Joe kept the headlights on while he rummaged around a rocking chair on the porch and pulled a key from under the left back rocker. He opened the screen door, then unlocked the oak one behind it.
A musty smell fluttered out. “The place could do with an airing,” he said, stepping inside and flipping on the light. “But it’s clean. Hank’s father hires a local lady to come in, change the sheets, and dust every month.”
“Even when no one comes here?”
“Yeah.”
What a luxury to be so rich, I thought, following him in. The inside was neat as a pin, but just as worn as the outside—two cracked, worn leather chairs and a plaid, saggy sofa sat against unfinished wood walls. The kitchen opened directly off the living room. Corkboard covered one wall and was covered with clippings of faded, yellowed newspaper. I leaned in and looked at the date on one. “This is from 1902!”
Joe nodded. “Hank said this place belonged to his great-granddad, and he used to come here as a kid. They added an indoorbathroom a few years ago.” He gestured toward the back. “It’s in the back, by the bedroom.”
I froze. “Thebedroom?”
“Yeah.”
“I—I thought you said there were two bedrooms.”
“I said you’d have your own bedroom,” he replied. “I’ll sleep on the sofa out here.” He carried my bag into the room, which featured a rustic metal bed meticulously made up with an old, faded quilt.
He set down my suitcases and grinned at me as I stood frozen in the doorway. Tension stretched between us. He patted the mattress. “Come try it out.”
“I wonder if I can trust you,” I said, only half jesting.
“Are you really worried?”
“A little, now that I know how easily lies roll off your tongue.” I tentatively sat on the edge of the bed.
“At the funeral?” He plopped down beside me and leaned back against the wall, his arms behind his head. “Those weren’t lies. That was fiction.”
I shot him an arch look. “What’s the difference?”
“The reason behind it. A lie is when you’re telling an untruth for your own benefit. When you’re doing it for the good of someone else, it’s just a story.”
“That’s a very questionable line of reasoning, because any untruth—even about terrible things, like murder—can help someone.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, a murderer is protecting his parents when he says he didn’t do it, because they’re bound to grieve having reared such an awful son.”
“It’s always wrong to cover up a crime.”
“Every crime? Because it’s probably a crime to take a civilian up in a government plane.”
He grinned. “As I recall, I didn’t tell any untruths about that. Besides, no one was hurt. I like to think I helped make a dream come true.” He looked at me, and our gazes locked. His voicelowered to a goose-bump-making rumble. “I’d like to make all your dreams come true, Addie.”
From another man, it would have seemed like nothing but a line—a prelude to seduction. The way he looked at me, though—that all-the-way-through-to-my-soul, I-really-see-you-and-I-think-you’re-wonderful look he gave me—lifted it to a different level. So did what he did next.
He rose to his feet and headed to the door. “It’s late. You should go to bed. Fishing is a crack-of-dawn activity.”
“We’re really going to fish?”
“Sure. We want to eat, don’t we?”
He pulled the door closed.
I raced across the room and yanked it open. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”
“No.” His eyes seemed somehow backlit, deep and multifaceted.
