suicide. She didn’t want anything associated with them. “There’s a cousin, Reece, but she doesn’t want any of it, either.” The family had cost her too much, as well.
“So what are the options? Estate sale and invest the money for your daughter?”
Macy took her time chewing. The locals probably knew she and Clary had more money than she could ever spend, but there was no need for her to admit that. So far, Stephen had treated her pretty much like a normal person—albeit needy and a tad jumpy. But money changed people’s perceptions, and she needed to be treated like any other woman.
“Probably,” she agreed, though the thought of expending even that much time on Mark’s possessions soured her stomach. “Or make some museum donations.”
He blinked and his brows arched. “Huh. I wouldn’t know a museum-quality piece if I stepped on it. And you let Scooter in the house not once but twice?”
At the sound of his name, the dog lifted a hopeful gaze, then lowered it again when Stephen snorted. “Hell, you let me in? I’m not exactly known for my dainty feet and grace.”
“They’re just things,” she said with a lift of one shoulder. Hating the sound of herself callously dismissing priceless treasures, she gestured to the room on the right. “I wouldn’t have imagined a vet could do a whole lot of work at home.”
Not that it looked much like a vet’s office. There were tons of books, but even at this distance it was obvious they weren’t textbooks. Dry-erase boards competed with movie posters for wall space, and she wasn’t sure what kept the desk from collapsing from the weight of the mess on it.
“Different work,” he said casually.
She studied the dry-erase boards, covered with cramped writing, some items circled, arrows pointing to others, then caught sight of several small plaques hanging between them. They looked like awards of some sort. Vet of the Year? Best Neighbor Surrounding Woodhaven Villains? “What kind of work?”
He gazed into the room himself for a moment before saying, “I’m a writer.”
She hadn’t expected that answer. In truth, she’d had no idea what to expect. But once he’d said it, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had a little bit of a nerdy aura about him—the glasses, the uncombed hair, the conversations with Scooter. Sort of an absentminded-professor thing. “You write for veterinary journals?”
“On occasion. My last article was on feline diarrhea.” Said with a self-deprecating look.
“A very important subject to cats and the people who clean up after them.”
His grin was quick, boyish. It reminded her how appealing boyish could be. “Mostly I write books. Epic fantasy. A universe far, far away. Villains and quests and warriors and saving the world.”
She’d met authors before—professors in college who were published, historians come to speak to the local historical society, ditto a few horticulturists at the garden society. The Howard family was the subject of its very own book: Southern Aristocracy: The Howards of Georgia. Granted, they’d paid the author to write it and the only copies that existed outside the family were in various Southern libraries.
But a fiction writer—excluding the Howard family biographer—was different. Someone who wrote for the pure pleasure of writing, for the simple entertainment of others...that was cool.
“Have you published anything?”
A faint grimace flashed, though she suspected he’d tried to hide it.
“I’m not the first person to ask that, am I?”
“Pretty much everyone asks. I’ve had five books out. The sixth one is scheduled for this summer, and I’m working on the seventh.” Finished with his hamburger, he pushed to his feet, went into the office and returned with a hardcover novel, setting it beside her.
“S. K. Noble.” She wiped her hands thoroughly on a napkin before picking it up. The cover was rich purple, the artwork in the center an image of a mysterious man with storm clouds swirling above the mountains behind him. “How cool. I’m sorry. I don’t read fantasy.”
He sprawled back in his chair, reaching down to scratch Scooter with one hand. “No need to apologize. What do you read?”
“The Cat in the Hat. Goodnight, Moon. Sesame Street books. Anything with bright pictures, words that rhyme and messages short enough for the attention span of a three-year-old.” She flipped the book open, pausing to read the brief biography on the inside jacket. Too bad there was no photo of the author. In his office, with him looking as disheveled as it did, it would be charming. “How do you manage both working at the clinic