The One Safe Place (3 page)

The little boy was chasing the dog, making periodic futile attempts to snag the leash. His pinched face was as serious as a judge, and he never took his eyes off the puppy, as if his life depended on catching him.

The woman was chasing the boy, stumbling over clumsy ducks who waddled into her path. “Spencer! Tigger! Stop! Please, sweetheart. Stop.”

At the same instant, Reed observed his friend Parker rounding the corner, his arms full of suitcases, which he promptly dropped when he spied the chaos before him.

“Spencer, don't,” Parker called out, echoing the woman. Then he noticed Reed standing at the clinic door and gave him a sheepish grin. “This isn't exactly how the introductions were supposed to go, but
that great-looking lady down there is your new housekeeper.”

“So I gathered.”

Parker's grin deepened. “Well? It's your pond. Your ducks. And you're the superhero in this story. You're the gallant protector.”

“Damn it, Parker, I knew you had a hidden agenda here. I am nobody's superhero, and you damn well know it.”

“Okay, okay.” Parker looked meek. “But you're in your work clothes, while I, unfortunately, am wearing Sarah's favorite overpriced suit. Maybe you should…um…do something?”

With a dark glance at Parker—a glance that reminded him whose idea all this had been in the first place—Reed moved toward the pond, which seemed to be churning with wings and webbed feet.

Suddenly, without warning, the dog took a flying leap into the pond and began to paddle furiously toward the nearest mallard.

Without a moment's hesitation, the little boy barreled in after him, making a hell of a splash.

And, of course, the woman followed frantically.

She probably thought the boy was in danger. She couldn't know, of course, that the pond was a mere two feet deep. The puppy was the only one who couldn't touch the bottom quite easily.

Reed started to lope toward them, but Faith looked over, her lovely mouth pressed tight, her wide gaze embarrassed. She shook her head.

“No, please,” she said. “It's okay.”

He stopped. Her voice was low and pleasant, a little husky—the kind of voice that drove men wild without even trying. But it was emphatic. She was already embarrassed, and she did not want to be “rescued.”

So he honored that, standing at the edge of the pond, watching in case anyone slipped on the way out.

Now that her clothes were drenched, he couldn't help noticing that her body was spectacular. He glanced at Parker suspiciously, wondering if his friend had known that Faith Constable was a bona fide beauty when he decided she should hide out at Autumn House. It would be just like him to try a little matchmaking.

But Parker looked every bit as mesmerized as Reed felt. Parker might be happily married, but that didn't mean he was blind. And, even soaking wet—maybe
especially
soaking wet—this woman was enough to drive an army to its knees.

“Please,” she called out again. “I don't want you to get wet, too, Dr. Fairmont. We're fine, really.”

She was holding out her hand to stop him, and Reed realized he must have unconsciously taken another step toward her. He reined himself in with effort.

She was right, of course. They were fine. Spencer had quickly caught the dog, who wriggled in his arms, ecstatically licking mud from his chin. Faith put her arm across the boy's wet, bony shoulder and bent
down, ignoring the water, to give him something that was a cross between a hug and a stern talking to.

It was quite a scene, the two drenched and muddy creatures standing knee deep in water, their clothes ruined, their hair streaming in their faces. And all around them, the ducks paddled peacefully, staring straight ahead with stately boredom, as if, sadly, nothing interesting ever happened on their little pond.

Just then, Justine appeared at Reed's elbow, chewing on some spearmint-scented gum, her sleeping baby propped on her shoulder.

“Wow,” she said without much inflection, scanning the weird tableau before them. “That half-drowned thing in the pond is your ‘fox'?”

“No.” Reed shook his head slowly, and then, seeing that Faith's minilecture was over, he began to move a little closer. Maybe he could just lend a hand, just make sure they could climb out without any further dunking.

He glanced back at Justine briefly with a small smile. “Actually,” he said, “that's my new housekeeper.”

Justine stared a minute, and then she chuckled, stroking her baby's cheek softly.

“Wow,” she said again as she turned to go back into the clinic. “And I thought you were nuts for hiring
me!
”

F
AITH HAD NEVER BEEN
so humiliated in her life. What a great first impression! She couldn't imagine what Reed Fairmont must think.

She had to fight the urge to come staggering out of the pond, dripping mud all over everyone, and start compulsively overexplaining, overapologizing, overreacting.

She hadn't realized that Tigger was essentially being theatrical and never had any intention of massacring Dr. Fairmont's ducks. Tigger wasn't a bird dog. He was just a puppy with too much energy, but for a minute she'd forgotten that.

And she hadn't, of course, realized how shallow the pond was. She had been too focused on the fact that Spencer wasn't a strong swimmer. He was just six years old, and if he'd slipped beneath the black-gold water, she might not have been able to find him in time.

But, though these were good reasons, they weren't the real reasons, and she knew it. The real reason Spencer had overreacted to the fear of losing Tigger, and the real reason she had been so afraid of losing
Spencer, was simply that they had lost too much already.

They weren't like other people anymore. Their antennae were always subtly tuned to the disaster frequency. They had seen how swiftly tragedy could strike—even on a sunny summer morning, even in your own home, even while people were making peanut butter sandwiches—and that knowledge had changed them forever.

But that wasn't the kind of thing you walked right up to a total stranger and began explaining. “Hello, nice to meet you, sorry about the ducks, but you see my nephew and I have developed this disaster mentality.”

Impossible.
So instead she put her arm around Spencer's shoulder and guided him toward the bank of the pond. She stroked his hair back from his forehead, and then did the same to her own. Her stitches hurt—she shouldn't have let them get wet—but she ignored the pain.

She summoned up all her dignity and looked at Reed Fairmont with her best imitation of a normal smile.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “We seem to have made a terrible mess.”

The man in front of her smiled, too. It was such a warm, sympathetic smile that for a minute Faith thought maybe Reed Fairmont did understand everything. Maybe he knew about how fear seemed to follow them everywhere, even to Firefly Glen, how they
heard its whisper in the song of the birds, in the rustle of the wind and the slither of the rain, and even in the kiss of the sunset.

But that was ridiculous, of course. Reed was a doctor. That smile was probably just part of his reassuring bedside manner.

“It's no problem,” he said. “I'm just sorry you must be so uncomfortable.”

Her next thought was that he was a surprisingly young, attractive man. If anything, even more attractive than the elegant Parker Tremaine. She looked from one man to the other curiously.

Firefly Glen must have some kind of sex-appeal potion in its water.

Detective Bentley had never said how old Dr. Fairmont was—just that he was the widowed veterinarian of this small mountain town. Faith's imagination had summoned up a gray-haired, weather-beaten image, kind of a countrified Gregory Peck in half glasses and a lab coat, his trusty hound trotting at his heels.

She couldn't have been more wrong. No gray hair, no wrinkles, no reading glasses, no lab coat and no hound. Instead, the real Reed Fairmont was in his early thirties and good-looking enough to be an actor playing a country vet or a model posing for the cover of
Adirondack Adventure.

Six-foot-something, with broad shoulders, trim hips and muscles in all the right places. Longish, wavy brown hair with a healthy dose of highlights. And green eyes smiling out from a forest of thick lashes.

He bent down and gave Tigger a pat. He smiled at Spencer. “Hi,” he said comfortably. “You've got a pretty great dog here.” Spencer just ducked his chin and stared down at Tigger.

Reed didn't seem to notice. He stood without comment and gave Faith another smile. “It's getting chilly,” he said. “I bet you'd like to get out of those wet clothes.”

She looked over at the house, which was gleaming now with lights in the encroaching dusk. Autumn House. It, too, had surprised her. Detective Bentley had reported that it was a large, wooden Adirondack cabin, but that simple description hadn't begun to do it justice.

Autumn House was huge, and as beautiful as the forest itself. It sprawled with a natural grace as far as the eye could see—here following the contours of a small silver creek, there wrapping around an ancient oak. The house rose three stories at its center, then sloped to two, then one, then tapered off to a long wooden boardwalk that eventually disappeared into the woods.

It had huge picture windows that looked out onto the sunsets, and porches on all three floors. She felt sure that the place had been built as a haven, a place where terrible things wouldn't dream of happening.

If only that were true.

“Tell you what,” Reed said, as if he had followed her longing gaze to the warm, lighted house. “Why don't you let Parker take you up and show you where
your rooms are? That way you can get a warm shower and change.”

She longed to say yes. A warm shower sounded like heaven. But she looked down at Tigger, uncertain. “I think I'd better wash the puppy off first,” she said. “He'll get mud all over your lovely house.”

“I can do that.” Reed squatted down again and tugged lightly on Tigger's muddy ear. “I've got everything I need back in the clinic. That is, if Tigger doesn't mind going with a stranger.”

Tigger had never met a stranger. He licked Reed's hand and wriggled with anticipation. Reed chuckled. “Guess that's my answer,” he said pleasantly, then looked at Spencer. “I promise I'll take good care of him.”

Suddenly Parker Tremaine stepped up, clearing his throat. “I think you've got it backward, Reed,” he said with a wry smile. “It's your house—I'm not even sure which rooms you've set aside for them. So how about you take Faith and Spencer up to the house, and I'll wash the dog?”

Tigger sniffed Parker's outstretched hand and began thumping his tail in unqualified approval. But Reed gave his friend a quizzical expression that Faith couldn't quite decipher.

“What about your suit, Parker? I seem to remember that you're wearing Sarah's favorite suit.”

Parker tilted his head and grinned slowly. “True, but, you know, Reed, there is something Sarah values even more than a good suit.”

Reed squinted narrowly at the other man, as if he suspected him of an ulterior motive. “Really. And what would that be?”

Parker hesitated—a small pause that had a distinctly teasing flavor. Faith saw that they were communicating privately—and very effectively—but she couldn't really tell about what. Maybe it was as simple as trying to get out of having to wash the muddy dog. Or having to squire the dripping guests up to the shower…

Suddenly Parker held out his hands with a smile, asking Spencer to transfer custody of Tigger. To Faith's amazement, Spencer hardly hesitated. He handed the puppy over with a single kiss to his matted head.

“Dogs,” Parker said, holding Tigger up with the triumphant air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “As you know, Reed, Sarah just loves dogs.”

 

S
PENCER AND
T
IGGER
fell asleep early, almost as soon as they had wolfed down dinner. Reed wasn't surprised. They had both been subdued, obviously exhausted by their eventful day.

At one point, Spencer had looked up at his aunt intently, then gazed over at his bed. She must have understood, because she turned to Reed and asked whether he'd mind if Tigger slept on the bed.

Naturally, he hadn't minded at all. He'd been six years old once. And frankly he still didn't see the
point in having a dog if you didn't let it sleep on the bed.

Reed assumed that Faith would fall asleep early, too, but to his surprise when he strolled out onto the second-floor porch at about ten o'clock, she was standing out there, as well.

She didn't hear him at first. Wrapped in a moonlight-blue robe and a gray cloud of deep thoughts, she was staring into the trees as if she longed to lose herself in their inky depths.

It probably would be wiser to turn around and leave her there. But he wasn't feeling wise. All evening he'd been feeling edgy, unable to settle in. He felt irrationally as if his life was on the verge of becoming completely different, though he had no idea how.

Maybe it was just the weird feeling of having other people in the house. No one but him had slept in this house since Melissa died.

And, to be honest, he was curious. He wanted to know Faith Constable's story. Parker had given him broad outlines, but, now that he'd met her, outlines weren't enough.

He was careful to make enough noise walking toward her to be sure she'd hear him. Given what she'd been through lately, the last thing he wanted to do was startle her.

She turned around. “Hi,” she said, smiling.

“Hi,” he responded casually, but inside his senses were suddenly reeling. She smelled of soap and some kind of perfume that made him think of pink flowers
and springtime. She wore no makeup, and the blue-gray shadows under her eyes were more apparent than before, but somehow she was more beautiful than ever.

Her dark hair fell to midarm—curving against the tender spot where he had earlier noticed a large white bandage. The bandage had been a brutal reminder that she wasn't here for a social visit. She wasn't even here to be his housekeeper.

She was a wounded, frightened woman. A refugee seeking asylum.

He felt a sudden flash of anger toward this insane, vicious Douglas Lambert. How could anyone be trying to hurt someone so beautiful?

He joined her at the railing. The night was chilly, but not yet cold. The autumn sky was like a piece of heavily sequined black satin.

“So,” he said, not sure how to open a normal conversation. So much about this situation was far from normal. “Is the room okay? Do you have everything you need?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely.” She sounded stilted, but polite. She turned toward him with another of those strained smiles. “I haven't thanked you properly yet. It's very generous of you to let us hide out here.”

“I'm glad to be able to help,” he answered. God, this was like a bad comedy of manners. They were living together, for Pete's sake. They might be living together for weeks—even months. They were going
to have to get past this stilted exchange of meaningless pleasantries.

“So, I was wondering… If this is a good time, with Spencer asleep, I thought maybe you'd be willing to tell me a little more about what happened.”

She touched her arm. “More like what?”

He chose his words carefully. He didn't want to sound insensitive, as if he found her tragedy as morbidly fascinating and unreal as a soap opera. “About your sister, and why this guy is still after you. Why Spencer doesn't talk.”

She didn't answer at first. He shouldn't have rushed her, he thought, kicking himself mentally. She wasn't ready.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know it can't be easy to talk about. It's just that—if I'm going to help—I thought maybe I should know a little more.”

She gripped the railing and stared back out at the trees. “No, that's okay,” she said. “You're right. It's just that sometimes it's hard to—”

“I know,” he said, wishing he could unspeak the words. What a clumsy approach this had been. He really was rusty at dealing with women, wasn't he? “It can wait.”

“No. Now is better. I just—I don't really know why Spencer doesn't talk.” It was as if she had to hurry up and get started, for fear she might lose her courage. “Not exactly. The psychiatrists seem to think it's the stress of losing his mother. They use some pretty impressive phrases when they talk about
it. They say his ‘stressor reactions of fear exceeded the normal adaptive responses.'”

She shrugged, then winced. The movement must have pulled her stitches. “Whatever that means.”

“I guess it means his system maxed out.”

“Right. They called it his ‘breaking point threshold.'”

Yeah,
Reed thought. He'd heard those terms himself, back when he was in his heavy denial and heavy drinking phase.
The breaking point threshold.
Everyone had one. You didn't necessarily see it coming, but you sure as hell knew when you crossed it.

“Anyhow,” she went on, “they seem to think it's selective, that he can talk if he wants to—as opposed to a true loss of neurological function. Apparently that's a positive sign.” Her eyes grew dark. “I hope they're right.”

“I think they probably do know what they're talking about,” he said. “Even if they like to say it in some pretty pompous ways.”

She rewarded him for that supportive joke with a brief smile. “Anyhow, I guess I ought to tell you about Doug, too. He's the man…the man who—”

“They told me,” he said quickly. “He's the man you believe killed your sister.”

“I
know
he did,” she said with a sudden vehemence. “I don't understand why no one can just believe me!”

“I believe you,” he said. And he did. He had seen how her face blanched, and her lips had seemed to
grow stiff when she tried to say his name. She knew Doug Lambert was a killer. She knew it in her veins, which in his book was far more reliable than knowing it in your head.

She looked at him hard, as if she wondered whether he might be merely humoring her. But she must have seen his sincerity, because she took a deep breath and went on.

“I have an interior design business. Doug was one of my clients. He had a lot of money, and he wanted his entire house done over. I worked with him for a couple of months, but eventually his interest grew…personal.” She swallowed. “Personal and very disturbing.”