The Widow - Carla Neggers [10]
Now, the house belonged to Chris’s widow.
Abigail.
Owen pushed her out of his mind and parked at his house. The boys, re-energized from their car nap, ran down to the rocks to investigate what the outgoing tide had left behind in the quiet pools of periwinkles, mussels, lichens and seaweed. But the temperature was even cooler out on his granite point, and Owen filled up the woodbox and rummaged in the cupboards for something hot for the boys to have for dinner.
No one believed he’d last the summer in Maine. If a disaster didn’t call him away, Owen would usually find something that did.
Doyle Alden arrived at dusk to collect his sons. A big, fair-haired man, he and Owen had become friends as boys, when they’d go off hiking and fishing together, when where they were from and who their families were didn’t matter. Sometimes, Chris Browning would join him and Doyle. Chris had always been driven, determined not to live the life his father and grandfather had. As much as Owen knew he respected his family, Chris didn’t want to be a lobsterman or a handyman, and he’d worked hard to have a different future. He’d gone to law school and become an FBI agent, and he’d married the daughter of a man everyone had known would become the next director of the FBI.
And if Chris had chosen another spot for their honeymoon, he might still be alive. Instead, he’d taken his bride home to Mt. Desert Island.
Doyle had been Chris’s best man. Sean had been the ring-bearer.
Owen had arrived in Maine on a two-week leave from the army three days after the wedding.
In time to find Chris’s body.
Doyle’s voice brought Owen back to the present.
“Katie e-mailed me,” Doyle said, staring out the French doors at the water. The boys, finished with dinner, had gone back out. “She says she’s settling in. Says the flowers in England are beautiful right now.”
“She’d notice,” Owen said.
“The six weeks will be up before we know it.”
Owen could hear the struggle in Doyle’s tone to hide his resentment. He’d put the decision to do this training in Katie’s hands, saying it was hers, not his, to make. She’d pleaded with him to discuss his feelings with her, but he’d refused. And now he was irritated, because deep down he’d wanted her to stay.
It was all more complicated than Owen could get his head around, but Doyle and Katie had been together since they were teenagers. As ornery as Doyle could be, he would know that if his wife didn’t need his permission to go to England, she at least deserved his support.
“Summer’s my busiest season,” he said. “Katie could have picked a better time to learn how to save the world.”
“She didn’t pick the time. I did.”
Doyle gave him a faint smile. “Yeah? Well, screw you.”
The boys pounded onto the deck and burst inside with a frenzied energy that seemed to lift their father’s mood. Ian’s fingers were blue-red, a sign he’d been into the tide pools. He had his mother’s curiosity and affection for living things. Sean got more pleasure from scrambling over granite boulders.
“What’s going on?” Doyle asked at their obvious excitement.
“Nothing,” Sean said, his cheeks reddening as he warmed his hands in front of the woodstove, the fire glowing behind the screen.
“Nothing’s got you all excited, huh?”
Ian started to speak, but Sean shot him a warning look. “Dad, can we stay here tonight?”
“Not tonight. Let’s wait until a night I have a meeting, if that’s okay with Owen.”
Owen shrugged. “That’d be fine.” But he could see that Sean and Ian had something they were keeping from their father. “Did you notice the fog on the horizon?”
“Uh-huh.” Ian nodded, but he was watching his older brother, presumably for another warning look if he strayed too close to spilling whatever it was they were hiding. “It’s coming closer. Sean calls it The Blob. We pretend it’s a monster.”
Ian roared and stretched out his arms, pretending he was The Blob. Sean rolled his eyes. Owen followed them and their father out to the car. Sean said he