going all the way around the lake into town."
"Thanks."'
Relieved, grateful, Recce continued to put one foot in front of the other in the direction or Angel's Fist.
To keep centered, she ran through recipes in her head, visualizing herself measuring, preparing.
"Sounds pretty good." Brody commented, and jerked her out of the visual.
"What?"
"Whatever you're making in there." He tapped a hnger to his temple, "Grilled shrimp?"
No point, she decided, absolutely no point in being embarrassed. She was way beyond that. "Brined grilled shrimp. I didn't know I was talking to myself." She kept her gaze straight ahead. "It's a problem I have."
"I don't see a problem, except now I in hungry, and shrimp's not in big supply around here."
"I just need to think about something else. About anything else. I just need—oh boy, oh crap." Her chest went tight and her breath short, The anxiety attack simply whiped out a hand to squeeze her throat. As her head went light with it, she bent from the waist, gasping. '"Can't breathe. Can't."
"Yes. you can You are. But if you keep breathing like that you're going to hyperventilate and pass out on me. No way I'm carrying you back, so cut it out." His tone was flat and matter-of-tact as he hauled her up straight. Their eyes locked. "Cut it out."
"Okay." There were gold rims around his pupils, around the outer verge of his irises. It must be what made his eyes so intense.
"Finish cooking the shrimp."
"The what?"
"Finish cooking the shrimp."
"Ah, um. Add half the garlic oil to the bowl of grilled shrimp, toss. Transfer to a platter, garnish with lemon wedges and divided bay leaves, and serve with grilled ciabatta bread and the rest of the garlic oil."
"If I get my hands on some shrimp, you can pay me back for this and make me a plate of that."
"Sure."
"What the hell is ciabatta bread'"
She couldn't have said why that made her laugh, but her head cleared while they walked. "Also called Italian slipper bread. It's good. You'll like it."
"Probably. You planning on fancying up Joanie's?"
"No. It's not my place."
"Did you have one? Your own place? Restaurant? The way you handle the kitchen, it's obvious you've handled one before," he added when she said nothing.
"I worked in one. I never had my own. I never wanted my own."
"Because? Isn't that the American dream? Having your own?"
"Cooking's art. Owning the place adds business. I just wanted to…" She'd nearly said create, but decided it sounded too pompous. "To cook."
"Wanted?"
"Want. Maybe. I don't know what I want." But she did. and as they walked through the cool forest, she decided just to say it. "I want to be normal again, to stop being afraid. I want to be who I was two years ago, and I never will be. So I'm trying to find out who I'm going to be for the rest of my lite."
"The rest is a long time. Maybe you should figure out who you're going to be for the next couple weeks."
She glanced up at him, then away. "I might have to start with the next couple of hours."
He only shrugged as he dug for his cell phone. The woman was a bundie of mystery wrapped in nerves. It might be interesting to peel off some of the layers and get to the center of it. He didn't think she was as fragile as she believed herself to be. A lot of people wouldn't have managed the long hike back without breaking down after seeing what she'd seen.
"Should get a signal from here," he said and punched in some numbers. "It's Brody. I need the sheriff. No. Now."
She wouldn't have argued with him, Reece decided. There was steely authority in his tone simply because it held no urgency or desperation. She wondered if she'd ever regain even a portion of that kind of control and confidence.
"Rick, I'm with Reece Gilmore, just about a quarter mile from my place on Little Angel Trail. I need you to meet us at my cabin. Yeah, there's trouble. She witnessed a murder. That's what I said. She can fill you in on that. We're nearly there."
He closed the phone, shoved
"Thanks."'
Relieved, grateful, Recce continued to put one foot in front of the other in the direction or Angel's Fist.
To keep centered, she ran through recipes in her head, visualizing herself measuring, preparing.
"Sounds pretty good." Brody commented, and jerked her out of the visual.
"What?"
"Whatever you're making in there." He tapped a hnger to his temple, "Grilled shrimp?"
No point, she decided, absolutely no point in being embarrassed. She was way beyond that. "Brined grilled shrimp. I didn't know I was talking to myself." She kept her gaze straight ahead. "It's a problem I have."
"I don't see a problem, except now I in hungry, and shrimp's not in big supply around here."
"I just need to think about something else. About anything else. I just need—oh boy, oh crap." Her chest went tight and her breath short, The anxiety attack simply whiped out a hand to squeeze her throat. As her head went light with it, she bent from the waist, gasping. '"Can't breathe. Can't."
"Yes. you can You are. But if you keep breathing like that you're going to hyperventilate and pass out on me. No way I'm carrying you back, so cut it out." His tone was flat and matter-of-tact as he hauled her up straight. Their eyes locked. "Cut it out."
"Okay." There were gold rims around his pupils, around the outer verge of his irises. It must be what made his eyes so intense.
"Finish cooking the shrimp."
"The what?"
"Finish cooking the shrimp."
"Ah, um. Add half the garlic oil to the bowl of grilled shrimp, toss. Transfer to a platter, garnish with lemon wedges and divided bay leaves, and serve with grilled ciabatta bread and the rest of the garlic oil."
"If I get my hands on some shrimp, you can pay me back for this and make me a plate of that."
"Sure."
"What the hell is ciabatta bread'"
She couldn't have said why that made her laugh, but her head cleared while they walked. "Also called Italian slipper bread. It's good. You'll like it."
"Probably. You planning on fancying up Joanie's?"
"No. It's not my place."
"Did you have one? Your own place? Restaurant? The way you handle the kitchen, it's obvious you've handled one before," he added when she said nothing.
"I worked in one. I never had my own. I never wanted my own."
"Because? Isn't that the American dream? Having your own?"
"Cooking's art. Owning the place adds business. I just wanted to…" She'd nearly said create, but decided it sounded too pompous. "To cook."
"Wanted?"
"Want. Maybe. I don't know what I want." But she did. and as they walked through the cool forest, she decided just to say it. "I want to be normal again, to stop being afraid. I want to be who I was two years ago, and I never will be. So I'm trying to find out who I'm going to be for the rest of my lite."
"The rest is a long time. Maybe you should figure out who you're going to be for the next couple weeks."
She glanced up at him, then away. "I might have to start with the next couple of hours."
He only shrugged as he dug for his cell phone. The woman was a bundie of mystery wrapped in nerves. It might be interesting to peel off some of the layers and get to the center of it. He didn't think she was as fragile as she believed herself to be. A lot of people wouldn't have managed the long hike back without breaking down after seeing what she'd seen.
"Should get a signal from here," he said and punched in some numbers. "It's Brody. I need the sheriff. No. Now."
She wouldn't have argued with him, Reece decided. There was steely authority in his tone simply because it held no urgency or desperation. She wondered if she'd ever regain even a portion of that kind of control and confidence.
"Rick, I'm with Reece Gilmore, just about a quarter mile from my place on Little Angel Trail. I need you to meet us at my cabin. Yeah, there's trouble. She witnessed a murder. That's what I said. She can fill you in on that. We're nearly there."
He closed the phone, shoved
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