.

Sami wondered if this was because the buyers bailed out. The last quit claim deed back to Johnson was December over a year ago.

The tax office wasn’t busy, so Sami approached the clerk on duty.

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to research the history of a property we’re renting, and I wondered if you might be able to help me. I’ve found a strange pattern I don’t know what to make of.”

The clerk followed her to the terminal. Sami scrolled through the records. The clerk frowned.

“The name George Simpson rings a bell. Can you hold on a minute?”

Sami nodded, and the clerk disappeared behind the desk into a back office. In a few minutes she returned, an odd look on her face. “You probably want to take a trip over to the library. They’ve got a lot of items over there, local newspapers, documents, all the way from before the turn of the century. Talk to Jane McCartyle, she’s the head librarian and president of the historical society.”

Sami thanked her and gathered her notes. Outside it felt muggy, but the breeze and shade made it tolerable, with the afternoon sun casting golden shadows onto the courthouse steps. The library was only a block away, so she walked.

Jane McCartyle was in the middle of directing a children’s reading session, but one of her assistants led Sami to the newspaper archives and showed her how to use the indexing system to locate what she wanted. There was also an online computer archive linking the library to a newspaper database at Sami’s disposal, and she didn’t know if she’d have enough time before the library’s closure to finish her research.

She started reading about the area in old newspapers, and lost track of time. Before she researched George Simpson she looked at her cell phone and realized the library would close in a few minutes. She’d return another time to flesh out the details. McCartyle had finished entertaining the third graders and shook her hand when she introduced herself.

“Your husband’s books are very popular with our patrons. I’m a fan of yours as well. Could I impose upon you to set up an author’s talk while you’re here?”

“We’d be more than happy to, but what I came for is to research the house we’re staying in. It’s an old place in the middle of the Croom park.”

The librarian’s face clouded. “Oh. The old Simpson house.”

“Yes, I think that’s the name of the man who built it.”

The librarian glanced around. “How long are you staying?”

“Well, I’m not sure. Originally we agreed to rent for six months, but there’s a good chance we’ll buy.”

Jane McCartyle studied her for a moment. “Unfortunately we’re closing, but can you come back another time? I’ve got some information you might find…interesting.”

“I’d love to. I’ve got a bunch of things to do this week, but I can come back on Friday.”

“That would be fine. About noon. We can have lunch here in town and—” She looked around. “We can talk privately.”

What’s going on?
“Sure,” she agreed. “I’ll be here at noon.”

Sami left the library without much more information than she started with. All she had now was a weird purchase history, some names, and dates.
Don’t forget a librarian who apparently enjoyed cloak-and-dagger tactics to greet new residents.

Steve stood outside with the horses when Sami drove up.

“Well hello, stranger,” she said. He looked a little sheepish when he walked over and kissed her. “Whatcha doing out here with the boys?”

“Got a little cabin fever. Want to go riding?”

He never wanted to ride. Especially not after Jeff threw him the last time. “Didn’t the last time cure you?”

“You ride Jeff this time—I’ll take Mutt.”

She glanced at her watch, then at sun over the tree line. “We’ve still got enough light, I guess so.” Steve followed her to the barn, and she realized he’d already groomed the horses. All that remained was to saddle them, which Steve wouldn’t try to do himself. Ten minutes later she helped him mount, tightened his cinch, and swung up on Jeff. She put Steve through his paces in the pasture first, to make sure he was steady before going through the gate into the park.

The occasional dirt bike still whined in the distance, but most of the riders had stopped for the day. It wouldn’t be too bad on the main road, but keeping Steve’s less-than-stellar horsemanship in mind, she stuck to the back trails, and they enjoyed the mostly quiet woods.