Angels Fall

wouldn't let it go, wouldn't crack and turn it loose.
    Still, there was a way to fix it all. There was always a way to put things right. There was too much at stake to allow some refugee from a padded room to ruin things for him. If he had to turn the pressure up, he'd turn it up.
    Look at this place, he thought, drinking in the river, the hills, the trees. All so perfect, so pristine and private. It was his place, all he wanted.
    Everything he had was bound to it, rooted in its soul, fed by its waters, guarded by its mountains. Whatever needed to be done to protect and preserve what he had. he'd do. It was Reece Gilmore who would have to go. One way or the other.

HOME
    I was well; I would be better; I am here.
    ——ANONYMOUS

    Chapter 21

    SINCE SHE DIDN'T have to be at work until two, Reece considered just putzmg around Brody's cabin, doing some light housekeeping, maybe some laundry. She could easily keep out of his way while he wrote, and put together tomorrow's soup of the day for Joanie.
    She was already dressed and making the bed when he got out of the shower. "Anything special you want for breakfast? I don't have to be in until this afternoon, so your wish can be my command. Gas-tronomically."
    "No. I'm just going to have some cereal."
    "Oh. All right." She smoothed the spread and thought idly that a few throw pillows in primary colors would liven it up. "I'm going to put together some Italian wedding soup for Joanie. You can have some at lunch, see if it passes the test. I can make a casserole or something easy to heat up for your supper since I'm working the dinner shift. Oh, and I thought I might toss in some laundry while I'm at it. Is there anything you want washed?"
    Wedding  soup? Was that some subliminal message? And now she was what, going to wash his shorts?
    Christ.
    "Let's just back up."
    She gave him a puzzled smile. "Okay."
    "I don't need you to start planning breakfast, lunch, dinner or a damn midnight snack every damn morning."
    The smile dropped into a blink of surprise. "Well…"
    "And you're not here to do laundry and make beds and casseroles."
    "No." she said slowly, "but since I am here, I'd like to be useful."
    "I don't want you fussing around the place." There it was again, that same defensive tone he'd heard in his voice at the doc's the day before. It irritated him. "I can handle my own chores. I've been handling them for years.
    "I'm sure you have, and exactly as you please. Obviously I've misunderstood something. I thought you wanted me to cook."
    "That's different."
    "Different than, say, tossing our laundry in together. That being somehow symbolic of a level of relationship you don't want. That's completely stupid."
    Maybe. "I don't need you to do the laundry or leave me a damn casserole or any of this stuff. You're not my mother."
    "Absolutely not." She stepped back to the bed, yanked the spread down, tugged out the sheets. "There, all better."

    "Now who's stupid?"
    "Oh, trust me, you still win the prize. Do you really think because I'm in love with you I'm trying to trap you into something by washing your damn dirty socks and making chicken and dumplings? You're an idiot, Brody, and you think entirely too much of your own worth. I'll just leave you to bask in the delusion of your own reflected glory."
    She strode toward the doorway. "Not your mother, my ass! She doesn't even  cook  !" He frowned at the bed, rubbed irritably at the tension lodged in the base of his neck. "Sure, that went well," he muttered. And winced as the door downstairs slammed hard enough to rattle his teeth. Reece grabbed only what was closest at hand, then shoved it into her car. She'd worry about the rest of her things—not that there was much— later.
    Shed get the ingredients she needed for the soup from Joanie's and from her own pantry. She'd get some change and haul her laundry—and  only  her laundry—to the crappy machines in the hotel's basement. It wasn't as if she hadn't done it before.
    Or maybe she'd just say screw it all and take a drive, see if the flats were blooming. She aimed the car toward town, frowning at the way it handled "What now, what now?" she muttered as the steering dragged. She gave the wheel one bad-tempered smack. Then, resigned, she detoured to Lynt's.
    The garage doors were up with an aging compact up on the lift. Lynt came out from under it, a rangy forty in a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose tough sinews. There was an oil-stained rag