Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 by Susan Wiggs Page B

Scottish cashmere of his sweater. “I’m scared,” she whispered, thinking about what awaited her in Avalon—the failed marriage to Greg and her inadequate mothering.
    â€œI don’t blame you, Petal.” He stroked her hair in a soothing gesture. “I’d be scared of a small town in America, too. I keep thinking about plaid hunting jackets and open-bed lorries on gigantic tires.”
    She pulled back, gently slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
    But it might be, she conceded. She was no expert, having always lived in big, bustling cities—Seattle, Boston, Tokyo, New York, The Hague. She had no idea how she would manage in a town like Avalon. But she had to get back to her family. She felt a keen sense of mission about it, the way she used to feel about an important case. She needed to reclaim the things she had lost to her career. She needed to find a new direction for her life.
    â€œI haven’t said anything to them yet. Just that I’m fine and I’ll be coming home. They don’t know I’m staying.”
    â€œYou are mad. Certifiable.” Tariq started to pitch in, folding trousers and stacking them precisely in the oversize Louis Vuitton bag.
    â€œIf I tell them I’m moving to Avalon, they’ll think something’s wrong.”
    â€œSomething is wrong. You’ve lost your mind.”
    â€œNo, listen, I do have a plan. Some friends of mine from New York—the Wilsons—have a lake house they only use in the summer. They’ve offered it to me for the entire winter. So I have a place to live.”
    â€œIn Mayberry.”
    â€œAvalon, but that’s the idea.”
    â€œAnd do…what, exactly? You need to reconnect with your kids. I get that. Is that a full-time occupation?”
    She zipped her jewelry into a side pocket of her case. The small pouch of tasteful baubles made her remember the conversation with Brooks Fordham that night about her refusal to own anything produced by exploitation of labor. “I don’t know,” she said to Tariq. “I’ve never done it before.”
    â€œAnd why would you even want this?” he asked her without a hint of irony.
    â€œBecause I’ve never had it,” she replied. “Because being part of a community has never happened to me and I think it’s about time. Because underneath this legal robot you see, I have a heart.”
    She and Tariq went to the tiny nook of the main room, which served as her study. This, too, was devoid of personal items except her laptop and a corkboard to which she’d pinned a few items. “My rogues’ gallery,” she told Tariq. “And it’s all yours now.”
    The faces of the warlords had been her motivation for the past two years. The plan was to prosecute each one in turn at the International Criminal Court. The people on her corkboard represented the very worst of humankind—men who practiced child conscription, sexual torture, slavery. She took down each picture in turn, making a small ceremony of handing them to Tariq.
    â€œThat’s it, then,” she said, slipping the laptop into its case. “You’re going to do great things.”
    â€œAnd you’re walking away from doing great things.”
    She shook her head. “I walked away from my marriage and family. I can’t ever go back to the marriage, but my family still needs me.” She thought they did, anyway. She hoped. They had certainly taught themselves to get along without her. Maybe the truth was that she needed them.
    â€œI’ve never seen you run away from anything,” Tariq said. “This isn’t like you.”
    â€œOh, it’s exactly like me. When it comes to my professional life, to cases involving genocidal murderers, you’re absolutely right. I’ve been like a dog with a bone since I was in high school. But in my personal life, I’ve done