She didn’t ask, didn’t want to acknowledge her neighbor’s massive appeal to her nine-year-old, or all the manly activities and shared interests Myles could offer Jake that she could not. “How long does a project like that take?”
“Depends. I’ve been at it for six months, but it should’ve been done already.” A dimple appeared in his cheek. “I haven’t made a concerted effort.”
Maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe he was afraid to finish for fear there’d be nothing left to distract him during those lonely hours. Sometimes she’d slip out, hoping to hear him working so she’d know she wasn’t the only one walking the floor while the rest of the world slept. If he wasn’t in the garage, she’d occasionally spot him sitting on his porch, drinking a cup of coffee or tea. He’d stay there for some time, even in the dead of winter, staring into the inky blackness. She’d stay, too, until he went inside. She could feel the hole his wife’s death had left in his life, knew he missed Amber Rose. But Vivian was too attracted to him, and too afraid of where it might lead, to lend him more support than these secret vigils.
“Are you almost done with it?” she asked.
“Getting close.”
“Will you keep it or sell it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Vivian was about to bring up the murder, but he spoke before she could. “Are you glad you branched out on your own?”
Cursing herself for not jumping in sooner, she forced a smile. “Definitely.”
“Why’d you leave Coach?” He was on his hands and knees so he could reach whatever he needed in the motor.
“I wanted more artistic freedom and control, and that meant establishing a separate brand.” She’d also had to quit, but she couldn’t tell him that. There was no way to keep her job and assume a new identity. “It’s a little lonely being such a small enterprise. I have only three employees who run my showroom in New York. But we’re starting to grow.”
“Did you ever consider using your name, like so many other designers?”
Which name? Certainly not her real one. She had to stay behind the scenes or run the risk of putting her life, not to mention her kids’ lives, in jeopardy. She had Colleen Turnbull, her most experienced employee, handle all media appearances. “No, to me Big Sky Bags lent itself to a certain look and a certain feel, which was more in keeping with the type of brand I was hoping to create.”
He held up one part of whatever made her fridge work. It wasn’t the part she’d damaged, fortunately. “This fridge isn’t that old. I’m surprised it’s giving you trouble already.”
Planning to place the blame on rats or precocious children once he diagnosed the problem, she mumbled something about having bought a lemon and got him a paper towel so could set the part on the floor.
“How long have you been out on your own?” he asked.
“Since forever.”
When he twisted around to look at her, she wondered why she’d said that. He’d asked in regard to her business. But she was just so tired of having the same superficial conversations with everyone. She wanted to go deeper, to really talk to another human being—to talk to him—but she couldn’t. She had to watch herself even with Claire. She couldn’t trust anyone.
“Care to elaborate on that?” His voice suggested he understood her desire to open up and welcomed the honesty, but she already knew she could say no more.
“No. Sorry. It’s the wine.” She waved an apologetic hand. “I started Big Sky Bags the minute I moved here.”
She could sense his reluctance to let the more personal comment go, but to his credit he didn’t pry. And for that, she was grateful. Her brother constantly warned her, in almost every one of his weekly emails, that she couldn’t trust anyone. Especially a cop, who had access to far more information than the average Joe.
“Isn’t it tough to succeed as a designer when you’re so far from New York City and all your competitors?”
It was hard. For months she’d been afraid that she’d taken too much of a gamble when she launched Big Sky Bags. But a lot of designers lived west of the Rockies. Like her, they had their showrooms, their PR companies and their ad agencies in New York and their warehouses in New Jersey, but so many things could be done over the internet these days that it worked. Although she’d initially planned on running her business exclusively on the internet, and had been managing in just that way for two years, her designs were gaining popularity among a few influential fashionistas in Los Angeles. In the past three months, several high-end boutiques had begun to stock her purses. She felt encouraged, as if she was entering a whole new phase of her career. It was one of the reasons she’d been so happy recently.
But now, after Pat’s murder, she had no idea whether or not she might have to move again, just like before. And she simply couldn’t face the thought of it, couldn’t deal with the loss.
“It’s not as important to be in New York as it once was,” she told him. “The internet makes it possible for me to work from almost anywhere. The factories are in Hong Kong, anyway. Once the sample purses arrive, I hire a freelancer to take photographs and load them on my website. Then they go to my showroom, where they’re seen by department-store buyers and the wholesale places that focus on more niche markets. I don’t have to be in New York to do that.”
“It’s a long flight if you have to go back there.”
She’d already had to go twice this year, once when she’d decided to change her ad agency and once to meet with her PR firm. She didn’t mind because it gave her a chance to see Virgil and Peyton, his wife, who were now going by the names Daniel and Mariah Greene. They lived seven hours from the city. But it wasn’t easy for Vivian to leave the kids at home. Fortunately, Vera Soblasky, who lived behind the church in town, had been willing to take them in the past. An unmarried retired schoolteacher, Vera worked as a librarian three days a week, but since she had no children or grandchildren, she preferred to spend her free time with Jake and Mia, who didn’t have a grandmother of their own. Not one they had contact with, at any rate.
Vera was another reason Vivian couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her children away from their “Nana.” They’d never forgive her. Then there was Claire, who’d become such a big part of her own life. Claire was always willing to help out with the kids but usually had to work.
“I try to avoid the trip, if possible,” she said.
“Here’s your problem.” He held up the metal piece from which she’d removed the wires. “These are supposed to be attached.”
She frowned as if this was surprising to her. “I wonder what could’ve happened to them. Could a rat have done that?” She felt like a rat just saying this.
“It’s possible.”
“So…can you fix it?”
He turned the part over. “It’d be easy if this wire wasn’t so damaged. It isn’t safe with so much of the protective coating gone. But I might have some wire in the garage that’ll work.”
Rubbing damp palms on her shorts, she blew out a sigh. “That’s really nice of you. I appreciate it.”
He went home and returned a few minutes later with a piece of wire, and put the motor back together—which left Vivian scrambling for a way to keep him longer. She hadn’t broached the subject of the murder; she was afraid to blurt out her questions for fear she’d give away her true intention in having him over.
“I think we’re set,” he said when he plugged the refrigerator back into the wall and it began to hum.
“Wow. That’s amazing. Thank you so much.” The guilt she felt about lying made it difficult to meet his eyes.
“No