Page 28 of I Hate You More

“Don’t you have someone who can advise you about these things?” she asked. “A niece or nephew, maybe, or a trusted family friend?”

Mrs. Orson stared at her for a long moment before sighing and shaking her head. “You sound just like my husband. He always used to worry about me, too.”

Although Ruby had known this woman for over a year, references to her life before Parkwood Manor were rare. “It sounds like he might have had a good reason,” Ruby said. She would have added more, but she caught sight of a small smile hooking the corner of Mrs. Orson’s mouth. It was the same smile Mrs. Orson had worn the day Harry had been sniffing out prescription painkillers.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Wheezy was his dog. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“He adored that animal. Spoiled him rotten, which is why you’re having such a hard time with him now. It was always his wish that Wheezy win the West Coast Canine Classic.”

Ruby’s heart gave a pang for the older woman, but she knew better than to let it show. Mrs. Orson wouldn’t appreciate the sentimental outburst. Unlike many of the widows’ homes around here, hers had no pictures of her husband, no reminders of the life they’d once shared.

“Is that why it’s so important to you that he win?” Ruby asked in as neutral a tone as she could manage. “Because it was what your husband wanted?”

Mrs. Orson nodded.

Another thought occurred to Ruby. “Wait—is that also why Wheezy responds so well to Spencer’s command but not to anyone else’s? Because the dog was trained by your husband? Because he only recognizes a specific man’s voice?”

“Well, your veterinarian friend doesn’tsoundlike Norbert—not literally, you understand—but there’s something about him that feels familiar. His forcefulness, perhaps, or his sense of command. Is your Spencer a tall man?”

Ruby didn’t see what Spencer’s height had to do with anything, but she answered anyway. “Yes. He’s notmySpencer, though. Or a friend. He’s more of a…”

Mrs. Orson cocked her head like an expectant bird as Ruby sought the right term to describe her relationship with Spencer Wilson. He infuriated her. He goaded her. He made her want to dig her heels in and throw things at his head until he was forced to recognize her as his equal. But he also fluttered his long, dark lashes and looked at her as if he wasn’t as averse to the idea of skintight black leather as he let on.

From the way her body suddenly contracted in on itself, she wasn’t averse to that idea herself.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to focus on the more immediate problem of Mrs. Orson and her willingness to give her money to the first friendly stranger who held out a hand. “It doesn’t matter what Spencer is. He’s the man who stands between Wheezy and your husband’s final legacy, and that’s all you need to know.”

“Could he be paid off, do you think? Maybe I should offer to leavehimmy money instead.” Mrs. Orson took one look at Ruby’s face and laughed. “I’m not serious, dear. If you don’t want it, it’ll have to be the cancer kids.”

“I want the kids to have it,” Ruby replied without hesitation. With equal determination, she added, “I love a good romance. I wish you’d tell me about him.”

“Who? Norbert?” Mrs. Orson shook her head. Ruby thought she detected a note of sadness in the gesture, but the older woman pasted on a smile and refused to let it show. “Maybe another time, dear. All that’s important right now is that nothing would make me happier than to see Wheezy make his dog-show debut. And to have a nicely made bed for when I go to sleep tonight, but do what you feel is best.”

Ruby gave in and started to tug at the sheets. She wanted to know more about the person who’d once captured Mrs. Orson’s heart, but she knew better than to push.

Sometimes, when a woman didn’t want to talk about a man, it was for a good reason.

* * *

“I’ll give you twenty. No, fifty. No, ahundred.” Ruby sat across the table from Eva, doing quick mental calculations to figure out where she was going to find an extra hundred dollars lying around. She could always tell Mrs. Orson that it was a dog-show expense—which, technically, it was—but she felt bad enough about how much of the older woman’s money she’d already spent. Between the entrance fee and Caleb’s training costs, it was starting to add up.

Before Eva could respond to the offer, an earsplitting shriek rent the air, followed almost immediately by a thump and a bump. Then silence.

Eva, sublimely unfazed by either the scream or the ominous nothing that followed, grabbed the bottle of pinot grigio at her elbow and filled her glass to the top. Ruby had stopped by Eva’s house straight from making up Mrs. Orson’s bed, so it was still early, but Eva seemed to adhere to the “It’s five o’clock somewhere” rule of drinking.

“Um…” Ruby peered over her shoulder toward the next room, where they’d left Eva’s children playing a game of what looked like a mix of hide-and-seek and murder. Between the swords they’d been trying to stab each other with at the barbecue and today’s game, which seemed to involve sitting on the head of the boy nearest you, she was starting to feel seriously alarmed. “Shouldn’t we go see—?”

“No.”

“But don’t you think they might have—?”

“It’s entirely possible.”

“Then aren’t you worried—?”