Heroes Are My Weakness

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  He pulled out a saucepan. “I’m making my dinner. With my groceries. If you don’t piss me off, I might share with you. Or not.”

  “No! Go home. The cottage is mine now, remember?”

  “You’re right.” He began tossing the packages back in the plastic bag. “I’ll take these with me.”

  Damn it. Along with coughing less, her appetite had begun to return, and she’d barely eaten all day. “Fine,” she said begrudgingly. “You cook. I’ll eat. Then you’re out of here.”

  He was already rummaging through the bottom cupboard for another pot.

  She put Leo away in the studio, then went to her bedroom. Theo didn’t like her—definitely didn’t want her around—so why was he doing this? She traded her boots for sock monkey slippers and straightened up the clothes she’d left lying on the bed. She didn’t want to be around a man she was more than a little afraid of. Even worse, a man some part of her still wanted to trust, despite all the evidence stacked against him. It was too much like being fifteen all over again.

  The smell of sizzling bacon began to fill the air, along with the faintest scent of garlic. Her stomach growled. “Screw it.” She went back into the kitchen.

  The delicious odors were coming from the iron skillet. Spaghetti boiled in the saucepan, and he was beating some of her precious eggs in a big yellow mixing bowl. Two wineglasses sat on the counter, along with a dusty bottle from the cupboard over the sink. “Where’s the corkscrew?” he said.

  She drank good wine so seldom that she hadn’t thought about opening any of the bottles Mariah had stored. Now the lure was irresistible. She rummaged through the junk drawer and handed over the corkscrew. “What are you making?”

  “One of my specialties.”

  “Human liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re adorable.”

  She wouldn’t let him dismiss her so easily. “You do remember I have a lot of reasons to expect the worst from you.”

  He pulled out the wine cork with one efficient twist. “It was a long time ago, Annie. I told you. I was a screwed-up kid.”

  “Take this in the spirit with which it’s intended . . . . You’re still screwed up.”

  “You don’t know anything about who I am now.” He filled her glass with bloodred wine.

  “You live in a haunted house. You terrify small children. You take your horse out in the middle of a blizzard. You—”

  He set down the bottle a little too hard. “I lost my wife a year ago this month. What the hell do you expect? Party hats and noisemakers?”

  She felt a stab of remorse. “I’m sorry about that.”

  He shrugged off her sympathy. “And I’m not abusing Dancer. The wilder the weather is, the more he loves it.”

  She thought of Theo standing bare-chested in the snow. “Just like you?”

  “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Just like me.” He grabbed a cheese grater he’d found somewhere and the wedge of Parmesan, shutting her out.

  She sipped her wine. It was a delicious cabernet, fruity and full-bodied. He clearly didn’t want to talk, which made her determined to force the issue. “Tell me about your new book.”

  Seconds ticked by. “I don’t like to talk about a book while I’m writing it. It takes away the energy that belongs on the page.”

  A challenge similar to the one that actors faced performing the same role night after night. She watched him grate the cheese into an oblong glass bowl. “A lot of people hated The Sanitarium.” Her comment was so rude she was almost ashamed.

  He grabbed the boiling pot of spaghetti from the stove and dumped the contents into a colander in the sink. “Did you read it?”

  “Didn’t get around to it.” It went against her nature to be so blunt, but she wanted him to know she wasn’t the same timid mouse she’d been at fifteen. “How did your wife die?”

  He transferred the hot pasta to the mixing bowl and beaten eggs without losing a beat. “Despair. She killed herself.”

  His words made her queasy. There was so much more she wanted to know. How did she do it? Did you see it coming? Were you the reason? That last question most of all. But she didn’t have the stomach to ask any of it.

  He added the bacon and garlic to the pasta and tossed the mixture with a pair of forks. She grabbed some silverware and napkins and carried them to the table set in the living room bay window. After she’d fetched the wineglasses, she took her place. He emerged from the kitchen with their loaded plates and frowned at the garishly painted plaster mermaid chair. “Hard to believe your mother was an art expert.”

  “It’s not any worse than a dozen other things in the cottage.” She inhaled the scents of garlic, bacon, and the roughly grated Parmesan on top. “This smells delicious.”

  He put down her plate and sat across from her. “Spaghetti carbonara.”

  Hunger must have fried her brain because she did the stupidest thing. She automatically lifted her glass. “To the chef.”

  He locked eyes with her but didn’t lift his own glass. She quickly set hers down, but his gaze held, and she felt an odd prickling, as if something more than the draft coming through the bay window had stirred the air between them. It took her only a moment to figure out exactly what was happening.

  Certain women were drawn to volatile men, sometimes out of neuroses, sometimes—if the woman was a romantic—out of the naive fantasy that her particular brand of femininity was powerful enough to tame one of these rogue males. In novels, the fantasy was irresistible. In real life, it was total bull. Of course she felt a sexual pull from all that dangerous masculinity. Her body had been through a lot lately, and this reawakening meant she was healing. On the flip side, her reaction was also a reminder that he still held a destructive fascination for her.

  She concentrated on the food, twirling her fork in the pasta and pushing a messy bite into her mouth. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Rich and gooey, savory with garlic and smoky with bacon. Completely satisfying. “When did you learn to cook?”

  “When I started writing. I discovered that cooking was a great way for me to untangle plot problems in my head.”

  “Nothing quite as inspiring as a butcher knife, right?”

  He raised his unscarred eyebrow at her.

  She was starting to feel a little too snarky, so she relented. “This might be the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Only compared with what you and Jaycie have been fixing.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with our food.” She couldn’t muster up much conviction.

  “Nothing much right with it, either. The best you can say is that it’s serviceable.”

  “I’ll take serviceable. Serviceable’s good.” She chased a bacon morsel with her fork. “Why don’t you cook for yourself.”

  “Too much trouble.”

  Not an entirely satisfying answer, since he seemed to enjoy cooking, but she wasn’t going to show enough interest to inquire further.

  He leaned back in his chair. Unlike her, he wasn’t wolfing down his meal but savoring it. “Why didn’t you order groceries for yourself?”

  “I ordered,” she said around another mouthful. “Apparently someone left a message canceling it.”

  He cradled his wineglass. “Here’s what I don’t get. You haven’t even been here a full two weeks. How have you managed to piss off somebody that fast?”

  She’d give anything to know whether or not he was aware that she might have something valuable hidden here. “I have no idea,” she said, twisting a strand of pasta around her fork.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  She dabbed at her mouth. “There are a lot of things I’m not telling you.”

  “You have a theory about this, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but unfortunately, I can’t prove you’re the one behind the trouble.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” he said harshly. “You know I d
idn’t trash this place. But I’m starting to believe you might have some idea who did.”

  “None. Swear.” That part was true, at least.

  “Then why did it happen? Despite the company you keep, you’re no dummy. I think you have your suspicions.”

  “I might. And no, I’m not sharing.”

  He regarded her with a shuttered expression that was impossible to read. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”

  It was such a ludicrous question that she didn’t bother answering, although she couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. Which he didn’t find amusing.

  “I can’t help if you won’t level with me,” he said in the voice of someone used to instant obedience.

  No chance he’d get that from her. It would take more than fabulous food and great wine to wipe out her memory bank.

  “Tell me what’s happening,” he went on. “Why is someone after you? What do they want?”

  She placed her palm on her chest and drawled, “The key to my heart.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Keep your secrets then. I don’t care.”

  “No reason you should.”

  They finished eating in silence. She carried her plate and wineglass into the kitchen. The cupboard door above the sink was still ajar displaying the bottles stacked inside. Her mother had always kept good wine around, thanks to the gifts people brought her. Rare vintages. Highly sought after collectibles. Who knew what she had stored in there? Maybe—

  The wine! Annie gripped the edge of the sink. What if these bottles of wine were her legacy? She’d been so focused on the art in the cottage that she hadn’t thought beyond. Rare bottles of wine fetched exorbitant sums at auction. She’d heard of a single bottle going for twenty or thirty thousand dollars. What if she and Theo had just polished off part of her legacy?

  The wine started to come back up in her throat. She heard him walking into the kitchen behind her. “You have to go now,” she said unsteadily. “I appreciate the food, but I’m serious. You have to get out of here.”

  “Fine by me.” He set his plate on the counter, showing no more emotion about being kicked out than he did about anything else.

  As soon as he was gone, she grabbed her notebook, wrote down the information from the label of each wine bottle, then carefully boxed them all up. She found a marker and wrote CLOTHES TO DONATE on the flap, then tucked the box away in the back of her closet. If there was another break-in, she wouldn’t make it easy on whoever was out to get her.

  “I KEEP THINKING IF THIS room looked better,” Jaycie said, leaning precariously on her crutches, “Theo might want to relax here.”

  Which meant Jaycie would have a better chance of spending time with him the way she wanted to. Annie flipped the sunroom couch cushions. Jaycie wasn’t a smitten teenager any longer. Hadn’t she learned anything about making better choices in men?

  “Theo didn’t come back to the house for dinner last night?”

  Annie heard the question in Jaycie’s voice but decided it was best to keep last night’s meal to herself. “He stayed around for a while to give me a hard time. I finally kicked him out.”

  Jaycie moved her dust rag across the bookshelves. “Oh. That was probably good.”

  THE WINE WAS ONE MORE disappointment. Annie tracked each bottle online. The most expensive was a hundred dollars, definitely pricey, but all of them together weren’t enough to qualify as a legacy. As she closed the lid to her laptop, she heard Jaycie at the kitchen door. “Livia! You’re not supposed to be outside. Come here right now!”

  Annie sighed. “I’ll get her.”

  Jaycie hobbled out into the hallway. “I’m going to have to start punishing her.”

  Jaycie was too softhearted. Besides, they both recognized that it wasn’t right to keep an active child inside all day. As Annie put on her coat and gathered up Scamp, she decided that being a decent person was a pain in the ass.

  She found Livia crouched on her heels by the tree stump. The little girl had added something new to the double row of sticks stuck in the ground in front of the hollow stump. A small pavement of stones now formed a pathway under the stick canopy to the tree hollow entrance.

  Annie finally realized what she was looking at. Livia had built a fairy house. They were common in Maine, handmade dwellings for any fanciful creatures who might dwell in the woodlands. Made of sticks, moss, pebbles, pinecones—whatever was available in nature.

  Annie sat cross-legged on the cold ledge stone and propped Scamp on her knee. “It’s me,” Scamp said, “Genevieve Adelaide Josephine Brown, otherwise known as Scamp. Whatcha doing?”

  Livia touched her new stone pavement, almost as if she wanted to say something. When she didn’t, Scamp said, “It looks like you built a fairy house. I like to build things. I made alphabet letters out of Popsicle sticks once, and I made tissue paper flowers, and I made a Thanksgiving turkey from a cutout of my hand. I’m quite artistic. But I never built a fairy house.”

  Livia kept her attention firmly fixed on Scamp, as if Annie didn’t exist.

  “Have the fairies visited?” Scamp asked.

  Livia’s lips began to part, as if she wanted to say something. Annie held her breath. The child’s brow furrowed. Her mouth closed, opened again, and then everything about her seemed to wilt. Her shoulders sagged, her head dropped. She looked so miserable that Annie regretted trying to push her.

  “Free secret!” Scamp shouted.

  Livia looked up, her gray eyes coming alive again.

  Scamp pressed one of her small cloth hands to her mouth. “This is a bad one. Remember you’re not allowed to get mad.”

  Livia nodded solemnly.

  “My free secret is . . .” Scamp lowered her voice to a near whisper. “One time I was supposed to pick up my toys, but I didn’t want to, so I decided to go exploring instead, even though Annie told me not to go outside. But I did anyway, and she didn’t know where I was, and it made her really scared.” Scamp paused for breath. “I told you it was bad. Do you still like me?”

  Livia’s head bobbed in an emphatic nod.

  Scamp leaned back against Annie’s chest. “It’s not fair. I told two free secrets, but you haven’t told me even one.”

  Annie could feel Livia’s longing to communicate—the tension gathering in her small body, the misery etched into her delicate features.

  “Never mind!” Scamp exclaimed. “I have a new song. Did I mention that I’m an amazing singer? I will now perform for you. Do not sing along—I’m a solo artist—but feel free to dance.”

  Scamp launched into an enthusiastic version of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” During the first chorus, Annie came to her feet and danced along, Scamp bobbing above her crossed arm. Livia soon joined in. By the time Scamp delivered the final chorus, Livia and Annie were dancing together, and Annie hadn’t coughed once.

  ANNIE DIDN’T SEE THEO THAT day, but the next afternoon, as she and Jaycie continued attacking the sunroom, he made his presence known. “It’s a text from Theo.” Jaycie looked down at her phone. “He wants all the fireplaces cleaned. He’s forgotten I can’t do this.”

  “He hasn’t forgotten anything,” Annie retorted. Trust Theo to find a new way to torture her.

  Jaycie gazed at Annie over the purple hippopotamus tied to the top of her crutch. “It’s my job. You shouldn’t have to do this kind of thing.”

  “If I don’t, I’ll deprive Theo of his entertainment.”

  Jaycie collapsed against the bookcases, sending a leather-bound volume tumbling to its side. “I don’t understand why the two of you don’t get along. I mean . . . I remember what happened, but that was a long time ago. He was just a kid. And I never heard about him getting into trouble again.”

  Because Elliott would have hushed it up, Annie thought. “Time doesn’t change a person’s basic character.”

  Jaycie regarded her earnestly, the most naive woman on earth. “There’s nothing wrong with his character. If there was, he’d have fired me.”
>
  Annie bit back a pointed retort. She wouldn’t inflict her own cynicism on the only real friend she had here. And maybe she was the one with the character flaw. After everything Jaycie had been through in her marriage, it was admirable that she could still maintain her optimism about men.

  WHEN ANNIE ENTERED THE COTTAGE that night covered with soot, she was greeted with the sight of Leo straddling the back of her couch like a cowboy riding a horse. Dilly sat in a chair, the empty wine bottle from two nights ago in her lap. Crumpet was sprawled on the floor in front of an open copy of the pornographic art photo book, while Peter had crept up behind her to look under her skirt.

  Theo came out of the kitchen, a dish towel in his hands. She looked from the puppets to him. He shrugged. “They were bored.”

  “You were bored. You didn’t want to write, and this was your way of procrastinating. Didn’t I tell you to leave my puppets alone?”

  “Did you? I don’t remember.”

  “I could argue with you about that, but I have to take a bath. For some reason, I seem to be covered in fireplace ash.”

  He smiled. An honest-to-God smile that didn’t quite fit on his brooding face. She stalked toward the bedroom. “You’d better be gone when I come out.”

  “Are you sure you want me to leave?” she heard him say. “I picked up a couple of lobsters in town today.”

  Damn it! She was ravenous, but that didn’t mean she was going to sell herself out for food. Not for ordinary food, anyway. But lobster . . . ? She slammed her bedroom door, which made her feel like a twit.

  I don’t see why you’d feel that way, Crumpet said petulantly. I slam doors all the time.

  Annie stripped off her dirty jeans. Exactly my point.

  She took a bath, washed the soot out of her hair, and dressed in a clean pair of jeans and one of Mariah’s black turtleneck sweaters. She tried to tame her wet hair by putting it up in a ponytail, knowing as she did that her curls would soon pop out like demented mattress springs. She eyed her meager supply of makeup but refused to apply even lip gloss.

  The kitchen smelled like a four-star restaurant, and Theo was peering into the cabinet over the sink. “What happened to the wine that was here?”