Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘his wife’?” Deckard asked, crossing one booted foot over the other. Dark denim jeans, a black tie, black shirt, and black denim jacket looked exceedingly good on him. But Harper focused back on the conversation, or at least tried to.
The taste of the sweet-tart cider lingered on her tongue, and Deck’s cedarwood aftershave swirled on the gusts. The fire had nestled down to nearly consumed logs—just embers and ash. About time for a stoking.
Steve set his empty mug on the patio stone by his right foot and looked over at the sliding door—still shut—then directed his attention back to them. “He lost his wife a year ago, poor guy.”
Her jaw slackened. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
“How old was she? Given he and Nick went to school together, I imagine she was a similar age?”
“I think Emily was also in her mid-thirties,” Susan said. “I do know Taylor said she couldn’t wait to plan her fortieth a few years down the road, but she didn’t live long enough for it.”
“That’s terrible.” And a massive coincidence—which Harper didn’t believe in. “Do you mind me asking what she died of? Just someone else so young . . .” And part of the same friend group. Odd. Very odd.
“I don’t remember.” Susan looked at her hubby. “Do you remember, Steve?”
“Hmm. I can’t say I do. Couldn’t have been a long-term illness, though.”
“How come?” Deck asked, setting his empty cobbler plate aside.
“She and George visited several weeks before she died. She looked great, and neither said anything about an illness.” Steve shrugged a shoulder. “It might have been on the private side.”
“True,” Susan said. “But we played tennis and went white-water rafting during that visit. She seemed like she was in great health.”
Harper scooched forward more, careful not to inch too far, or she’d tip herself out of the chair. “So she was healthy like Taylor?”
“As far as we knew.” Susan swiped the tears pooling in her eyes, her mascara smearing.
Steve cleared his throat and tried to signal there was makeup on her face with hand gestures.
Susan frowned. “What are you trying to say?”
“You said to tell you if your mascara trailed down your face.”
“Oh.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m sure I look lovely.”
“You are lovely,” Harper said. Inside and out.
“I’m going to duck into the ladies’ room, but it was really good seeing you. Wish it had been under different circumstances.”
“Agreed.” Harper stood and gave Susan a hug.
Then she stepped back, trying to politely signal she wasn’t up for a hug from Steve, but the poor guy would have no idea why.
Men in general made her curl up into herself.
With the exception of Deckard. What that said about him or their relationship she didn’t know, but he was her safety net outside of God.
Though God hadn’t exactly kept her safe during those hellish days.
Deck’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered under his breath.
“So nice to meet you both,” he said.
“Likewise.” Steve shook his hand. “Harper.” He nodded.
She offered a smile. “See you two.”
Steve jiggled the sliding door along the track. It stuck more often than not and had to be jimmied shut.
Harper swiped her nose, trying—poorly—to cover the tear-filled sniffs. “I think we better stoke the fire.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll grab the poker,” she said, turning her back to him so Deck couldn’t see her crying. Because if he did, he’d comfort her with a hug, and she was getting far too used to them. “I don’t see it,” she said, scanning the wood pile, where it usually stood. “It must be down at the lower fire pit.”
He arched a brow. “They have a second fire pit?”
“Sort of.”
“How can you sort of have another fire pit?”
“It’s kind of a permanent beach bonfire pit, if you will. It sits on the shore of the Rio Grande. You can’t see it with the slope of the hill, but it’s beautiful.”
He lifted his hands to shield his eyes from the winter sun, gazing down the direction she pointed. “I’ll come along.”
The two trekked down the steep edge of the slope. Deck reached out his hand as they hit an icy patch.
“Thanks.” She moved gingerly.
Ice cracked beneath their boots as they continued on.
The slope leveled off, and the river came rushing into view, swirling and roaring rapids with an occasional chunk of ice bobbing by.
Two blue Adirondack chairs sat around a fire pit on the beach.
“That’s so cool having the river in your backyard.” Deck slid his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Technically it’s not theirs. The river and shoreland are public property, but no one seems to enforce it, so Taylor and Nick—mainly Nick—set up camp.
” She scoured the ground. “There’s the poker,” she said, spotting it in the pit, among the cooled logs.
She yanked it free from the two remaining crisscross logs.
She blinked and bent over.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. . . .” She dipped down on her haunches to get a better look. “It . . .” She squinted, leaning over the object in question. “It looks like a coin, but it has numbers on it.” Her stomach bottomed out, all warmth draining from her face.
“What’s wrong?” Deck asked by her side.
“I think it’s a cremation coin.”
“A what?”
“When someone is cremated, they put a coin or chip in with a number stamped on it that coordinates to their file, so they can be certain they have the right remains for each person. Do you have gloves and an evidence bag in your truck?”
“Of course. I’ll go grab them.”
“Maybe walk around the house instead of through it. We don’t want Nick getting curious about what we’re doing.”
“Roger that. I’ll be right back.” He strode back toward the house but gave it a wide berth, going around the side.
All the possible implications of the coin—who it belonged to, and how it got there—tracked through her mind. Scenarios formed. Awful scenarios.
She shifted to stand and moved toward the rushing water so it would appear she was just taking in the sight of the river—water spritzing on her the closer she got.
She looked toward the house. No Deck. Come on. Her leg bounced.
Voices carried from the upper fire pit, and she prayed they stayed there.
Crunching sounded in the woods between Nick’s and the neighbors’.
Her heart thwacking in her ears, she feared her opportunity might have passed.
Deck broke through the woods and relief swept over her, but it didn’t ease the tension inside any.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked.
“You got a little something.” She pulled a twig off his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“You might want to shake the needles off your head too, but smart way of coming back.”
“Whatever you’re doing, you might want to hurry. Nick’s on the upper patio.”
Taking a steeling breath in a poor attempt to calm herself, she slipped on the gloves while Deck held the evidence bag open for her. She quickly examined the coin. Definitely a cremation coin. She’d seen one before on her friend Heather’s mantel. She dropped it into the bag.
Deck sealed the bag, and she’d shifted to get to her feet when something else caught her eye. A purple label. Nearly burned save for the tip, where cassia flowers dotted the upper panel of the paper. She pushed the debris around it away and saw a shard of glass at the bottom of the pit.
“Find something else?” Deck asked, no doubt keeping an eye on the slope above.
“I’m not sure, but I’m taking it along.” She shoved the shard into a second bag he handed her.
She stood and studied the fire pit as a whole, centering in on the white, fluffy ashes dotting the campfire—very different from the rest. She swallowed. It can’t be. No one could be that cruel. “One last bag.” She reached out as he handed it over.
“Hurry. Nick’s voice is getting louder. I think he and that frat buddy of his are headed this way.”
She scooped some of the ashes into a third bag, shoved it into her pocket, and swiped off her gloves, shoving them into the other pocket.
The voices were nearly upon them.
“Come here,” he said, tugging her close, then leading her to the water’s raging edge.
“What’s up?”
“You’re going to have to trust me. Can you do that?”
She nodded.
He wrapped his arm around her back and caressed her cheek. “So beautiful,” he murmured.
What was happening, and why was he looking at her like that?
He leaned in and ever-so-slowly pressed a lingering kiss to her lips.
It was warm, soft yet firm, and everything she would have expected a kiss from Deckard to be.
His lips pressed deeper, and she let herself go, kissing him back.
His hand splayed through her hair, her emotions a joggled mess. But she wasn’t breaking this kiss for the life of her.
Nick cleared his throat.