Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,83
curtains, and she practically danced in place, anxious to get inside and into his embrace. A moment later, the lock clicked and Stephen pulled the door open. He was wearing boxers—black, she noticed, charmed in some small corner of her mind—and nothing else, not even glasses. His expression was dazed, worried and startled when she threw herself and Clary against his bare chest.
“Mace?” His mouth brushed her ear, and his arms automatically went around them, as if it were the most natural action in the world. She felt as if having them around her was the most natural. “What— Why— Are you guys okay?”
Scooter brushed around them and went into the kitchen, and the sound of lapping at water came a moment later. Normal, she thought again. Scooter was home and getting a drink. She and Clary were home and getting hugged by Stephen. Normal was such a shaky idea for her, one that she wanted so desperately that she didn’t trust her voice to work. “C-can we st-stay here?”
“Of course you can.”
His sleepy, husky voice drifted over her, and the sharp edge of tension gripping her began to dull. Whatever had happened at the house, now she could relax. Now she and Clary were safe. The knowledge sent shivers through her, each ripple diminishing fear and anxiety, until at last her body went limp, taking support from his, her mind easing with the soft stroking of his hand down her spine, the soft murmurs. You’re okay. It’s okay.
When the shaking had stopped, he stepped back, moved his hands to her shoulders and met her gaze. “What happened?”
Her deep inhalation smelled of him and Clary and soap and triggered another loosening sensation of tension. She wanted to just breathe it in, just stand there, her, Clary and Stephen, and absorb the goodness of it, the rightness, but the muscles in her left arm and back were showing the strain of holding her baby for so long. She started to shift her to the other arm, but Stephen intercepted her, lifting Clary gently and laying her on the couch. He slid a small pillow under her head, tucked a quilted throw over her.
When he came back, he closed and locked the door and asked again, quietly, patiently, “What happened?”
Her first attempt at answering was little more than babbling, but after another deep breath, she folded her arms across her middle and feigned control. If you could pretend it, she thought, you could be it.
“Something startled me awake, and I realized Scooter was at the bedroom door, wanting to go out. I took him downstairs and let him out. When he came back in, he stopped in the living room doorway and that’s when I saw candles burning on the mantel under the portrait.”
His gaze narrowed so intently that she wondered for one heartbreaking moment if he doubted her, if his reassurances that afternoon had been merely an attempt to placate her, as her family often had. When he held up a finger and pivoted away into the bedroom, though, then came back with his glasses on, relief banished her own doubt. He’d just been trying to bring her into focus.
“Where did the candles come from? There have never been any on the mantel.”
“The candlesticks were in the dining room. The china cabinet at the far end. Bottom cabinet. Paul Revere made them. The tapers must have been in there, too.”
His eyes widened slightly. “The Paul Revere?”
“That’s what the documentation says.”
“Wow.” That quickly the candlesticks’ provenance was dismissed. Pulling one hand loose from where she hugged herself, he led her into the kitchen, flipped on the overhead light and seated her at the table. He took two mugs from the cabinet, looked at the coffeemaker, then took a bottle from another cabinet instead. After sitting next to her, he opened the scotch and poured some into each cup.
She gazed at it longingly. She’d never been much of a drinker, but a little liquid heat and courage was so tempting. Grimacing, she said, “I’m not supposed to drink with the medication I’m on. Not that it seems to be working so well lately.”
“What is it?”
She pulled the bottle from the pocket of the gym shorts she wore with a T-shirt for pajamas and handed it over. He gave it a doctorly study, taking note of the dosage, the date it was refilled and how many pills were inside, then set it down and nudged the cup closer. “A few sips won’t hurt.”