Chapter 1 #3
It occurred to me to remind him a second time that he was there to discuss Cooper, not me, when I realized that, as with the identity of the crew, my answer would provide necessary background information.
Besides, I had nothing to hide. Adam’s death had been reported in the papers.
It was matter of public record. In fact, I was surprised my mother hadn’t already told him.
“There was a fishing accident. A piece of equipment went berserk. Adam was swept overboard and underwater before his crew could see, much less help.”
Peter slid his gaze to me, stunning me again with its force. This time it penetrated the protective skin I’d grown following Adam’s death, and for an instant, the pain was exposed, raw once more. He touched it. I would have gasped if he hadn’t suddenly looked back at the photograph.
His features gave nothing away as he stood there, silently studying the picture.
Only when he returned it to its place and looked at me did I realize how close we were standing.
Tearing my eyes from his, I glanced down at the cold cup in my hand.
“I’d like some fresh tea,” I murmured and started off toward the kitchen.
I thought I’d made my escape and was taking a deep, shaky breath when Peter’s voice came from several paces behind.
“Any coffee?”
I swallowed the tail end of the breath and, without turning, said, “Sure.”
“I’d love some, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“No trouble.” I would have given anything to have him back in the living room, but it was too late. He was well into the kitchen. I could feel his presence through the fine hairs at the back of my neck.
Putting a hand there, I used my free hand to put the kettle on to boil, then reached for the coffee cannister.
“Neck problems?”
“No, no.” Dropping my hand, I quickly measured coffee beans into the mill.
“This is charming,” Peter said. I turned to find him within arm’s length, looking around much as he’d done in the other room. “It has character.”
Following his gaze, I took in the dovetailing of wood and tile that gave the kitchen its pecan color and its warmth. “I thought so.”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t like this when you bought it.”
Remembering that day so long ago when I’d first seen the house, I couldn’t help but smile.
“You bet right. It was old and ugly, the worst room in the place. We tore everything out, then put new things in piece by piece. Not that it’s state of the art,” I added quickly, lest he think I’d left luxury to create luxury.
The kitchen wasn’t luxurious, just comfortable and efficient and aesthetically pleasing.
“What you see here are the basic amenities, but they’re more than adequate.
I can put together as elegant a meal as any situation warrants. ”
“Can you manage a tuna sandwich?”
That wasn’t quite the kind of elegant meal I’d been picturing. “Excuse me?”
“I drove straight through,” he said, immobilizing me with those luminescent green eyes of his.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that was before seven this morning.
If you have a can of tuna and a little mayo in the house, I’d love a sandwich.
If you give me the workings, I’ll make it myself.
In fact,” he swallowed, “give me a fork and I’ll eat the tuna from the can. ”
I stared up at him. “You’re that hungry?”
“That hungry.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“It seemed rude. I’d just arrived.”
“And the difference now?”
“This kitchen. It’s very inviting.”
So was he. Uncomfortably so. Looking up into those eyes, aware of the tousle of his hair, the shadow of a beard on his cheeks, the faint scent of something clean and male that clung to his skin, I felt attracted to him in ways that were strange and unbidden.
After all, I loved Adam. He’d been all I’d needed when he was alive, and his memory was all I needed now.
Peter Hathaway was in my house for one reason and one reason alone—to defend Cooper. And the sooner he set about doing that, the better I’d feel.
“If you’ll give me a little room,” I cleared my throat and turned back to the counter, “I’ll put together some lunch.”
Out of the silence, I heard Peter step back, then pull a stool from beneath the adjacent counter.
The stool creaked when he sat. If I’d been on the ball, I’d have taken the stool for myself, leaving him to sit a little farther off at the table.
I’d have preferred that. This way, not only could he watch everything I did, but I was aware of his doing it.
I’d missed my chance, though. Determined to ignore the large, dark form in my periphery, I focused in on my work.
“Tell me about Cooper,” Peter said.
I waited until the noise of the coffee mill died, then said, “Where should I begin?”
“How long have you known him?”
“Nine years. He was one of the first people we met when we moved here.”
“Why did you move here?”
“Because I wanted to pot and Adam wanted to fish.”
“Was Adam’s family as wealthy as yours?”
I dumped the ground coffee beans into a filter. “I thought you wanted to know about Cooper.”
“I do. I’m getting there.”
“A little roundabout, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not really. You feel strongly enough about Cooper to bankroll his defense. If I’m to represent him well, I have to know about the people around him.”
The relevance of Adam’s roots to Cooper’s defense was arguable; I made no attempt to hide my skepticism.
But I had trouble sustaining it, trouble keeping my mind on track.
Peter looked so comfortable sitting on the stool not far from my elbow that I also had trouble thinking of him as a big-shot lawyer.
Big-shot lawyers didn’t make themselves at home in country kitchens miles and miles from the nearest city.
If it hadn’t been for my mother’s recommendation, I might have wondered how “big-shot” he really was.
I wondered, then, whether he read the doubt on my face, because he did turn his attention to Cooper.
“You said that he was second in command to your husband. Was he hired specifically for that purpose?”
“Yes. Adam had the boat and the desire, but he wasn’t an experienced fisherman. Cooper was. It was a comfortable arrangement all around.” Having poured water into the coffee maker and flipped the brew switch, I wiped my hands on the flowered towel that hung on the wall.
“Did Cooper have his own boat?”
I shook my head. “He’d always worked for other people.”
“Because he couldn’t afford a boat?”
“Actually,” I said, moving to take a can of tuna from a side cabinet, “he could afford one. Cooper isn’t a poor man. He lives modestly by choice.”
The teapot began to whistle. Setting down the tuna, I turned off the gas and reached into a second cannister.
Purely by chance, because there was an assortment inside, I came up with camomile tea.
Camomile was calming, so they said. I needed calming, particularly when the silence lingered, for without words, Peter’s presence was all the stronger.
It unsettled me. Determined not to let him know, I very deliberately put the tea bag in my cup, added water from the kettle, then dipped the bag up and down, up and down, up and down.
I nearly cried out in relief when his voice came again.
“So Cooper chose to work for you. I take it you liked him.”
“We both did. He was quiet, but smart and hard working.”
“Where was he when Adam died?”
My eyes shot to Peter’s. Maybe I was being oversensitive, but his question hit me the wrong way. The look on my face must have told him so. Almost instantly he held up a hand.
“Sorry. That sounded accusatory, but I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just trying to get my bearings.” He paused, then, when I didn’t argue, went on. “Was Cooper on the boat when Adam died?”
Setting a mixing bowl on the counter, I said with feeling, “Yes, and he was nearly as sick as I was about the accident. There was no way he could have prevented it, still he blamed himself.” I went to the refrigerator.
“He and Adam were close. Cooper may not be the most demonstrative of men, but he loved Adam like a brother.”
“What was his relationship to you?”
Holding the refrigerator door ajar, I thought for a minute, trying to put a word to nine years of mutual respect and genuine affection. “Brotherly,” I said at last.
“Is it still that?” he asked. In the echo of his deep voice, there was no doubt as to his thoughts.
Closing the refrigerator door, I looked him in the eye.
It mattered to me that Peter Hathaway know the truth, because I saw it as an important point in Cooper’s favor.
“If you’re asking whether Cooper and I are sexually involved, the answer is no.
I adore Cooper. He’s been my backbone for the past six years, but there has never been anything remotely sexual about our relationship. ”
“Why not?”
I frowned at his directness. “Because.”
“Not good enough. If that picture I saw was a fair representation of the two men, Cooper is even better looking than your husband. Is he already married?”
“No.”
“Gay?”
“No!”
“How do you know?”
“Because he has women to satisfy the urge when he gets it.”
“How do you know?”
Because Swansy told me, though how Swansy knew was a mystery, but Swansy was never wrong. “I know. Trust me. I know.”
“And he’s never made a pass at you.”
I stared at him for a minute, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. “Why does sex have to be involved?”
“Because you’re no slouch.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
His voice was low. “Two attractive, unattached people in a secluded place, a place where winters are made for sharing the heat of a lover?” His eyes seemed suddenly darker. “If I were in Cooper’s shoes, I’d have made a pass at you.”
I felt that little heart-catch again and ignored it, just as I refused to acknowledge his claim. “But why does it matter?” I asked more quickly than I might have if I’d been perfectly calm. “What does it have to do with Cooper’s case?”