Stranger on the Shore - lanyon Josh - Страница 19
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Griff pulled on a clean pair of socks, a dry pair of jeans and a warm navy fleece sweatshirt. He finger-combed his hair out of his eyes and headed downstairs again.
Pierce was drinking tea at the kitchen table and eating toast. He had removed his trench coat, suit jacket and muddy shoes. He looked impossibly poised for a man in socks and shirtsleeves. Studying Griff with open and not unfriendly appraisal, he said, “Feeling better?”
“Oh heck yeah. I’m fine. I was just cold.” Griff studied the freshly poured cup of tea sitting in front of the empty place at the table. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Drink your tea.”
It wasn’t worth arguing about, especially since a hot cup of anything sounded pretty good at the moment. Griff sat down, took a mouthful of tea, and choked. He reached hastily for the linen placemat.
“Er, that’s not a napkin,” Pierce said. “Not that I’m criticizing your table manners. Maybe in Wisconsin—”
Griff grimaced, putting down the tea and the placemat. “How much sugar did you put in there?”
Pierce looked momentarily self-conscious. “Sugar is supposed to be good for shock.”
“I’m not sure diabetic coma is an improvement.”
Pierce’s mouth twisted into something that was too close to a smirk. “Maybe I overdid it.”
“Maybe?” There had probably been half a cup of sugar in there. But somehow Griff was having to struggle not to smile back. “You really are kind of a jerk, Mather.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Pierce admitted, clearly untroubled by the fact.
“That I don’t doubt.”
Pierce’s dark, amused gaze met Griff’s, held, and Griff experienced an odd moment of recognition.
The next moment Pierce looked away, and he was sure he was wrong. Pierce’s expression was almost uncomfortable. Nah. No way.
But for a split second it had crossed Griff’s mind that Pierce might be gay.
Griff rose, dumped the tea down the sink and poured another cup, adding milk and a much more modest amount of sugar. “What did you want to tell me?” he asked over his shoulder.
Pierce didn’t answer. Griff turned.
Pierce’s gaze met his and flicked away again. He said, “I’ll talk to Jarrett about getting the bridge repaired as soon as possible.”
This was clearly not what he had originally intended to say. Griff eyed him and then nodded. “Thanks. Why did you follow me down to the cottage?”
“Hmm? Oh. I don’t remember,” Pierce said, and that too was obviously not the truth.
“Okay. If you say so.”
Pierce drummed his fingers on the tabletop in a quick, impatient tattoo, as though he was trying to come to a decision. “How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
“Twenty-seven. Why?”
The black, disapproving bar of Pierce’s eyebrows relaxed. The line of his mouth curved into a grim smile. “You look younger.”
Griff sighed. “I’m nearly thirty. Look, I can’t help looking younger than I am. Lots of people of all ages write books. I know how to do my job. I’m good at my job.”
“But this isn’t your job,” Pierce reminded him. “You’re a reporter. You’ve never written a book before.”
True. Pierce had tapped into the wellspring of Griff’s insecurity without even trying.
“I haven’t, but everybody who ever wrote a book had to go through writing their first one.”
“True. But you can maybe see why I’m not in a hurry to have the Arlingtons’ tragedy be your trial run.”
“All I can tell you is I’ll do my best. It’s every bit as important to me to get this right as it is to you.”
Pierce said slowly, “But you see, that’s where we differ. You ‘getting it right’ isn’t my first concern.”
“What is your—Oh. I get it. Protecting the interests of your clients.”
“Yes. Absolutely. The Arlingtons are my clients and my friends.”
“Do you think the Arlingtons have something to hide?”
“Everybody has something to hide,” Pierce said.
Once again Griff seemed unable to look away from Pierce’s brooding gaze. “What are you hiding?”
Pierce smiled faintly, as though this was a predictable response. He rose and put his cup and plate in the sink. As he walked out of the kitchen, he said, “More to the point, what are you hiding, Griffin N. Hadley?”
* * *
The antique wall phone connecting the guest cottage to the main house rang a couple of hours after Pierce left the cottage. The crisp jingle of the brass bell startled Griff, who had been working at his laptop, transcribing what he could remember of his now sodden notes.
He picked up the bell-shaped handset and spoke cautiously into the mouthpiece.
“Hello?”
“Griffin, my dear boy. Pierce told us at dinner what happened. I don’t know what to say.” Jarrett’s tinny voice sounded sincerely distressed.
“It’s okay,” Griff said. “I just got wet.”
“I had no idea the bridge was in such bad repair. Thank God it didn’t happen when you were walking back after dark.”
In the dark, Griff would have been more disoriented and would have had more trouble climbing out. For that matter, had Pierce not been there today, he’d have had more trouble getting out. Not so much trouble he’d have drowned, but the whole experience would have been a lot more disagreeable.
Griff missed the next thing Jarrett said, tuning back in to hear, “Pierce said you lost your camera. He said all your notes were ruined.”
“It’s all right. I think I remember which albums had the photos I need.”
“That’s something, I suppose. I’ll replace your camera of course.”
“I don’t see why you should.” In fact, the idea of Jarrett replacing his camera made him uncomfortable. If there was one thing his mother had drilled into him it was to be beholden to no one. He could not afford to owe the Arlingtons anything. He had to stay objective.
“Newland will be down there first thing in the morning to inspect the bridge and make sure the rest of the structure is sound. Pierce said he believed it was safe enough if you stayed well to the side when you cross, but if you’re not comfortable with that idea, there’s a longer way around. We could get a golf cart. We should have one anyway.”
“No, really. That’s fine,” Griff said. “I like to walk. I can use the bridge.”
“I feel criminally negligent in not having made sure the structure was properly maintained. It’s been decades since anyone inspected it. Or the other one either.”
Griff smiled grimly, thinking that Pierce would probably have a stroke at the casual use of “criminally negligent.” He had probably instructed Jarrett not to call Griff at all. The fact that Jarrett had phoned and did seem genuinely concerned warmed Griff to him.
“Stuff happens. It’s okay. Really.”
Jarrett fussed on for a few more minutes, and Griff tried to reassure him, and then finally, with one last apology, Jarrett disconnected.
Griff slowly replaced the handset. Stuff did happen. All the time. But Jarrett seemed so shocked. It started Griff wondering. Maybe he was paranoid. Probably. But just because you were paranoid...
Retrieving his mini flashlight, he put on his coat, and went outside. The night air was cold and clean. It was far too dark to see more than a few feet ahead of himself, but he could just make out the glimmering, ghostly ribs of the bridge. The stream chuckled over the rocks as it poured into the pool below, the only sound in the night. Once again Griff was reminded of how very much alone he was out here behind the fortress walls of trees and hedges.
He started cautiously across the bridge, the beam of flashlight darting ahead of him like a moth. The acoustics of the water rushing below the gap in the planks warned him ahead of the small light that he was getting close to the danger point.
One step and then another. The boards beneath his feet creaked ominously. Griff stopped, knelt, and gingerly stretched his full length. He peered down over the ragged gap. The shiny darkness of water swirled away underneath the bridge. The dank, chill smell of the stream floated up like a cold breath against his face.
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