The Winter Lodge (4 page)

“Chief, this is Jenny Majesky,” Rourke said. He kept hold of her hand.

“Miss, I’m sorry about your house,” said the chief. “We had an eight-minute response time after the alarm came in, but this one had been going long before we got the call. These older homes—they tend to go fast. We’re doing our best.”

“I…um…thank you, I guess.” She had no idea what to say when her house was going up in smoke.

“Your neighbors said there were no household pets.”

“That’s right.” Just Gram’s African violets and potted herbs in the garden window. Just my whole world, everything I own, Jenny thought. She was shivering in the wintry night despite the layers of warm clothes and the roar of the flames. It was amazing how hard, how uncontrollably, she shook.

Something warm and heavy settled around her shoulders. It took a moment for her to realize it was a first-aid blanket. And Rourke McKnight’s arms. He stood behind her and pulled her against him, her back to his front, his arms encircling her from behind as though to shield her from harm.

With an odd sense of surrender, she leaned against him, as though her own weight was too much for her. She shut her eyes briefly, hiding from the glare and the sting of the smoke. The fire was warm against her face. But the acrid smell nauseated her, made her picture everything in the house feeding the flames. She opened her eyes and watched.

“It’s ruined,” she said, turning her head and looking up at Rourke. “Everything’s gone.”

A guy with a camera, probably someone from the paper, stood in the bed of his truck and aimed his long lens at the scene.

Rourke’s arms tightened around her. “I’m sorry, Jen. I wish I could say you’re wrong.”

“What happens now?”

“An investigation into the cause,” he said. “Insurance claims, inventory.”

“I mean right now. The next twenty minutes. The next hour. Eventually they’ll put the fire out, but then what? Do I go back to the bakery and sleep under my desk?”

He bent his head low. His mouth was next to her ear so she could hear him over the roaring noise, and his body curved protectively over hers. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ve got you covered.”

She believed him, of course. She had good reason. She’d known Rourke McKnight for more than half her life. Despite their troubled history together, despite the guilt and heartache they’d once caused each other and the great rift that gaped between them, she’d always known she could count on him.

Three

J
enny’s eyes flew open as she was startled from a heavy, exhausted sleep. Her heart was pounding, her lungs starved for air and her mental state confused, to put it mildly. Her mind was filled with a grim dream about a book editor systematically feeding the pages of Jenny’s stories into the bakery’s giant spiral mixer.

She lay flat on her back with her limbs splayed, as though the bed was a raft and she a shipwreck survivor. She stared without comprehension at the ceiling and unfamiliar light fixture. Then, cautiously, she pushed herself up to a sitting position.

She was wearing a gray-and-pinstripe Yankees shirt, so large that it slipped off one shoulder. And a pair of thick cotton athletic socks, also large and floppy. And—she lifted the hem of the shirt to check

—plaid men’s boxers.

She was sitting smack in the middle of Rourke McKnight’s bed. His gigantic, California king bed that was covered in shockingly luxurious sheets. She checked the tag of a pillowcase—600 thread count.

Who knew? she thought. The man was a sensualist.

There was a light tap on the door, and then he came in without waiting for an invitation. He had a mug of coffee in each hand, the morning paper folded under his arm. He was wearing faded Levi’s and a tight T-shirt stenciled with NYPD. Three scruffy-looking dogs swirled around his legs.

“We made the front page,” he said, setting the coffee mugs on the bedside table. Then he opened the
Avalon Troubadour.
She didn’t look, not at first. She was still bewildered and trapped in the dream, wondering what had caused her to awaken so quickly. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven. I was trying to be quiet, to let you sleep.”

“I’m surprised I slept at all.”

“I’m not. Hell of a long day yesterday.”

Now,
there
was an understatement. She had stuck around half the day, watching the firefighters battle the flames to the very last embers. Under heavy, gray winter skies, she had seen her house transformed from a familiar two-story house into a black scar of charred wood, ruined pipes and fixtures, objects burned beyond recognition. The stone fireplace stood amid the rubble, a lone surviving monument. Someone explained to her that after the investigators determined the cause of the fire and the insurance adjustor paid a visit, a salvage company would sift through the ruins, rescuing whatever they could. Then the rubble would be removed and disposed of. She was given a packet of forms to fill out, asking her to estimate the value of the things she’d lost. She hadn’t touched the forms. Didn’t they know her greatest losses were treasures that had no dollar value?

She had simply stood there with Rourke, too overwhelmed to speak or plan anything. She added her shaky signature to some documents. In the late afternoon, Rourke declared that he was taking her home. She hadn’t even had the strength to object. He had fixed her instant chicken soup and saltine crackers, and told her to get some sleep. That, at least, she’d accomplished with ease, collapsing in a heap of exhaustion.

Now he sat down on the side of the bed, his profile illuminated by the weak morning light struggling through translucent white curtains on the window. He hadn’t shaved yet, and golden stubble softened the lines of his jaw. The T-shirt, thin and faded from years of washing, molded to the muscular structure of his chest.

The dogs flopped down in a heap on the floor. And something about this whole situation felt surreal to her. She was in Rourke’s bed. In his room. He was bringing her coffee. Reading the paper with her. What was wrong with this picture?

Ah, yes, she recalled. They hadn’t slept together.

The thought seemed petty in the aftermath of what had happened. Gram was dead and her house had burned. Sleeping with Rourke McKnight should not be a priority just now. Still, it didn’t seem quite fair that all she had accomplished in this bed was a bad dream.

“Let’s see.” She reached for the paper, scooting closer to him. This was what lovers did, sat together in bed, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. Then she spotted the picture. It was a big one, in color, above the fold. “Oh, God. We look…”

Like a couple.
She couldn’t escape the thought. The photographer had caught them in what appeared to be a tender embrace, with Rourke’s arms encircling her from behind and his mouth next to her ear as he bent to whisper something. The fire provided dramatic backlighting. You couldn’t tell from looking at the picture that she was shivering so hard her teeth rattled, and that he wasn’t murmuring sweet nothings in her ear, but explaining to her that she was suddenly homeless.

She didn’t say anything, hoping that the romance of the shot was only in her head. She sipped her coffee and scanned the article. “Faulty wiring?” she said. “How do they know it’s faulty wiring?”

“It’s just speculation. We’ll know more after the investigation.”

“And why is this coffee so damn good?” she demanded. “It’s perfect.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“I had no idea you could make coffee like this.” She took another sip, savoring it.

“I’m a man of many talents. Some people just have a gift with coffee,” he added in a fake-serious voice. “They’re known as coffee whisperers.”

“And how do you know I take mine with exactly this much cream?”

“Maybe I’ve made a study of everything about you, from the way you take your coffee, to the number of towels you use when you shower, to your favorite radio station.” He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling the mug in his hands.

“Uh-huh. Good one, McKnight.”

“I thought you’d like it.” He finished his coffee.

She drew up her knees and stretched the oversize shirt down to cover them. “It’s a shallow thing to say, but a good cup of coffee makes even the worst situation less awful.” Closing her eyes, she drank more, savoring it and trying to be in the moment. Given all that had happened, it was the only safe place to be. Here. With Rourke. Safe in his bed.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

She opened her eyes. She hadn’t realized she was laughing. “I always wondered what it would be like to spend the night in your bed.”

“So how was it?”

“Well—” she set her mug on the nightstand “—the sheets don’t match but the thread count is amazing. And they’re clean. Not just-washed clean, but clean like you change your bed more than once in a blue moon. Four pillows and a great-feeling mattress. What’s not to like?”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not sure that was a compliment,” she cautioned him.

“You like my bed, the sheets are clean, the mattress is comfortable. How is that not a compliment?”

“Because I can’t help but wonder what it says about you. Maybe it says you’re a wonderful person who values a good night’s sleep. But maybe it says you’re so accustomed to bringing women home that you pay special attention to your bed.”

“So which is it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.” She lay back and closed her eyes. There were any number of things she could say, but she decided not to go there. Into the past. To a reminder neither of them could escape, of what they had once been to each other. “I wish I could just stay here for the rest of my life,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

She opened her eyes and propped herself on her elbows. “I just have to ask, and this is a sincere question. Who the hell did I offend? Did I upset some cosmic balance in the universe? Is that why all this shit is happening to me?”

“Probably,” he said.

She threw a pillow at him. “You’re a big help.”

He threw it back. “You want to shower first, or me?”

“Go ahead. I’ll just sit here and finish my coffee and contemplate my fabulous life.” She glanced down at the floor. “What are the dogs’ names?”

“Rufus, Stella and Bob.” He pointed out each one. They were pets he’d rescued, he explained.

“The cat’s name is Clarence.”

Rescued.
Of course, she thought.

“They’re friendly,” he added.

“So am I.” She scratched Rufus’s ears. He was a thick-coated malamute mix with ice-blue eyes.

“Good to know,” Rourke said. “Help yourself to something to eat. Even if you’re not hungry, you should eat something. It’s going to be another long day.” He went across the hall, and a moment later she heard the radio, followed by the hiss and patter of running water.

Jenny glanced at the clock. Too early to call Nina. Then she remembered Nina was up in Albany at some mayors’ convention. Jenny got up and went to the window, her legs feeling heavy, as if she’d just run a marathon, which was odd, because she hadn’t done anything all day yesterday except stand around in a state of shock and watch her house burn.

Outside, the world looked remarkably unchanged. Her whole life was falling apart, yet the town of Avalon slumbered in peace. The sky was a thick, impenetrable sheet of winter white. Bare trees lined the roadway and the distant mountains wore full mantles of snow. From the window of Rourke’s house, she could see the small town coming to life, a few snow-layered vehicles venturing out after last night’s snowfall. Avalon was a place of old-fashioned, effortless charm. The brick streets and well-kept older buildings of its downtown area were clustered around a municipal park, the snow-covered lawns and playing fields edging up to the banks of the Schuyler River, which tumbled past in a soothing cascade over glistening, ice-coated rocks, leaving beards of icicles in its wake.

This was the sort of town where stressed-out people from the city dreamed of coming to decompress. Some even retired here, buying a rolling acre or two for their golden years. In summer and during the fall leaf season, the country roads, which once held farm trucks and even the occasional horse-drawn buggy, were crowded with German-import SUVs, obnoxious Hummers and midlife-crisis sports cars.

There were still untouched places, where the wilderness was just as deep as it had been hundreds of years before, forests and lakes and rivers hidden among the seemingly endless peaks of the mountains.

From the top of Watch Hill—which now bore a cell-phone tower—you could imagine looking down on the forest where Natty Bumppo had hunted in
Last of the Mohicans.
It always struck Jenny as remarkable that they were only a few hours’ travel from New York City.

Turning away from the window, she surveyed the room. No personal items, no photographs or mementos, no evidence that he had a life or a past or, God forbid, a family. Although she’d known Rourke McKnight since they were kids, a rift spanning several years yawned between them, and she’d never been in his bedroom. He’d never invited her and even if he had, she wouldn’t have come, not under normal circumstances. She and Rourke simply weren’t like that. He was complicated. Their history was more complicated. They were not a match. Not by a long shot.

Because the fact was, Rourke McKnight was an enigma, and not just to Jenny. It was hard to see past the chiseled face and piercing eyes to the man beneath. He had many layers, though she suspected few were able to discover that. He intrigued people, that was for certain. Those who were familiar with state politics knew he was the son of Senator Drayton McKnight, who for the past thirty years had represented one of the wealthiest districts in the state. And people would ask why a man born to such a family, a man who could have any life he chose, had ended up in a tiny Catskills town, working for a living just like anyone else.

Jenny knew she had a part in his decision to settle here, though he would never admit it. She had once been engaged to his best friend, Joey Santini. There had been a time when each of them had dreamed of the charms of small-town life, of friendships that would last a lifetime and loyalties that were never breached. Had they really been that naive?