The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [140]
“Hello?”
“Craig?” Holding her cell phone in one hand, she used his business card to scratch at the bug bite on her knee with the other. “It’s Ivy Bonner. Am I disturbing you?”
“No. How are you doing?” He had the nicest voice—mellow and friendly.
“Good, thanks. I’m calling to ask . . . well, Gus probably told you about our meeting yesterday.”
“Gus?”
“Your caretaker? Scruffy-looking older gentleman? Built like a big shoe box? Carries an empty shotgun around?”
He chuckled. “I know who Gus is. He just didn’t mention meeting you.”
“Oh. Good.” Pretending to be shamefaced, she confessed, “I was trespassing.”
“I see.” Though his voice was serious, she could hear the smile in it. “And now you’ve called to apologize?”
“Not really . . . but I will if you give me permission to trespass some more.”
“Of course. Feel free to roam around all you like. In fact, please drop in when you do, anytime. I’m always looking for a nice distraction.”
“From what?”
“Work. I travel quite a bit so when the opportunity presents itself I try to work from home. This is the first time in almost two years I’ve had any real time off, so this summer is a bit of a working vacation for me. So you see, you’d be doing me a huge favor if you stop by once in a while to get me out of my office.”
“Well, put like that, it seems like the least I could do.”
“Good. Now I have something to look forward to.”
So did she. And it wasn’t an unwelcome realization.
“You’ll tell Gus not to shoot me on sight, then?”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
“See you soon.”
They said good-bye, but two seconds after she ended the call on her cell, the house phone rang.
“You know Gus is harmless, right? You can trust him.”
“I guessed that.” She’d been certain of it.
“Okay. See you later.”
“ ’Bye.”
Packing a notebook and sketch pad and pencils along with a bottle of water, an apple, and an energy bar in her pack, she became aware of the smile that lingered on her lips . . . and a definite sense of anticipation that wasn’t entirely about the gazebo.
So okay, she could admit it, she got a little lonely sometimes. And there was no doubt that it was nice to have something to take her mind off the weirdness happening around her.
She took the cliff trail back to the gazebo, spread out a yoga mat she’d snatched from the Rossinis’ stash of athletic equipment, and spent the afternoon sketching the views of every angle from the tranquility within—the lake, the woods, the steep slope covered in scrub vegetation and wildflowers just beginning to bloom.
Granted, it wasn’t the sketching she was supposed to be doing, the kind that paid the rent, but it came easily and flowed from her fingers like it hadn’t in months—she’d take it and be grateful that her mental block was beginning to crumble.
The next day she slept late into the morning, having spent the better part of the night tossing and turning, eager to sleep but reluctant to dream. Close to midnight, in a fit of desperation, she swam to exhaustion in the Rossinis’ endless lap pool. Then she slept . . . she dreamt . . . and she was falling, falling, falling.
Weary, impatient for the tranquility she’d quickly come to expect inside the gazebo, she took the cliffside path in a hurry. Right away she noticed something different and hurried over to the canopy to get a closer look.
Furniture. A chair, footstool, and small table, all of the Adirondack style, were set smack in the middle of the floor—where three new unfinished planks of wood were set snug and tight, replacing those that had rotted