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CHAPTER FOUR

Sipping his first cup of coffee, Nash Littlefield watched the sun burn red across the lake. Or his view of it through pines and skeletal hardwoods.

He enjoyed the brilliant drama of it, the contrast of that drama with the almost preternatural quiet.

From where he stood, he heard only the roar of the fire in the hearth, the whisper of winds that snuck through the failing weather stripping of windows he planned to replace.

Even his well-built condo hadn’t masked the sounds of the city he lived with, lived in all of his adult life.

And now he lived with, lived in the quiet.

With the distance and those ancient, inefficient windows shut, he couldn’t hear the quacking or honking of waterfowl. If he wanted that, he could gear up and take a short hike.

That short hike wouldn’t take him to a restaurant, a bar, a shop but to a lake that earned its name with its reflected mountains and sky.

He could’ve afforded one of the lakefront houses with their better views and access, their up-to-date fixtures and amenities.

But he had, maybe for the first time in his life, exactly what he wanted.

The challenge of an old place, with good bones, that needed him to bring it to life. And the solitude it afforded. The convenience to town when he wanted that.

He had, imagine it, the possibility of making a living doing something he loved rather than something he’d been expected to do.

He considered he’d started that by tackling the old workshop, buttoning it up, organizing tools—the ones that came with the house, the ones he’d had, and, best of all, the ones he’d bought with his new business in mind.

He’d been good at the expected—investments, managing accounts, making money out of money, gauging the market. He’d even enjoyed it. But he hadn’t been happy. Not really happy in the corner office he’d earned, or in his sleek, stylish condo with its very fine view of the city.

He’d had a woman he’d cared for, and who had cared for him. But not enough, just not enough to make it stick for either of them.

Particularly not when he’d decided to change his life.

If he’d stayed, they might have stuck at least for a few years. But he wouldn’t have been happy. If they’d started a family, he’d have stuck, no question there.

He knew what it was to be the child of those who didn’t stick.

But standing here, in the big, drafty mess of a house, he knew he’d found his place.

And waking here, crossing the creaky floors, shoving wood into the fire to cut the chill, he knew himself happy.

As he’d known it when he’d turned in his resignation, when he’d sold his condo, when he’d gotten his contractor’s license.

Now he’d make his home, and earn his living with his hands. Something he’d always wanted.

And he felt more than happy. He felt—and yes, for the first time—free.

No more designer suits and carefully knotted ties, no more weekly trims to keep his unruly waves in check. If he didn’t feel like shaving? So what?

So he stood there with his oak-brown hair waving at the collar of a white, insulated shirt, a couple days’ worth of stubble on the hard planes of his jaw and cheeks, brown eyes on the drama of a new day’s birth, and felt complete satisfaction.

He heard the floor creak, glanced around as his surprise—and welcome—visitor came to the head of the stairs.

His brother, Theo, wore sleepy eyes of golden brown, a mop of sleep-crazed brown hair, and a pair of Star Wars boxers.

“It’s freezing in here.”

“If you’re going to walk around next to naked, you’re going to be cold.”

“Right. Minute.”

As Theo turned around, Nash headed back, down a long hall, through a doorway in a wall he fully intended to knock down, and into a kitchen he figured hadn’t been updated in half a century.

All that would change.

On the stained Formica counter sat a shining silver machine Nash would have fought to the death to keep.

He made a second coffee for himself and one for his younger brother.

He heard the stairs creak, and the spots on the floor in the hallway. He wasn’t sure he wanted to fix all that. He’d miss the old-fashioned sound.

A montage of Marvel Comics characters covered Theo’s sweatpants. He’d paired them with his Columbia University sweatshirt. “Got bagels?”

Nash pointed to a drawer.

“Man, it’s quiet here. Like spooky quiet. Horror-movie quiet, where it’s just you and the guy in the hockey mask. Took me forever to fall asleep, then I slept like a corpse.”

He sliced the bagel, then popped it in the shiny silver toaster.

“I couldn’t believe you bought this place.” In the old fridge he hunted up cream cheese. “Then got a load of the view outside the window this morning. It’s you all over.”

“Is it?”

“You know it is. That vacay we took here back when? You couldn’t get enough. Still, I had to see the house for myself, you know. Plus, Thanksgiving. Can’t miss our annual Thanksgiving pizza.”

Nash’s one regret about the move was Theo. And now Theo toasted bagels in the big drafty kitchen.

“It’s gotta be frozen this year. The place in town closes on Thanksgiving.”

“It’s still pizza.” Theo popped another bagel in the toaster, then brought the two halves and the cream cheese to the makeshift table.

Nash had found an old door in the workshop. It now served, with its sawhorse legs, as a table surface.

“We could build a table,” Theo said.

“I’ll get around to it.” Nash picked up his half a bagel. “A lot of other things have priority.”

“Like heat. The furnace is probably crap.”

“No ‘probably’ about it.”

“The windows are definitely crap.”

“They’re way beyond crap.”

“That wall’s gotta go.”

“It’s going.”

Nodding, Theo munched on his bagel. “Insulate, I mean Christ. And the floors. Those babies look original. Firm ’em up, refinish, they’ll be a showstopper. Bathrooms are sad, and this kitchen.”

“Designing my place now?”

“I know how you think.” Rising, Theo went over to get the second bagel. “You’ll upgrade, and bring it up to code—and right now, it can’t be close to code. You’ll bust out that wall, and turn the bedroom next to the one you’re using into a kick-ass bathroom, a nice walk-in closet. And a deck, you’ll want that to take advantage of the view. Enlarge the kitchen, open it, bring it into the current century.”

Theo smiled over his bagel. “Big house, lots of rooms you’ll open, combine. It’ll cost you more to fix it up right than it did to buy it.”

Something Nash had calculated, considered, then accepted.

“You’re not wrong on that. I’ve got drawings in for permits.”

Nodding, Theo kept eating. “A lot of work, bro. Plus starting a business, getting that set up. You could use some help.”

“Are you volunteering to come down on weekends?”

He’d already planned to earmark one of the bedrooms for Theo’s visits. And calculated the travel time.

“No.” Theo drank more coffee, then set those golden-brown eyes on his brother’s. “I’m asking you to give me a shot.”

Because he was still thinking about the distance, the travel, it took Nash a minute. “A shot at what?”

“Partners, in the business you want to make. Teammates in restoring this house. Living here while we do the second part anyway.”

“You live in New York. You’re a lawyer.”

“Yeah, I passed the bar and I’ve got that shiny new degree.”

“And a job at a damn good firm.”

“Says the guy who had a job at a damn good firm on Wall Street up until about a month ago.”

He waited a moment, giving his brother a chance to process.

“They had a way, you know it, of putting just the right amount of pressure on us to do what they wanted. You in finance, me in the law. So we did it. I didn’t see the escape hatch until you opened it and went through.”

“Theo—”

“Don’t parent me, okay? You’ve only got a couple years on me.” Theo shoved the bagel in the air toward Nash, then pulled it back and bit in. “I don’t want to practice law in New York.”

“Well” was all that came to him.

“I don’t know if I want to live here—maybe that’s just temporary. But I’m asking for the shot. I’m good with tools, you know that. I’ve got some skills and a good eye. You’re my family. You’re what I’ve got. I’m what you’ve got.”

Truer words, Nash thought. And sighed. “They’re really pissed at me.”

“Didn’t stop you,” Theo pointed out. “It won’t stop me. I want to try doing something I want to do. Right now, this is it. Add in, I am a lawyer. Somebody starting his own business could use a good lawyer.”

He ate more bagel. “Money isn’t an issue for either of us. That’s a privilege, and we paid for it, goddamn it, Nash. We paid. Maybe I didn’t know how much I wanted out until you got out. But I do now.”

He hadn’t figured on this, and wondered now if he should have. They’d been close all their lives, linked together as they were shuttled back and forth between parents after the divorce. Watching mother and father remarry, divorce. And in their father’s case remarry again.

But all the while those parents had united in the insistence their two sons do what was expected of a Littlefield, socially, professionally.

Small wonder now that he’d broken that chain, Theo wanted to follow.

“Listen, you can stay here as long as you like. Until you figure out what you really want. And yeah, I can use your help with the house, so great. As for the rest, you’d need a contractor’s license, and—”

“Taking the test next month.” Theo grinned at him. “I’m not deadweight, Nash.”

“You’ve never been. I don’t know how much work we can generate, at least in the first year or so. You’re right, money isn’t a problem, but establishing a business, that’s vital. Good work, reasonable prices, reliability.”

“No job too small,” Theo said. “Need your toilet fixed and your plumber can’t make it on a Sunday afternoon? We’re there.”

“Well, shit. All right then.”

“Yes!” Theo shot out a hand. “Partners?”

“Make it legal,” Nash said as they shook over the old door.

“Can do. The Fix-It Brothers of Heron’s Rest.”

Nash started to laugh, then considered. “The Fix-It Brothers. That works.”

“And so do we.”

For Sloan, Day Two brought progress, and comfort with it. With the faithful Mop, she walked her snowy path by the lake. And effortfully added ten more steps.

She accepted the need to rest by the fire until her breath stopped whistling and her legs felt solid again. Instead of cereal, she scrambled a single egg, added a slice of toast, and managed just over half of both.

A slow, easy sun salutation frustrated her when she couldn’t, simply couldn’t push her own body into a plank. She lay a few minutes, face down with limbs trembling. Rolling over, she tried a standard sit-up, and failed.

Staring at the ceiling, now she let herself do what she hadn’t allowed since she’d walked into the mini-mart.

She let herself wallow, let herself cry.

As if he understood, Mop wandered in, lay down beside her.

When she finished, she found herself surprised. She felt better, maybe a little bit cleared out. She indulged herself, lay stroking the dog, drawing in that unrestricted love.

“Okay, okay. We’ll save that for another day. We’re not there yet.”

She compensated with ten minutes of easy floor stretches.

“Better than yesterday, right?” She hugged the dog, and held there another moment. “Let’s go update the spreadsheet.”

Doing just that gave her a sense of satisfaction. When her phone signaled a FaceTime request from Joel, she felt a leap of joy.

When she saw his face on-screen, heard his voice, she realized just how much she’d needed that connection with her life.

“Hey, sis. Wanted to wish you Happy Thanksgiving. Tomorrow’s Crazy Day for us.”

“You’ll love every minute.”

“Can’t deny it.”

She heard the sounds of birds, saw the Chesapeake Bay and the gulls swooping. And yearned.

“How’re you doing?” he asked her.

“Good. Really. A lot better.”

“You don’t look half bad.”

“Thanks. My days include at least three outside walks, and yesterday I—wait for it—curled two pounds! And started crocheting a scarf.”

“You what now?”

“Two pounds curling.”

He tilted his head, gave her that look. “Yay. You’re crocheting? Like my granny?”

“My novice skills are no doubt an insult to your granny, but yeah.” She reached in the basket, held up the crocheted red wool.

“Well, son of a bitch.”

“Occupational therapy, that’s how I see it. This afternoon, I’ll help make pies.” She set the scarf back in the basket and laughed at herself. “God, Joel, I need to get back to work.”

“You’ll get there, sis. I gotta get back to it myself, but I wanted to see your face. Glad I did, because you don’t look half bad. Do I get that scarf?”

“My mother’s getting this one. If I don’t bore myself to death, I’ll make you a manly one.”

“I’ll count on it. You take care of my partner, and have a good Thanksgiving.”

“Doing my best. Love to Sari, Mama Dee, and the rest.”

“Same to you and yours. I’ll check in later.”

She missed him, the work, the life she’d led the minute she put the phone down. So she picked up the yarn.

“Occupational therapy,” she muttered.

She nodded off over it, but pushed back annoyance when she surfaced. She made progress on the scarf, and had only been under about twenty minutes.

After bundling up, she set out with Mop for another walk.

She spotted the two men standing together maybe a hundred yards or so ahead of her finish line.

About six feet, both of them, she judged, maybe a hundred sixty for the one on the left, one-fifty for the one on the right. Brown hair under ski caps—darker on the left male. She couldn’t see their faces well enough with the distance, and both wore sunglasses against the glare off the lake, off the snow.

Black parka for the left, blue for the right. Jeans and boots for both.

Details, it always paid to notice details.

Relatives, probably, she thought, given the similarity in build, coloring, even how they stood. Maybe brothers.

She reached the end of that morning’s line, and stopped to catch her breath, give her legs a chance to rest. “Five more, Mop. I can do five more steps.”

When she had, she turned back. The house seemed so far away this trip, and her breathing already labored.

“It’s okay, one step at a time. Slow and steady. We’ll have a mile in, and one more walk to go today. Progress. Jesus, I feel like I’ve run up a mountain.”

She had to stop again, wait until she felt she could manage that slow and steady.

Nash watched her walk, pause, walk.

“Nice-looking blonde,” Theo commented. “At least I think so. Hard to be sure from this far away. The way she’s walking, maybe she started her day with a few drinks.”

“I don’t think so. Looks more out of shape and tired, maybe sick or injured, than drunk.” A little shaky, Nash thought, and decided to keep an eye on her as long as he could.

“Look at that dog!” On a laugh, Theo pointed as Mop leaped into a snowbank and rolled. “Likes his winter sports. Hey! We should get a dog.”

Nash shifted his gaze long enough to look at Theo. “What would we do with a dog?”

“Enjoy. They never let us have one. Then, you know, New York and putting in the hours we both did. Not fair to close a dog in an apartment all day.”

She’d stopped and started again, and now appeared to aim for a house up the slope. Good-looking house, great views, sturdy with style.

“And it’s fair to have a dog hanging out all day while we’re tearing the house up, working—we hope—outside jobs.”

“Sure. Job dog.” Theo’s naturally sunny side shined brighter at the thought. “He hangs with us.”

“Uh-huh.” Since the woman and the dog made it inside, Nash took a last scan of the lake.

They’d easily walked a mile, he calculated, and that view stayed as alluring as ever. But.

“Let’s go back, get the truck, and go check on our permits before town hall shuts down for the holiday.”

“Cool. I want a better look at the town anyway.”

“That part won’t take long.”

“I’m going to look at trucks. I’ll need my own transportation, and it wouldn’t hurt to have two trucks for the business. Hey, we could grab some lunch in town.”

“And we’d better hit the grocery store. With you around, we need more food.”

By the time her mother arrived, Sloan had pulled herself together. If asked, she could truthfully say she’d had breakfast, and lunch—even if lunch consisted of a few bites of leftover spaghetti.

“Drea’s on her way with the pumpkins.” Cheeks pink from the cold, Elsie hung up her coat. “I’m going to have both my girls making pies! How was your day, baby?”

“Good. Promise. I’m ready to deal with pumpkin guts, peel apples, and whatever else you’ve got in store.”

“I’ve got a list.” Pulling a clip from her pocket, Elsie looped her tail of blond hair, then secured it up.

She opened a closet, took out aprons. “You’re going to need it. Once we get the pies done, I’m going to do the ham. Turkey goes in at dawn tomorrow. We can make the cranberry sauce today, bake some bread, devil a few dozen eggs.”

“I don’t know how you do it, year after year.”

“Loving it helps. If I had to cook for an army more than a couple times a year, I wouldn’t love it so much.” Obviously primed, and pleased with the work ahead, Elsie got out bowls, knives, baking sheets.

“I’m going to say this before we get started, and I promise I won’t say it again. Tomorrow, when you’ve had enough, need a break, need to lie down awhile, you’ll go up and do that. You promise me that, I won’t bring it up again.”

“All right. I can promise that.”

Elsie glanced toward the mudroom. “Here’s Drea. Pumpkin in, dog out!”

“Got it,” Drea called back. “Out you go, Mop. And I didn’t have to tell him twice.”

Drea came into the kitchen, pink cheeks, hair braided back, and a trio of pumpkins in her arms. “Let the games begin!”

And like a game, Sloan found it fun as it took her back to childhood. The gooey strings of pumpkin, separating the seeds for roasting. The scent of the pumpkin cooking in the oven, and the feel of a crisp apple in her hand.

As they worked, Elsie consulted her list.

“Your aunt Lauren’s bringing a mincemeat pie.”

“I’ve never understood the mincemeat,” Sloan commented.

“Plenty do. Amelia’s doing a cheesecake. Grandpa’s bringing his sweet potato casserole, and Gramma’s doing a roasted yam and kale salad.”

“Yuck,” the sisters said in unison.

“Now, now. Jonah and Gina are doing that snack mix the kids wolf down. Nanny and Pop—forgot to tell you, Sloan, their flight landed safe and on time. Archer and Josie will drive them in tomorrow. Mac and cheese from them. Oh, and your cousin Ray’s bringing his boyfriend. Josie says it’s serious.”

“Serious-serious?” Sloan asked.

“Apparently. Your dad and I met him several months ago. He’s really handsome, add funny and sweet. He’s a forensic accountant.”

“The artist slash art teacher and the forensic accountant. Interesting combo.”

“They look cute together. They’re bringing…” Elsie consulted her list. “Thyme-roasted brussels sprouts with fresh cranberries.”

“Yet another interesting combo,” Drea decided.

“And your cousin Flynn and Carlie round it out with corn pudding.”

“How do you make pudding out of corn?” Sloan wondered.

“We’ll find out.”

With a pair of pumpkin pies in the oven, and sliced apples covered with sugar, flour, cinnamon resting in a bowl, Elsie rolled out more pie dough.

She did love it, Sloan thought. Every laborious minute of it.

In the spirit, she rose to help her sister clear the current chaos in preparation for the next round.

“Dad’s bringing pizza, right?”

“It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving Eve without pizza from Ricardo’s,” her mother answered. “And once we get the ham going, he’s on dish duty. Are you hungry?”

“No. It’s like you said, it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving Eve otherwise.” Because she needed a boost, Sloan pulled out a Pepsi. “Anybody else want a drink?”

“Sure. I call for a break after the apple pies are in. Mom needs to sit down for ten minutes before she wears out.”

Sloan shot Drea a look. “I’m fine.”

“Who’s talking about you?”

“I could use ten, and the hell with healthy. Some chips to go with that Pepsi.”

Outnumbered, Sloan took the ten.

“Oh, news from the Rest,” Drea began. “I ran into Craig from town hall when I was getting the pumpkin. The new owner of the Parker place applied for building permits—right after he settled on the place.”

“I hadn’t heard that one,” Elsie said.

“He’ll have them early next week, according to Craig. He and his brother checked on them today. Some serious work’s going to happen, according to Craig. Walls coming down, bathrooms and kitchen gutted, new windows throughout, updated wiring, plumbing, and whatever. Craig said the younger one’s more talkative and mentioned they’re starting up their business. The Fix-It Brothers.”

“Brothers.” Sloan frowned, thought back. “I wonder if that’s who I saw today. Two guys on the lake path, not that far from the Parker place if they wanted a good walk. They struck me as relatives.”

Elsie munched on a chip. “Did you talk to them?”

“No, they were well down the path.”

And she had enough trouble breathing much less talking by the time she’d walked that far.

“But they had similar builds,” Sloan continued, “body language, coloring. A lot of wavy brown hair on both of them. Anyway, it’s good someone’s willing to do that kind of work on that place. It’s needed it.

“What’s next on the list, Mom?”

While the pies cooled on a rack, the ham roasted, and Sloan helped peel countless hard-boiled eggs, Janet Anderson left her home near Deep Creek Lake to head to the grocery store.

She couldn’t believe she’d run out of butter. For the first time in her life, she’d taken on Thanksgiving dinner, and she’d run out of damn butter. She probably needed more milk, too.

She was cooking for ten people, which terrified her. Her parents, her husband of fourteen months’ parents, his brother and girlfriend, her brother and his—annoying and pregnant—wife.

And, of course, the girlfriend decided to go vegetarian, so she had to come up with vegetarian dishes in addition to the turkey—something she’d never cooked before.

She really wanted to do a good job. Her mother-in-law was incredibly nice, warm, welcoming. And a really, really exceptional cook.

She’d taken off the whole day to make certain their pretty little starter home shined. She’d arranged fresh flowers, she had candles, wine, special cloth napkins and rings.

Her mother-in-law volunteered to bring pies. Thank God! But Janet had insisted on doing all the rest.

Because, she admitted, she wanted Drake, his parents, hers, everyone, to be proud of her. And she’d gotten a second chance at being a really good marriage partner, and—hopefully soon—being a mother.

That summer she’d nearly drowned in the lake. Technically, she did drown. But they’d brought her back. Given her this second chance.

She wanted this to be a step toward all of that.

With her mind on the cranberry sauce she’d talked herself into making from actual cranberries—what if it didn’t gel?—and all the sides she had to prepare, not to mention the intimidating sixteen-pound turkey, she didn’t notice the white panel van turn into the lot behind her.

She parked, gathered her purse. Remembered her keys and dropped them in her outside pocket.

Late afternoon had gone gloomy, and now she worried about snow.

What if, what if they got dumped on and her parents couldn’t make the drive? She really wanted them there.

She got out, then nearly walked into the door of the van when it opened in front of her.

A man got out, smiled. He said, “Sorry.”

Then jabbed a needle into the side of her neck.

She managed one gasp and started to struggle, but the side door rolled open.

He shoved her inside, climbed in after her.

Dimly she heard the door roll closed again, heard him say:

“Got her, babe. Easy peasy.”

She managed to choke out, “Help,” before everything went dark.

“Don’t you worry, Janet.” The woman in the driver’s seat glanced in the rearview before she pulled out of the lot. “That’s what we’re here for. Check her pulse, doll. We don’t want her fading out on us before we get her home.”

“Slow and steady, babe. She’s just under.”

But he lifted her onto the cot on the side of the van and strapped her down. Once he had her secured, he climbed back into the passenger seat. He fastened his seat belt, then turned on the radio.

“Easiest one yet.” He slid on sunglasses, smiled a happy smile. “Who knew she’d take a drive to the supermarket out of the blue like that?”

The woman drove, carefully, at the speed limit, toward the highway. And gave a silent thanks for the blessing now in the back of the van.

“What’s meant’s meant, doll,” she said. “She’s nearly the youngest one we’ve released. I have a real good feeling about Janet.”

He consulted the chart. “Twenty-four, five-five, a hundred and twenty-one pounds. Type O-neg. All good on her last checkup.”

He sat back with a sigh, tapped his foot to the beat on the radio.

“Pretty perfect. I gotta say I wasn’t sure it was worth it, driving down here after we both worked an early shift. But, babe, you always know best.”

“She’ll have a story to tell, I know it. Then we’ll take what she has and set her free.”