He heard the hoot of an owl in the distance. It sounded mournful and lonely.
There was no indication of anyone or anything that might have caused such a horrible sound, and if the writer was there and hadn’t been awakened, Oscar could only conclude he must have been dreaming.
Maybe it had been the sound of his soul grieving over Marcie—distant, disconnected, disengaged.
Though he finally convinced himself that the unearthly shriek had been a product of his dreams (or nightmares, depending on how you looked at it), Oscar found himself unable to fall back asleep easily. At last, just after dawn, he dragged himself from the surprisingly comfortable bed and got to work.
Thus, he’d specificallynotmentioned the horrifying scream he’d heard last night. And since Teddy Mack hadn’t said anything about it—and she didn’t seem the type to hold back on mentioninganything—he was relieved he’d not brought it up himself. It had either been a dream or some wild animal in heat.
Now, once more left alone to his devices with Teddy off talking to her agent, Oscar was determined to lose himself in his work. With a glance at the clock—it was just pushing nine; soearly—he turned his attention back to the distraction of work.
He had to focus on something, or he’d be pulling out his phone and manufacturing a reason to text his sister. Dina (short for Engadine) was one of Marcie’s best friends—and, unfortunately, had been before Oscar even met her, and somehow continued to be a BFF. Dina was far too sharp to be fooled by any bland excuse her brother might use to “just say hi” to see how things were going.
But, foolish or not, he figured it wasn’t over until the fat lady sang—and that aria wouldn’t happen until the rings were exchanged at the altar, and the bride and groom were announced as the new Mr. and Mrs. Trevor Baker. That gave Oscar ten whole days for something to go wrong and the wedding to get called off.
Which was pathetic.
Which was why he absolutely wouldn’t be texting Dina for any reason.
If he happened to be scrolling through Facebook over the weekend and saw her page instead, well, that would be an accident. But he wasn’t certain whether he’d want to actually see if there were pictures of the bachelorette party—or not.
In deference to his unwanted housemate—who was likely going to be tied up doing her own work now, if her expression of fear had been any indication—Oscar dug out his earbuds and shuffled a playlist of The Cure, The Sex Pistols, and The Kinks as he navigated carefully through the process of preparing, recording, and examining the samples. It was a form of mindfulness—something Marcie had talked a lot about after she came home from her yoga classes. He blocked everything out except his work—the routine and the shift from sample to plate to microscope to computer and around and around became a soothing rhythm—and even the pounding music became a mere backdrop to the process.
He didn’t expect to find anything earth-shattering—not like the Japanese team that had recently discovered a bacterium thateats plastic—despite the fact that his natural hot tub was a unique area to explore. Maybe he’d find an unusual alga or make some interesting observations about a hot spring seeded from a Great Lake. Still. It was a plausible way to spend the month, working on a project just for fun.
When his playlist turned up “Lovesong” (which he’d forgotten was on there and, of course, reminded him of Marcie), Oscar was jolted out of his lab-brain mellow and came up for air. He was shocked to discover it was well past noon.
And he hadn’t seen nor heard from the writer since she disappeared to take her phone call.
Good.The less he saw of her, the less likely he’d be tempted to mention last night’s disruption.
But after he’d had lunch (tuna salad on wheat, an apple, and some fresh tomatoes), and went back to work for several more hours, Oscar began to feel a little…well,concernedwas the word, when he realized he hadn’t seen nor heard from Teddy since before nine o’clock. And it was nearly five.
The woman had to eat, didn’t she? And he knew she hadn’t had anything for breakfast or lunch, because he’d have seen her.
Not that it was his concern.
She was probably pounding away on her keyboard like a good writer on deadline and, like Oscar, had lost track of time.
Still.
He forced himself back to his project, making notes and fussing with the lab work, checking his email and studiously avoiding Facebook and his cell phone for potential texts, until he realized the sunlight had shifted and he would need to turn on some lamps if he wanted to keep working.
Blinking owlishly, he looked at the clock and realized it was nearly seven thirty.
A quick glance toward the kitchen told him it was undisturbed from when he’d been in there making lunch a while ago. The door to the lighthouse was still closed and he was certain he’d have noticed it open, even if he was blasting “God Save the Queen” while engrossed in the microscope.
A niggling sensation prickled at him, and Oscar removed his gloves, followed by his lab coat.
I should probably just check on her—maybe see if she wants to share dinner.
He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them while considering the best approach—after all, if she was in the throes of her novel, like she should be, she might not want to be bothered. Really, he shouldn’t be looking such a gift horse in the mouth.
Hadn’t he wanted to be left alone?
He dried his hands, re-tucked his shirt neatly, and squared his shoulders.
Then, certain he would live to regret it, Oscar knocked on the connecting door.
