Page 58 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)
CHAPTER
FOUR
Home is less than a five-minute drive from The Ink & Ivy, down a winding, narrow two-lane that splits off Main Street.
It leads to one of the larger tracts of private land uptown, and the only one that serves as a small farm.
The property, owned by Grady and Ellen Dunmore—in their early sixties with grown sons who live down the road with their families—have turned the place into something of a Renaissance homestead.
It’s packed with livestock, including chickens, cows, goats, and pigs.
They grow blueberries and blackberries and maintain apple and pear orchards.
Muscadines climb trellises in a well-ordered vineyard and best of all, there are half a dozen honeybee hives, producing the most luscious honey I’ve ever tasted.
I turn onto a gravel drive marked with a sign announcing “Dunmore Farms” and keep going. I pass the turnoff to the Dunmores' house—a red-brick two-story with white columns and a wraparound porch—and then the livestock barn, following the drive to where it ends at my place.
Just before Daniel and I moved in, the Dunmores renovated their second, smaller barn, adding metal white siding and crisp black window frames to match the black Gambrel roof.
They kept the original sliding barn doors, but refinished them to a deep pecan.
The result was an idyllic home Joanna Gaines would envy.
In the early spring, before the mosquitoes descend en masse, and again in the late fall when those Jurassic holdovers have died off, I can open the double doors, and my living room becomes part of the outdoors.
Since it’s at the rear of the Dunmores’ property and surrounded by dense trees and thicket on two sides, it is utterly, wonderfully quiet.
The only noise comes from the natural sounds of the woods, all of which I find extremely calming—except, again, for the coyotes.
It's so charming, it makes you believe in the simple things, and I fell in love with it the first time I saw it. So did Daniel.
I am going to miss it.
The timer has turned the front door lights on, as well as a few inside. Living alone these last years, I’ve found it much nicer—and safer—to come home to a house that’s welcoming you back. I open the door and am tackled by my blue-nose pit bull, his silver front paws pounding me.
“Hey, boy! Bilbo, down. Down!” I say it, knowing good and well he isn’t going to listen.
Bilbo is highly trained and I pity the person he’s ordered to take down, because Bilbo will take them down.
The only bad behavior I get from him? Attacking me with love at the door, especially when I’ve been gone all day and come back carrying Grace’s spaghetti and meatballs.
“Come on, now!” I shout, as another well-meaning knock from my seventy-pound baby nearly sends the takeout flying. I step back, give a click of the tongue signaling I mean business, and his chaotic wiggle-butt instantly sits as he awaits further instruction.
“Good boy. If you want to share, you’ve got to behave, right?”
Bilbo waits patiently as I head to the kitchen at the back of the open-concept space.
The first floor includes the kitchen, the living room, a modest office nook, and a dining area anchored by a reclaimed wood table.
The beamed cathedral ceiling runs the length of the barn, except for the small loft over the kitchen that houses the bedroom and master bath.
I plop the takeout bag on the counter, inhale a huge cleansing breath, and exhale until my lungs are empty. “It’s nice to be home,” I say, then pat my leg, which brings Bilbo trotting to me.
Bending down, I give the blue-gray fur ball a big hug.
When he flops onto the floor, the hug turns into a ten-second belly rub on the white patch on his midsection.
He rolls around with his legs in the air like a bug that can’t right itself, making it hard to believe he’s capable of ripping out a throat on command.
He’s my secret weapon, security system, stake-out partner, and best pal.
“Mom is beat, boy. Whatd’ya say we crack open this pasta before I fall asleep standing up, huh?”
Bilbo’s stubby, helicoptering tail tells me he agrees.
Without bothering to empty the foam container onto a plate, I grab a fork and carry my dinner and a glass of milk—I know it’s weird, but ever since I was a kid, I've liked milk with my spaghetti—to the coffee table.
I turn the TV straight to a rerun of The Office and dig in.
Over the rustic scent of oregano, tomato, and parmesan, I disappear into the steady, predictable world of Michael Scott.
Every so often I toss part of a meatball to Bilbo, who stands watch beside me, shifting his stance when I wait too long between tosses.
When I’m down to the last meatball, Bilbo whines, dancing in place.
“All right, fine. I’ll go halfsies, but that’s my best offer.” I cut the meatball and throw half into the air with zero concern it’ll end up on my white couch. Bilbo doesn’t miss anything.
Ever.
I raise the other half in a toast to the framed photo of Daniel on the side table, the only photo left on display in the house.
He’s in his deputy uniform, the Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department patch visible on his shoulder.
Daniel’s infectious grin is wide and bright.
Aviators hide his blue eyes, and a slight sunburn—from fishing on nearby Lake Guntersville the weekend before—colors his cheeks.
He’s happy in this picture. He always was when he was doing his job.
Right up until the day it took his life.
I hold up my empty fork. “Beat you to it,” I say to Daniel, just like we used to when scrambling for the last piece of anything tasty.
It’s been five years and I still do it. Whether out of habit or a refusal to let the past go, I don’t know.
The gesture conjures the kind of warmth in my bones only fondness and loss can, and I smile before depositing the finished container onto the coffee table.
Bilbo won’t touch it. He won’t touch food without my say-so. He seems to understand that the treats are all gone and trots off, disappearing through the doggie door in the kitchen that leads outside—presumably to do his business before calling it a night.
It’s only half past seven, but Bilbo’s not much for the dark woods, and as the sun is about to set, he won’t be long. When he gets back, he’ll be able to curl up in his bed and snooze away, but I’ve got a bit more work to do.
Despite what I told James about wanting to eat and pass out being true, the endless days spent on this case both before and during the trial have put me behind on other cases and my correspondence.
I’ve got bills to pay and scheduling to do…
there was a text today from a new client—a government contractor in Huntsville—asking when I’ll start looking into the matter of some proprietary information that somehow walked out of their offices and into a competitor’s.
I don’t work weekends if I can help it, but this client has the potential to be a recurring source of income.
A good first impression will go a long way.
I collapse into the couch, pull my fluffy blanket around me, and begin mentally compiling the list of everything I need to do before going to bed—and everything I need to do before my work week kicks in on Monday, if I want to be there for more than just a little of Fogerty’s sentencing hearing.
I’m still making that list five minutes later when I drift off to sleep.