Page 18 of Love Bound

“Accident,” they said.

She tripped and fell and got caught in the hose.

Allison was eight months pregnant.

Steven Miller worked our neighbor's hot tub installation site a half-mile down the road. Allison had told me about him. How his truck broke down right at our curb, how they seemed to hit it off. How he helped her with grocery bags into the house. How she fed him sandwiches and a beer on Monday. She and our son, Kenny—still curled inside his momma—were dead two weeks later.

Finn Colton, the bodyguard of celebrities, the architect of one of the safest panic rooms in North America, the guy who spent his whole life anticipating next moves, had never seen Steven Miller coming.

I couldn’t protect my own family. And then we couldn't get a case. All circumstantial.

What a shithole life.

Chapter Five

Claire

Cory was great during the three hours I had him and his transition going back home with Teresa proved smooth. He was having a good day.

I had a dewclaw on a Doberman litter, which I hate doing, snipping off the claws into a tiny, bloody pile of hard, curled C’s, and two well visits. One was for Mr. Pomfrey's purebred eight-month-old Cairn terrier, a blue-ribboned, bright-eyed eager little pup named Sheila—who Pomfrey doted on and fretted over as if she was his daughter. She was adorable. He was like the captain from The Sound of Music, all whistleblowing, clicker-obsessed, and stern-faced but with a gooey mess of love in the middle.

The second well visit was for Mrs. Kleinman's cat, a huge fifteen-pound aging orange Tabby named Orville, who, despite mats, a poor appetite, abscesses, and lost teeth, clung to life like he was on a sinking ship. She fed him mini-marshmallows.

I worked with the gelding for an hour in the afternoon, just standing with him—following close, but not too close—and having him get used to my touch, my sound, my smell. He was feeling better; I could tell because he was more skittish. When he’d arrived, he was so shell-shocked, he didn’t care enough about what I did to him. Now he’s recovered enough to feel fear. Careful not to come up in his blind spot, front-on, I always approached from the side. But every time I’d touch him, he’d sidestep away. I’m desperate to trim those hooves, knowing he’ll feel so much better once he can move naturally.

The evening sky is in red and orange ribbons behind Chevre Mountain when I decide to go out and grain him. I mix two tablespoons of lecithin and one of molasses to entice him to nibble. I'm concerned his teeth are in terrible shape, but I can’t float them safely yet if he doesn’t trust me. All I can see in the depths of the stable are the whites of his eyes and the velvet of his muzzle—a lighter shade of chocolate.

Done, I leave, still not thinking I'm ready to name him. The spats of phlegm in the straw tell me he’s still clearing his lungs. I walk along the tufts of spent sea poppies, down the little sandy trail framed by low blueberry bushes. We five would pick them with Mom for pancakes for guests. Whatever was leftover, we would eat.

Wrapping my thick white and blue Starsky sweater around me, I wander out to the sand and water. The shore is protected by the little bay, and the waves—usually non-existent—create a lyrical wash of water coming in ripples on the rocky shore. Teeter-tottering my feet out of my shit kickers, I roll up my jeans to just below the knee and step into the water. It always takes my breath away, the cold, the icy cold water, even in summer. Devon and Travis were the only two who really enjoyed swimming up at Drift-In Beach, a yawning "U" of fine sand fringed with rock, sea poppies, and evergreens a mile up from the docks. Even at low tide, they'd run screaming into the water, thigh-high, and dive head-first into the blue melted ice.

I nearly get a headache thinking about it. I hate cold water. My dream is a hot tub. Despite this aversion to the North Atlantic cold, I swim nearly every morning heavily done up in a neoprene wetsuit I've had since college. The trick is to take a hot shower first, then zip up and wait a few minutes so the water trapped inside gets to body temperature. Winter is my off-season, and it lasts a long time, but come early May, I start swimming again and can usually plunge in until October. Devon thought it was out of character for me to swim like this until she discovered I don't go out very far. If I get a cramp I can just trudge through the water back to shore. Though I started doing this in middle school, I could never get any of my siblings to join me.

We all loved swimming at the old quarry though. Filled with fresh water, with great jumping cliffs and heated by the sun, the water there was warm, clean, and sparkling. Summers were spent with part of each day carved out to go swimming at the quarry.

No sea monsters in sight.

I hear sand giving under feet and turn around. A tall guy, with dark sunglasses set on his head, is wandering down to my spot.

I turn back to view the water, surprised when he arrives just a foot from my right elbow.

"You're Claire Russo?" he asks.

What is it with these city guys and their voices?

I need to get to a city, I decide. "Yes. Do I know you?"

"No. But I know your new neighbor." He looks like an attorney—and probably is.

I feel my back stiffen and pull a strand of hair from my mouth, trapped there by the breeze. "Is he siccing you on me now?"

He pulls the sunglasses off his head and tucks them in a very nice suit pocket.

He's clearly buying time, trying to arrange his thoughts, and I change my mind. He’s not an attorney. They always have their battle diatribe locked and loaded.

"What? No. I'm just a friend, a business partner. At least I think we still are. I'm Nic," he says.

Now I turn to face him. "Well, Nic, then you know his plans for the shoreline here?"