It occurred to her, though, that maybe he was taken. Maybe he had a girlfriend back in Colorado, or maybe he'd just broken up with the love of his life and was still getting over it. Thinking back, she realized that even though he'd described the things he'd seen and done on his journey across the country, she still had no idea why he'd gone on the walk in the first place or why he'd decided to end his trek in Hampton. His history wasn't so much mysterious as hidden, which was strange. If she'd learned one thing about men, it was that they liked to talk about themselves: their jobs, their hobbies, past accomplishments, their motivations. Logan did none of those things. Puzzling.
She shook her head, thinking she was probably reading too much into it. It wasn't as if they'd gone out on a date, after all. It was more like a friendly get-together-tacos, chess, and conversation. A family event.
She put on pajamas and picked up a magazine from her bedside table. She absently flipped through the pages before turning out the light. But when she closed her eyes, she kept visualizing the way the corners of his mouth would turn up slightly whenever she said something he found humorous or the way his eyebrows knit together when he concentrated on a task. For a long time, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Logan was awake and thinking of her, too.
Chapter 13
Thibault
Thibault watched as Victor cast his line into the cool Minnesota water. It was a cloudless Saturday morning. The air was still, the lake mirroring the pristine skies. They had set out on the lake early, wanting to fish before it became crowded with Jet Skis and speedboats. It was their last day of vacation; tomorrow, both were scheduled to fly out. For their final evening, they planned to eat at a local steak house they'd heard was the best in town.
"I think you'll be able to find this woman," Victor announced without preamble. Thibault was reeling in his own line. "Who?"
"The woman in the photo who brings you luck." Thibault squinted at his friend. "What are you talking about?"
"When you look for her. I think you'll be able to find her." Thibault inspected his hook carefully and cast again. "I'm not going to look for her."
"So you say now. But you will."
Thibault shook his head. "No, I won't. And even if I wanted too, there's no way I could."
"you'll find a way." Victor sounded smug in his certainty.
Thibault stared at his friend. "Why are we even talking about this?"
"Because," Victor pronounced, "it's not over yet."
"Believe me, it's over."
"I know you think so. But it isn't."
Thibault had learned long ago that once Victor started on a topic, he would continue to expound on it until he was satisfied he'd made his point. Because it wasn't the way Thibault wanted to spend their last day, he figured he might as well get it over with once and for all.
"Okay," he said, sighing. "Why isn't it over?"
Victor shrugged. "Because there is no balance."
"No balance," Thibault repeated, his tone flat.
"Yes," Victor said. "Exactly. You see?"
"No."
Victor groaned at Thibault's denseness. "Say someone comes to put a roof on your house. The man works hard, and at the end, he is paid. Only then is it over. But in this case, with the photograph, it is as if the roof has been put on, but the owner has not paid. Until payment is made, everything is out of balance."
"Are you saying that I owe this woman something?" Thibault's voice was skeptical.
"Yes. The photo kept you safe and brought you luck. But until payment is made, it is not over."
Thibault reached for a soda in the cooler. He handed one to Victor. "You do realize you sound insane."
Victor accepted the can with a nod. "To some, maybe. But eventually, you will look for her. There is a greater purpose to all this. It is your destiny."
"My destiny."
"Yes."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. But you will know it when you get there." Thibault stayed quiet, wishing Victor had never brought up the subject. In the silence, Victor studied his friend. "Maybe," he speculated, "you're meant to be together."
"I'm not in love with her, Victor."
"No?"
"No," he said.
"And yet," Victor observed, "you think about her often." to this, Thibault said nothing, for there was nothing he could say.
On Saturday morning, Thibault arrived early and went straight to work at the kennels, feeding, cleaning, and training as usual. While he worked, Ben played with Zeus until Elizabeth called him inside to get ready to go. She waved from her spot on the porch, but even from a distance, he could see she was distracted.
She had gone back inside by the time he took the dogs out; he usually walked them in groups of three, with Zeus trailing behind him. Away from the house, he would let the dogs off the leash, but they tended to follow behind him no matter what direction he headed. He liked to vary the route he took; the variety kept the dogs from wandering too far away. Like people, dogs got bored if they did the same thing every day. Usually, the walks lasted about thirty minutes per group. After the third group, he noticed that Elizabeth's car was gone, and he assumed she'd gone to drop Ben off at his father's.
He didn't like Ben's father, mostly because Ben and Elizabeth didn't. The guy sounded like a piece of work, but it wasn't his place to do much more than listen when she talked about him. He didn't bow enough to offer any advice, and even if he did, she wasn't asking for any. In any event, it wasn't his business.
But what was his business, then? Why was he here? Despite himself, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Victor, and he knew he was here because of what Victor had said to him that morning at the lake. And, of course, because of what happened later.
He forced the memory away. He wasn't going to go there. Not again.
Calling to the dogs, Thibault turned and made for the kennels. After putting the dogs away, he went to explore the storage shed, When he turned on die light in the shed, he stared at the walls and shelves in amazement. Elizabeth's grandfather didn't have just a few tools-the place resembled a cluttered hardware store. He wandered inside, scanning the racks and sorting through the Snap-on tool cabinets and piles of items on the workbench. He eventually picked out a socket wrench set, a couple of adjustable and Allen wrenches, and a jack and carried them out to the truck. As Elizabeth had promised, the keys were under the mat. Thibault drove down the driveway, heading for the auto supply store he vaguely remembered seeing near downtown.
The parts were in stock-replacement pads, C-clamp, and some high-temp grease-and he was back at the house in less than half an hour. He put the jack in place and raised the car, then removed the first wheel. He retracted the piston with the C-clamp, removed the old pad, checked the rotors for damage, and reinstalled a new pad before replacing the wheel and repeating the process with the other wheels.
He was finishing the third brake pad when he heard Elizabeth pull up, rolling to a stop next to the old truck. He glanced over his shoulder just as she got out, realizing she'd been gone for hours.
"How's it going?" she asked.
"Just about done."
"Really?" She sounded amazed.
"It's just brake pads. It's not a big deal."
"I'm sure that's the same thing a surgeon would say. It's just an appendix."
"You want to learn?" Thibault asked, staring up at her figure silhouetted against the sky.
"How long does it take?"
"Not long." He shrugged. "Ten minutes?"
"Really?" she repeated. "Okay. Just let me get the groceries inside."
"Need help?"
"No, it's just a couple of bags."
He slipped the third wheel back on and finished tightening the lug nuts before moving to the final wheel. He loosened the nuts just as Elizabeth reached his side. When she squatted beside him, he could smell a hint of the coconut lotion she'd applied earlier that morning.
"First, you take the wheel off…he began, and methodically walked her through the process, making sure she understood each step. When he lowered the jack and started to collect the tools, she shook her head.
"That seemed almost too easy. I think even I could do it."
"Probably."
"Then why do they charge so much?"
"I don't know."
"I'm in the wrong line of work," she said, rising and gathering her hair into a loose ponytail. "But thank you for taking care of it. I've wanted those fixed for a while now."
"No problem."
"Are you hungry? I picked up some fresh turkey for sandwiches. And some pickles."
"That sounds delicious," he said.
They had lunch on the back porch, overlooking the garden. Elizabeth still seemed distracted, but they chatted a little about what it was like to grow up in a small southern town, where everyone knew everything about everybody else. Some of the stories were amusing, but Thibault admitted that he preferred a more anonymous existence. "Why am I not surprised?" she asked.
Afterward, Thibault went back to work while Elizabeth spent the afternoon cleaning the house. Unlike her grandfather, Thibault was able to pry open the office window that had been painted shut, though it turned out to be more difficult than fixing the brakes. Nor was it easy to open or close afterward, no matter how much sanding he did to smooth it. Then, he painted the trim.
After that, it was a normal workday. By the time he finished up his duties at the kennel, it was coming up on five, and though he could have easily left for the day, he didn't. Instead, he began work on the files again, wanting to get a head start on what he knew would be a long day tomorrow. He settled in for the next couple of hours, making what he thought was headway-who could tell, though?-and didn't hear Elizabeth approach. Instead, he noticed Zeus get to his feet and start toward the door.
"I'm surprised you're still here," she said from the doorway. "I saw the light on and thought you'd forgotten to turn it off."
"I wouldn't forget."
She pointed to the stacks of files on the desk. "I can't tell you how glad I am that you're doing that. Nana tried to talk me into organizing the files this summer, but I was extremely adept at put' ting her off."
"Lucky me," he drawled.
"No, lucky me. I almost feel guilty about it."
"I'd almost believe you, except for that smirk. Have you heard from Ben or Nana?"
"Both," she said. "Nana's great, Ben is miserable. Not that he said as much. I could hear it in his voice."
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it.
She offered a tense shrug before reaching for the door handle. She rotated it in both directions, seemingly interested in the mechanism. Finally, she let out a sigh. "Do you want to help me make some ice cream?"
"Excuse me?" He set down the file he'd been labeling.
"I love homemade ice cream. There's nothing better when it's hot, but it's no fun to make if you can't share it with someone."
"I don't know if I've ever had homemade ice cream…"
"Then you don't know what you're missing. You in?"
Her childlike enthusiasm was contagious. "Yeah, okay," he agreed. "That sounds fun."
"Let me run to the store and get what we need. I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Wouldn't it be easier just to buy some ice cream?"
Her eyes shone with delight. "But it's not the same. You'll see. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"
She was as good as her word. Thibault just had time to straighten up the desk and check on the dogs one last time before he heard her coming up the drive on her way back from the store. He met her as she was getting out of the car.
"Would you mind bringing in the bag of crushed ice?" she asked. "It's in the backseat."
He followed her into the kitchen with the bag of ice, and she motioned to the freezer as she set a quart of half-and-half on the counter.
"Can you get the ice-cream maker? It's in the pantry. Top shelf on the left."
Thibault emerged from the pantry with a crank-handled icecream maker that looked to be at least fifty years old. "Is this the one?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Does it still work?" he wondered aloud.
"Perfectly. Amazing, isn't it? Nana got that as a gift for her wedding, but we still use it all the time. It makes delicious ice cream."
He brought it over to the counter and stood beside her. "What can I do?"
"If you agree to crank, I'll do the mixing."
"Fair enough," he said.
She dug out an electric mixer and a bowl, along with a measuring cup. From the spice cabinet, she chose sugar, flour, and vanilla extract. She added three cups of sugar and a cup of flour to the bowl and mixed it by hand, then put the bowl on the mixer. Next, she beat in three eggs, all the half-and-half, and three teaspoons of vanilla extract before turning on the mixer. Finally, she splashed in a bit of milk and poured the entire mixture into the cream can, put the can in the ice-cream maker, and surrounded it with crushed ice and rock salt.
"We're ready," she announced, handing it to him. She picked up the rest of the ice and the rock salt. "To the porch we go. You have to make it on the porch, or it isn't the same."
"Ah,"h e said.
She took a seat beside him on the porch steps, sitting fraction' ally closer than she had the day before. Wedging the can between his feet, Thibault began to rotate the crank, surprised at how easily it turned.
"Thanks for doing this," she said. "I really need the ice cream. It's been one of those days."
"Yeah?"
She turned toward him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You're very good at that."
"What?"
"Saying, 'Yeah?' when someone makes a comment. It's just enough to make someone keep talking without being too personal or prying."