Snowfall at Willow Lake Read online

  Finally, like drips of water through a slow leak, little awarenesses pried her awake.

  Landing at JFK, making the drive upstate through ever-thickening snowfall. A deer leaping out of nowhere, the swinging glare of her headlights as she swerved to avoid hitting it. Then came the terrible thud and a bone-jarring jolt as she came to rest in the ditch. And then…someone had arrived. She remembered looking up and seeing him outside her window, a man…

  Encountering a large, strange man, when she was alone, stuck in a snowbank in the middle of nowhere, should have set off alarm bells. However, she experienced nothing of the sort. After his imposing height and big shoulders, the first things she’d noticed about him were his kindly eyes and boyish grin. She and Dr. Maarten had talked about this in her therapy sessions, the gut sense of danger that she must learn to distinguish normal caution from trauma-induced anxiety. When she’d looked at the stranger, standing in the snow, the only thing she felt in her gut was a wave of sturdy trust.

  He’d rescued her. He had somehow healed the fallen deer. He’d sewn up her wound. He was heart-thumpingly, shatteringly attractive in an unexpected way. Big and broad, like a working-class hero or farmer, a far cry from the sort of men she knew.

  And now, having succumbed to the multiple fatigues of jet lag, exhaustion and injury, she lay in a comfy bed in a guest room of his house.

  The teddy bear yawned and stretched.

  Sophie gave a gasp and scrambled out of bed, clutching the blankets to her chest. There was a heated tug of pain in her knee, but she ignored it and stared at the small, furry thing on the bed.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered on a breath of panic. “Oh, my God.”

  She was ordinarily more articulate than this, but all she could do was stare. Then she opened the drapes to reveal the cold white glare of the winter morning, and stated the obvious. “You’re a puppy. I slept with a puppy.”

  It stared at her, alert and seemingly unperturbed by her erratic behavior. Its tiny spike of a tail quivered, and it let out a series of yips, sounding like a windup toy at FAO Schwarz.

  Sophie didn’t do puppies. She’d never had a dog, growing up, and raising her children in Manhattan had made it completely impractical.

  The pup went to the edge of the bed and gazed fearfully at the floor, then worriedly at Sophie.

  “Just jump,” she said. “It’s not that far.”

  It skittered back and forth, gave a nervous whimper.

  “You managed to climb up, so you should be able to find a way down.”

  The dog responded with a pitiful whine.

  “Oh,” Sophie said, feeling a curious flood of sentiment. She reached out with her hand, and the puppy sniffed it delicately, gave her a lick of approval with its tiny pink tongue, then yipped at her. Awkwardly, she scooped the little thing up, holding it at arm’s length. The puppy squirmed and she nearly dropped it, so she quickly gathered it against her chest. Its coat was a yellow fluff of down—half dog, half Easter chick. It had a milky-new smell, and it wriggled somewhat frantically, trying to lick her face. Then, like a newborn, it snuggled against her shoulder.

  “So this is a puppy,” she whispered, brushing her lips over its velveteen ear. “How did I live so long without a puppy?”

  Like all kids, Max and Daisy had of course begged her for a dog. Their friends all had dogs, they pointed out with age-old kid logic. She fired back that their friends all had dog walkers or stay-at-home moms. She explained that it would be cruel to the dog. Left alone during the day, its outside would consist of controlled visits to the postage-stamp-size park where you were required to pick up its poop. Did either Max or Daisy feel like walking around behind a dog in the rain, picking up its poop? That effectively shut down the arguments.

  “Max and Daisy,” she said aloud, setting down the puppy and snatching up her phone. Her thumb was hovering over the keypad when she noticed the time—6:47 a.m. Too early to call. Setting aside the phone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the back of the door.

  “Lovely,” she muttered. “I’m channeling Blanche Dubois.” It was a combination of her negligee and the fact that she had just rolled out of bed. After a night of hard sleep, even the Dior negligee looked cheap. And skimpy. Sophie’s salon-pampered hair was rumpled, her eyes still blurred with sleep. She had long favored skimpy nightgowns, a secret, decadent indulgence.

  It wasn’t as if she bought them to impress a man. She and Greg had been in college when they met. College boys tended to like anything with boobs, so she didn’t need lingerie—a team T-shirt would do. She loved the luxurious feel of lace and silks, though. The lingerie was the last bastion of femininity and youth. Giving in to flannel granny gowns would be an admission of defeat.

  She refused to become a flannel granny.

  But good heavens. It was cold this morning. Shivering, she looked around the room. This was an older house with tall ceilings and braided rugs on wood floors. She was in an old-fashioned bedroom with fading quilts on the bed, a marble-topped washstand, chintz curtains on the windows. Everything here had a sense of permanence, yet there was an ineffable air of neglect, as well. The faint cedary smell of the bed linens suggested that this room didn’t get much use.

  She had a luxurious cashmere robe, but it was in her other bag, still in the trunk of the rental car. So were her slippers. She examined her boots, finding one of them stained with dried blood. She wiped it as best she could with some damp tissues. Then she zipped on her high-heeled boots, which made a bold statement combined with her skimpy nightgown. Just give me a whip and a chain, she thought, and I’ll be the dominatrix you’ve always dreamed of. She tugged a soft, hand-crocheted throw from a rocking chair and drew it around her.

  The puppy let out a yip and peed on the floor.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Sophie regarded the dark wetness spreading on the braided throw rug in the doorway. Now she remembered why she didn’t do puppies. She loosely rolled up the throw rug. Holding it gingerly, she made her way downstairs, passing faded cabbage-rose wallpaper and a leaded-glass window at the landing. The puppy loyally followed, jumping from step to step down the stairs and nearly crash-landing at the bottom. It seemed completely unhurt, though, and stayed focused on Sophie, as though imprinted like a duck. She couldn’t help smiling, despite the rug. The accident was her fault, really. The dog was a baby. Its bladder was tiny. She should have taken it out immediately to do its business.

  She guessed her way to the kitchen by following a hallway with hardwood floors and framed pictures on the walls. An arched doorway led her to a big country kitchen, filled with the deep aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  Beyond the kitchen was a mudroom surrounded by windows that offered a view of nothing but white, miles and miles of white.

  “Morning,” said a deep, cheerful voice. Noah Shepherd came in through the back door, covered in fresh, powdery snow.

  She nearly dropped the rolled rug. “Oh! I, er…” Her words evaporated as she stared at him. In a thick plaid mackinaw jacket, faded jeans and snow boots, he looked like a character from a storybook—the noble woodsman. A prince in disguise. I’m in a Disney movie, she thought.

  Judging by the look on his face, he was thinking something quite different about her. His expression hid nothing. He checked out the almost-translucent bodice of the negligee. She tugged the shawl closer around her. Then he looked at her legs, revealed by the short gown. Even with her bandaged knee, the fashion boots probably made her look like a pole dancer. Noah’s expression was almost adolescent in its intensity, revealing a fundamental truth—a man hadn’t been born who didn’t like a pole dancer.

  Finally, she found her voice and broke the tension. “The dog peed on the rug.”

  “I’ll take it.” He reached out with a gloved hand and stepped into a room adjacent to the mudroom. A moment later, she heard the swish of the washing machine. She was washing her hands at the kitchen sink when he returned.

  “I guess you met O
pal, then,” he said. “I call that one Opal.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea. Do I need a reason?”

  “I guess not. So she must be a new addition to your house.”

  “Temporarily,” he said. “She was born to a big litter and her mother rejected her.”

  Sophie felt a little beat of shock. “That’s terrible.”

  “It happens. I’ve been bottle-feeding her.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “About the bottle-feeding?” He shrugged and washed up at the sink. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Is that so shocking?”

  “I’ve never met anyone who bottle-feeds baby animals,” she said.

  “Just weaned her.” The puppy had found a stainless steel food bowl on the floor and was busily chowing down.

  Sophie had never heard a man say “wean” before, either. “She seems to be doing well.”

  He nodded. “Next project is to find her a home.”

  “She slept with me last night.”

  The words “slept with me” seemed to inflame his imagination, because he checked her out again with that relentless, teenagerlike intensity. She felt exposed yet curiously bold. In all the drama of the divorce and its aftermath, her femininity had hardened into a stiff armor of propriety, an armor that seemed to be melting under the heat of his regard. There were few good things to be said for being thirty-nine going on forty. Having a man look at her the way Noah Shepherd was looking at her was unexpectedly empowering.

  Still.

  She adjusted the shawl and cleared her throat. Did she explain the boots and the negligee or let him assume whatever he would? “Thank you for last night,” she said, belatedly catching the double entendre.

  “It was my pleasure.” His voice was all bedroom smoky, as though he perfectly grasped the double meaning.

  She felt a flush bloom in her cheeks, supremely self-conscious now. “Anyway, I’ll just go get dressed and be out of your way.”

  His smile exuded a sexy sweetness that made her feel foolish and young. “You’re not in my way,” he stated.

  “Yes, well, I do have things to do….”

  He flicked a glance out the window where the world was a glare of light reflected off acres of thick snow. “What kind of things?”

  He could have no idea that was such a loaded question.

  Reinvent my life, she thought. Reconnect with my kids. Redefine the way I see the world. Redeem myself for mistakes in the past. And that was just for starters.

  He studied her with a keen intensity that almost made her want to tell him. But no. She was still working things out for herself, and at the moment her plan felt very fragile, as though it needed protection from other people’s skepticism. Her colleagues at the ICC already thought she was insane. She didn’t need to expose herself to a stranger’s doubts.

  “For starters, I’ll need to call my son and daughter, let them know I’ve arrived.”

  He nodded at a wall phone by the breakfast nook. “Help yourself. But I should tell you, the roads haven’t been cleared yet. It’s a lake-effect snowstorm, and it’s not over yet. The school district has declared a snow day, and most of the roads—including this one—are closed to all but emergency vehicles, so I wouldn’t count on going anywhere.”

  “I guess I can’t do anything about the weather.” She felt a wave of anxiety. Max and Daisy knew she was due to arrive, but they assumed it was for a visit, not for keeps. She had no idea what their reaction would be when she explained the move was permanent. The fact was, she hadn’t quite worked out what she would say, how she would explain her presence in Avalon. This was the domain of the Bellamys, her ex-husband’s family. They had deep roots in the region, while Sophie would be regarded as an outsider. An intruder. She suddenly felt very alone.

  “I want to pull myself together and get organized first,” she said, seized by cowardice.

  “Okay,” he said agreeably enough. “How’s the knee? I should probably check it out.”

  Haven’t you done that already? she wondered wryly. “No need. I’m all right. I haven’t looked under the bandage, but it’s not painful or itchy, nothing like that.”

  “You should probably take another antibiotic.”

  “More Rottweiler pills?” She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Can it wait until after I get dressed?”

  “I’m tempted to say no, but that’s just because of that nightgown.” He grinned, and instead of feeling offended, Sophie almost smiled back. “Seriously,” he said, “you should probably eat something, so the antibiotic doesn’t upset your stomach.”

  She nodded. “Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry I panicked last night, you know, when I saw all the blood.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Lots of people can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  She teetered on the verge of saying more, that the sight and smell of blood had brought back a rush of horror so intense she’d forgotten where she was. She didn’t tell him, though. Here in this peaceful, snowed-in setting, it was hard to imagine the violence and mayhem she’d survived. He’d probably think she was making it up.

  “I might need a few of my things. Is the rest of my luggage still in the trunk of the rental car?”

  “I’ll get it and bring it up to your room.”

  “I can manage.”

  “Not with that knee. It’s no trouble.”

  “Well, then…thank you.”

  With that, she fled from the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. She phoned Daisy and then Max, in both cases getting voice mail on the first ring. She hung up without leaving a message. No doubt they assumed she had stayed in the city because of the weather.

  The upstairs bathroom had an old-fashioned charm, with its vintage lighting and plumbing fixtures. She drew a bath in the deep, claw-foot bathtub and sank in with a heavy sigh of gratitude. She kept her bandaged knee out of the water as she lay back, covering her eyes with a damp cloth.

  It felt quite strange, having no agenda for the day. To Sophie, this was a concept she had never explored—simply doing nothing. The moment her first child was born, she had stepped onto a treadmill, convinced she could have it all—marriage and family, career and success. She hadn’t allowed herself to stop or even slow down.

  It had taken a group of terrorists to do what no one else in Sophie’s life had ever accomplished—to make her come up for air. The irony of this did not escape her.

  Using techniques she had learned in the aftermath of the incident, she guided her thoughts away from planning, examining, regrets, anything that would take her out of the moment. She had yet to master the yoga-esque concept of completely emptying her mind of all thought. To her, that just felt wrong, brain-dead. Instead, she directed her wandering thoughts to this moment—right here, right now.

  And right now, she was curious about the stranger who had rescued her. Noah Shepherd, a veterinarian. He seemed to fit in this big, rambling farmhouse. He had a gentle, healing touch, and in the middle of disaster, she had trusted him completely. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was his bear-like strength and the fact that he opted not to wield it. Or perhaps it was the expression of concern on his face—an uncommonly masculine face, square jawed, shadowed by a hint of beard, gorgeously sculpted cheekbones and an easy smile.

  “You’re projecting, Sophie,” she said, levering herself up out of the tub. “You want him to be a hero, because you want to be rescued. Cared for. Looked after.” She’d been told she was still at risk for Stockholm syndrome—the bizarre tendency for hostages to sympathize with their captors. Maybe Noah Shepherd had captured her. Maybe she was his hostage, and didn’t even know it.

  Pondering the twisted idea of being Noah Shepherd’s hostage, she dried off, wound her hair in a towel and dressed. One of the first things she was going to have to do was buy clothes more appropriate for the weather. Her trousers had been ruined last night. She had one other pair of slacks with her, of soft camel hair lined with satin, the sort she might wear to take a statement
from a monarch or statesman. Or, she thought, to have breakfast with a country vet.

  She drew the slacks on carefully and donned the same black sweater she’d worn last night. Then she put on her boots, already anticipating Noah Shepherd’s silent disapproval. The boots weren’t warm and the heels made them a hazard. Too bad, she thought. She certainly hadn’t come here expecting to find herself snowed in. She combed out her hair, put on a bit of lip gloss and at last felt vaguely human. She tried calling her children yet again and still got no answer. Perhaps they were taking advantage of the snow day by sleeping in.

  She stepped out into the upstairs hallway, giving the place a cursory exploration. All right, she was snooping. This appeared to be a classic upstate farmhouse, with bright, boxy rooms and lots of figured woodwork. There were several rooms that looked as though no one had been in them in years—a wall calendar opened to April 2005 was a clue. This was a lot of house for one guy.

  She headed downstairs, taking her time, studying the framed photographs lining the stairwell. They ranged from sepia-toned, soft-focused portraits from the 1920s to modern-day school pictures of smiling strangers. A strong family resemblance threaded through the generations, though she couldn’t quite work out how Noah was placed in the group.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paused to peek into the front room. Judging by the decor, he was a man who didn’t bother to hide the things that were important to him—an oversize sofa, a big fancy stereo, a wide-screen TV and a stack of electronic games. The place might have been furnished by a fourteen-year-old. In one corner of the living room was a complete drum set, a keyboard, two microphones and a bewildering array of speakers. It was a cross between a farmhouse and a frat house.

  On the opposite side of the front vestibule was a formal parlor that didn’t appear to get much use. A bay window afforded a magnificent view of a broad, sloping lawn and a tree-lined driveway. At least, she assumed it was a driveway. At the moment, everything was covered in a uniform blanket of snow.

  Beyond the sloping yard was the road, which now bore no resemblance to a road. Somewhere down there, her rental car was in a ditch.