The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [145]
“Okay. I’ll start out easy: What do you do?”
“I run a mining company.”
“Mumford Mining.”
“That’s the one. Formed by my great-grandfather, a British immigrant, a miner who came over and cut granite in the mines in Vermont before he and his nine partners formed the Lackey River Mining Company in 1872. Ten years later, he bought out five of them and the families of two more who’d died in the meantime and changed the name to Mumford Mining Company. Five years after that, he bought out the last two and became sole owner of—”
“Man. All that work and time just to have it flooded when they built the dam. Did the government buy him out so he could start over somewhere else, or did they do that public domain deal?”
He had bright, astute eyes anyway, but when they lit with humor, they could bowl a girl over.
“Well, according to my granddad, Charles Mumford wasn’t a man to be messed with, and it was just luck that the Lackey River site was nearly tapped and ready for reclamation when Congress passed the Flood Control Act of 1934, otherwise they might have had a little war on their hands. As it was, when the Army Corps of Engineers came around in the early ’40s, old Charley saw the need for the dam and was willing to forfeit a few more months on the mine—a year tops—for first pick on the waterfront property once the lake had formed. Hence our home on the crest of the cliffs.”
“Very shrewd.”
He nodded. “He was ninety-two by then and still the sharpest tool in the shed, they say. And that’s just a small example of his business acumen. The Lackey River site was his first mine but not his only. Working only one mine is like . . . putting all your eggs in one basket, as the saying goes.” He paused. “You know, in reality I don’t think I’ve ever seen or heard of anyone collecting eggs in more than one basket, have you?”
“I haven’t seen anyone collect eggs, period. Two baskets make a lot of sense considering the way eggs break, but I can’t imagine anyone using two baskets if one would do the job.”
Even though they’d been talking face-to-face all the while and even though they both had the direct manner of looking into someone’s eyes when they spoke, in that moment their gazes bumped, locked, derailed, and simultaneously they realized they were no longer thinking about eggs . . . or mines, or careers, or exes or food or . . . breathing.
Craig inhaled first. He glanced at his watch. “I should probably get going.”
“What? But what about old Charley? And all his eggs? Your secrets . . .”
He laughed and tipped his head to one side, appreciating her reluctance to end the evening. “Why don’t you come out to dinner with me Friday night; let me tell you then. All of it. I’ll bare my soul. And wake you gently when I’m finished, I promise.” He chuckled because she did. “Please. The marina has a four-star restaurant, but it’s only open on weekends this early in the season. It’ll be a real treat for me not to have to eat alone.”
“Me, too. I’d love to go.”
His exodus was rather hurried with his quick clarification that the containers were disposable and the unopened Scotch belonged to Jerry Rossini—from his hidden stash. He grinned and ordered her to stay put; he’d lock her in when he let himself out. Then he was gone. And she started counting the minutes till Friday.
FOUR
Apparently the anticipation of having a dinner date with a handsome man wasn’t enough to occupy her mind—more specifically her subconscious mind, which continued to have an active life of its own.
She decided not to go to the gazebo the next day. She wanted to, badly, and was annoyed and disappointed that she couldn’t overcome her trepidation about the place but, well, one glance at the Patty Ann Pettigrew Meets a Ghost sketches rolled up in the corner and goose bumps ran amok. She was totally creeped out.
Still a little sluggish from the wine the night before, it took three large mugs of coffee to get her back on her feet and into a nice, safe mode of denial. She would exert more control on her mind to keep