“Want me to go with you?”
“You’re offering to escort me a few feet out your door? I don’t think so, junior. I’m not afraid of a few fireflies.” Lies, all lies. In Dorie’s mind there could be plenty of larger creatures out there that would scare the daylights out of her.
“Leave the door open and yell out if you need me.” He covered her hand with his and helped yank the stubborn zipper to her neck. When the pulse in her wrist quickened, she pulled her hand free.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I’m hoping you’re my fairy godfather and you’re going to slip five thousand dollars under my pillow tonight.”
“I don’t exactly keep five grand in small bills around this place,” he said.
“And I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
She went out the door and, without looking in any direction other than her truck, she dashed off the porch and flung open the passenger door. With one quick swipe, she had her pack under her arm and was running back.
Bret had settled at the picnic table again and was rubbing his thigh much as he’d done before. She set her pack on the table and sat across from him.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked, surprised that she might actually care.
“Job-related injury. I’m still in recovery mode.”
“Related to your painting-and-scraping job or your cop job?”
“The latter.”
“So were you a cop here in North Carolina?” She thought that because of Jack’s involvement in a shooting, that might be an important detail to know. Maybe this ex-cop was one of the good ones, and she could actually tell him why she needed the money and how Jack had been treated so unfairly by the police in Winston Beach. On the other hand, maybe he was part of some brotherhood of North Carolina cops and wouldn’t feel a bit of sympathy for Jack. Because the local police believed Jack was guilty, Bret automatically would, as well.
“Miami,” he said without adding details.
“And so you gave up the excitement of police work in a city like Miami, Florida, to commune with nature?”
“I moved here because I wasn’t crazy about working a desk job,” he said. “Among other reasons.”
Earlier, she’d come up with a few explanations for his hermitlike existence—an unfavorable internal affairs incident at his old job, a love gone sour or being stalked by a vengeful parolee he’d put away. Now, hearing this scant bit of information, she figured he was in the mountains because he’d suffered an injury and could no longer serve as an active-duty police officer. That had to be tough.
“So what is your purpose here?” she asked. “Besides peeling off old paint?”
“That’s just part of what I’ve done to this place,” he said. “And what I still need to do. The Crooked Spruce is more or less the realization of a dream of mine. I don’t know if you looked around when you first drove up, but the property extends for a couple of acres. There are a few rudimentary cabins out back of this one. An old bathhouse and a shed. The buildings are pretty weathered but still stable enough.”
Once she’d arrived on Crooked Spruce property, she hadn’t seen anything but the main building and Bret Donovan up on the ladder. Still, after Bret’s description, she didn’t think she’d missed much. “So this really was an old Boy-Scout camp?” she said.
He nodded. “It was closed down almost thirty years ago when attendance fell off. The state of North Carolina took over the deed and held on to the acreage. Why, I don’t know. They didn’t do much to beautify the place. But I guess even the minimal upkeep needed to stop the structures from falling down wasn’t justified, so some bureaucrat up in Raleigh convinced the state to put the place up for sale about a year ago.”
“And you bought it?”
“I did.”
“Cops make pretty good money in Miami, I guess.”
“We make a little higher than the national average, but I had only saved enough for a down payment on the property.” He leveled his index finger against his brow. “I’m up to here in mortgage debt. And I’ve just about maxed out my credit cards.”
She was sorry to hear that, for Jack’s sake, but couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “But you had enough to loan Clancy three grand when he needed it.”
“Yeah. I wish I still had it. I didn’t realize how much fixing this place up would set me back. If I had that three grand now I’d hire plumbers and carpenters, and other experts who wouldn’t have to dance around the code-enforcement guys.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m learning a lot thanks to the library of do-it-yourself books I’ve collected in the past few months. And they know me pretty well at the Home Depot.”
“I guess you’re not planning on bringing back the Boy Scouts.”
“Not hardly. The Boy Scouts haven’t been interested in this property in years. No reason to think they would be now.”
Dorie looked around the lodge room. “This must have been the main structure.”
“Yep. The kitchen was here when I bought the place. I put in the fireplace and shelves and bought the furniture.”
“It’s kind of a shame, you know,” Dorie said. “I would think all this woodsy-ness and outdoor living would still attract young people. But I read somewhere that there aren’t as many Boy Scouts as there used to be.”
“I read that, too.”
“Too bad,” she said. “In my opinion, that leaves a void that should be filled somehow. Kids need guidance, even if it’s not from a parent.” She paused. “Especially if they don’t have parents.” She thought of Jack and how staying in a place like this might have helped him on his road to adulthood. Under the mentorship of a good adult he might have learned responsibility and finished high school. He might have been saved.
“Maybe so, but it won’t be filled by me. I’m catering to an entirely different clientele. Grown-ups with money, I hope.”
She stared out the window where the bugs had increased in number and were circling the lightbulb in a frenetic search for warmth. Right. Rich people with designer insect repellent were going to flock to this backwoods location. “You know, junior, this isn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton.”
He frowned. “Would you quit calling me junior? I told you my name’s Bret.”
“Okay, Bret.”
“And this wasn’t meant to be the Ritz-Carlton. It’s an outpost.”
“Which is what exactly?”
He explained the dual purpose of his camp. An outpost was a sort of refuge for folks on the trail, a spot where they could shower and sleep one night in a bed. But The Crooked Spruce would also serve as an outfitter’s store, a place where hikers could purchase gear they had forgotten or suddenly decided they needed.
“So what’s your plan for attracting the jet-set crowd?” she asked.
“I’m planning to cash in on one of the latest fads of corporate ladder climbers.”
She snickered. “What fad is that? CEOs like freeze-dried food and sleeping bags now?”
He shrugged. “As a matter of fact, they do. Believe it or not, Dorie, guys like to prove their mettle on the open trail under seemingly harsh conditions.”