Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,43
rattling in his head. Zia’s pronouncement didn’t sound good. He knew the Howard money went back generations. How about the tragedy and scandal? In Southern families, the age of the scandal didn’t always matter; some people talked about ancient history as if it were just a year or two ago.
And which was Mark’s suicide? Scandal? Or tragedy?
“You know, they own that big beautiful place on the river,” Zia added.
“Fair Winds. I’ve seen it.”
Zia drummed her fingers on the table. “Wonder what the daughter-in-law will do with it. It’s been empty since the old woman died.” She shuddered exaggeratedly. “Hateful old woman. Never had patience for anyone but her own family, and not even all of them. Her only granddaughter wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Miss Willa was the biggest snob you ever met. Compared to her, Louise Wetherby is super friendly, all-welcoming and oozes compassion.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Not that I’m gossiping or anything,” Zia said with a smirk as the back door opened and multiple voices filtered down the hall.
Stephen took his coffee back to his office, passing a couple of the vet techs on the way. He greeted them, joked for a minute, then slipped through the door into the tiny windowless room that contained his desk, computer, a couple of file cabinets and a chair held together with duct tape.
Ah, the gracious life he lived. It was a miracle a woman like Macy bothered to spend time with him, much less let him kiss her.
Immediately he regretted the thought. Macy hadn’t been born into all that money. She hadn’t been raised with a silver spoon and an inflated sense of entitlement. She was an average person, just like him, just like Zia, who’d fallen in love with a very wealthy person. It had changed her life forever—marriage always should—but not in a good way.
And even if she had stopped loving Mark back when he died, she still had some things to deal with. Trusting someone new with her whole story was one of them.
So he’d stick around until he wasn’t new anymore. Until she had no choice but to trust him. Until even a fly on her wall could see that he was nothing if not trustworthy.
Worthy, period.
He’d just finished breakfast when his first patient arrived. He did routine exams and vaccinations, checked out an eleven-year-old hound whose appetite was off, put a few stitches in a Jack Russell terrier who thought he ruled the jungle, or at least the woods around his house, and barely escaped with his fingers intact after treating a cat for gingivitis.
He loved animals, he reminded himself as he cleaned the cat scratch on his left arm. He really did. He just loved cats a little less than the dogs, guinea pigs, snakes, birds, ferrets, rabbits and hedgehogs that made up the pet population at the clinic.
After finishing his reports, he went to the reception counter. “Zia, I’m heading out.”
She didn’t look up from the computer. “You’re on in the morning. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
Then she sneaked a sly glance at him. “I hear you’re on tomorrow night, too. Are all your shots up-to-date?”
The idea of spending an entire evening with Kiki made him groan. “How do you hear these things?”
She shook a finger at him. “Your sister may not gossip, but everyone else in town does. You keep your wits about you. I hear the Kiki Monster bites, and her toxin might be fatal.”
“Thank you,” he said with a scowl, “for making me anticipate the evening even more than I already was.”
Her laughter followed him down the hall. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”
Chapter 7
Lunch was sandwiches of leftover steak and vegetables warmed and topped with gooey melted cheese, plus homemade chips Macy had picked up at Ellie’s Deli. By two o’clock, it was a dim memory. After eating, she’d begun packing in the living room while Stephen moved the stacks of boxes from the hallway to the garage. Without prompting, he’d organized them: keep, donate, get rid of, with donate meaning something of historical or collectible value, get rid of referring to things that could be donated anywhere.
She liked a man who could organize things on his own.
Hands on hips, she looked around the room before her gaze settled on the wedding portrait again. She’d felt foolish having an actual portrait painted; it was so outside the realm of Ireland experience, where even professional photographs were a rarity. Snapshots were good enough for her family.