“I figured you hadn’t eaten, and you must be hungry,” he said.
She gave a little laugh—throaty and sexy—and said, “Not that I’m about to waste away anytime soon.” She gestured at her curves with a shrug. “I do love to eat.”
Oscar ignored the little sizzle of awareness from her laugh and focused on his meal instead of on her curves. As soon as he was finished, he could hightail it back to work. Now that he knew she was alive and fed and no longer so angst-ridden.
But Teddy Mack had other plans. She started talking.
“It’s just so peaceful here,” she said, looking out over the vast array of blues shimmering on the Great Lake. “I’m sure it’s different when there’s a storm—I can imagine what it’s like when a nasty one rolls in over the lake. Lightning bolts shooting from a heavy gray sky—slamming into the churning water. Loud rolls of thunder…pounding waves surging onto the shore.
“There’ve been quite a few shipwrecks in the Great Lakes, and the coastline of Michigan is longer than any other state—hence the reason it has more lighthouses than any other state. Did you know that?”
“Actually, I did. I think it was mentioned in the rental brochure,” Oscar replied.
* * *
Teddy studied him. He seemed as if he was ready to bolt from his chair at any moment. Probably to return to his lab work, strewn all over the living room. Easy for him to pick up and get back to work at any time—he didn’t have to figure out plots or characters or stop all the time to do research or check obscure facts, to measure his words and tweak them, to think about pacing and foreshadowing and clues and—
“Too bad they don’t use this lighthouse anymore,” she said, fully aware that she was making conversation in a desperate attempt to keep from being left alone—or to work. Oscar had folded his napkin and laid the flatware over his salad bowl, giving the appearance he was preparing to stand up and go inside. “It would be interesting to see how it works. I wonder why they don’t use it anymore.”
He shrugged. “Who knows.”
“It could have something to do with the guy who jumped off—or fell—a few years back. Probably why no one wanted to stay here for so long.”
“A guy jumped off the top of the lighthouse?” Oscar squinted up at the tall column.
“Or was pushed.”
“Or was pushed? What makes you think that?” He frowned at her.
Teddy laughed. “Only my writer’s imagination. The official word is that the guy jumped, but I’m a suspicious sort—and I write action and crime novels—so, I’m going to suspect the worst. Murder and mayhem whenever possible—that’s my motto.”
He mumbled something unintelligible. Teddy suspected she didn’t want to know what it was, for he was looking at her with a wary expression. “I’m sure there was a complete investigation by the authorities,” he said mildly. But he adjusted his gaze to look up at the top of the lighthouse.
“Let’s go up there and see what it’s like,” Teddy said, standing up quickly.
“To jump off?”
He caught her by surprise, and she gave a hearty laugh. “You know what I meant.”
He dragged himself to his feet much more slowly than she did. “All right.”
His easy agreement, though not particularly enthusiastic, surprised her. She thought she’d have to wheedle him into coming with her. Sure, she could have gone alone, but it was more fun with someone else. Besides, if she was alone, she’d probably start to think about how she should be working instead of exploring.
“So have you really been working on Chapter fracking Ten for two months?” he asked as they brought their dishes into the kitchen. Without discussion, they each tackled different tasks for the cleanup.
“At least,” Teddy replied, surprised that he’d asked. A twinge of guilt and nervousness pinged in her belly, but she pushed it away. After all, shehadworked all day.
Except when she was pacing around her room, napping, or swearing at the white screen of the laptop. Or napping. Or typingthis sucks this sucks this sucksjust to make sure her keyboard still worked.
“How long does it usually take to write a chapter?”
“It depends on the chapter. The first nine chapters went pretty well. But this one…” She sighed. Being a scientist was so much easier than being a creative person. Everything was so cut and dried, so objective, so organized. You drew the sample, you put in on a slide, you looked at it under a microscope, you made notes, andvoila!the project was done.
“Where—uh—is it in the book?” he asked, handing her a dripping plate to dry. “The end?”
“Oh, I wish,” she said, giving a pained laugh. “The ending chapters are usually the easiest. This one’s about halfway through—what we writers call the sagging middle.” She’d noticed that for being a nerdy scientist, Oscar had nothing even remotely like a sagging middle. In fact, his button-down shirt (why was he wearing something so formal, anyway?) seemed to fit loosely around his midriff—in other words, no bulge—but was snug over square shoulders and rounded biceps.
“How many chapters are there usually in a book?” he asked.
