The Winter Lodge by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online

scowled. “No, I mean Ho Ho.” He held out a package of iffy-looking chocolate snack cakes.
    She shook her head. “You might be the coffee whisperer, but that—” she indicated the packaged Ho Hos “—is atrocious.”
    He was dressed for work now, looking as clean-cut as an Eagle Scout, the youngest chief of police in Ulster County. Ordinarily it took years of experience and clever department politicking to reach chief’s status, but in the town of Avalon, it took no more than a willingness to accept an abnormally small salary. He treated his job seriously, though, and had earned the respect of the community.
    She helped herself to a plump orange and sat at the kitchen counter. “You’re working on a Sunday?”
    “I always work Sundays.”
    She knew that. She just didn’t want to admit it. “What next, Chief?” she asked.
    “We go to your house, meet with the fire investigator. If you’re lucky, they’ll make a determination as to the cause of the fire.”
    “Lucky.” She dug her thumbnail into the navel of the orange and ripped back the peel. “How come I don’t feel so lucky?”
    “Okay, poor choice of words. All I meant was, the sooner the investigation finishes up, the sooner the salvage can start.”
    “Salvage. This is all so surreal.” She felt a sudden clutch of anxiety in her gut and remembered something. “You said you washed my clothes?”
    “Uh-huh. I just heard the cycle end.”
    “Oh, God.” She jumped up and hurried into the tiny laundry area adjacent to the kitchen and flipped open the washer.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked, following her.
    She yanked out the checked chef pants she’d had on. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she drew out the little brown plastic bottle. The label was still attached, but the bottle was full of cloudy water. She handed it to Rourke.
    He took the bottle from her, glanced at the label. “Looks like all the pills dissolved.”
    “You now have the most Zenlike, serene washing machine in Avalon.”
    “I didn’t know you were on medication.”
    “What, you thought I was handling Gram’s death without help?”
    “Well, yeah.”
    “Why would you think I could do that?”
    He set the bottle on the kitchen counter. “You are now. You have been all morning. I don’t see you freaking out.”
    She hesitated. Braced her hands on the edge of the counter for support. Then she realized the posture accentuated her boobs in the tight sweatshirt and folded her arms. On a scale of one to ten, the doctor had asked her the night Gram passed away, how anxious did she feel? He told her to ask herself that question before taking a pill so that popping one didn’t become a habit.
    “I’m a five,” she said softly, feeling a barely discernible buzz in her circulation, a subtle tension in her muscles. No sweating, no accelerated heartbeat, no hyperventilating.
    “I know those aren’t your clothes,” Rourke said, “but I’d say you’re at least a seven.”
    “Ha, ha.” She helped herself to another orange. “The doctor said I’m supposed to ask myself how anxious I feel on a scale of one to ten, consciously assessing my need for medication.”
    Rourke lifted one eyebrow. “So if you’re a five, does that mean we should make an emergency run to the drugstore?”
    “Nope. Not unless I feel like an eight or higher. I’m not sure why I don’t feel more panicked.
    After everything that’s happened, it’s a wonder I’m not having a nervous breakdown.”
    “What, do you want one?”
    “Of course not, but it would be normal to fall apart, wouldn’t it?”
    “I don’t think there’s any kind of ‘normal’ when it comes to a loss like this. You feel relatively okay now. Let’s leave it at that.”
    She sensed something beneath his words. A certain wisdom or knowledge, as though maybe he had some experience in this area.
    The morning air felt icy and sweet on her face as she followed him outside. He made sure the dogs had food and water and