Page 57 of Passion at the Lake

“No,” I said in my most stern voice.

She let go and looked up at me.

“No, bad dog.”

The mutt merely cocked her head. As far as she was concerned, me paying attention to her was a win. Izzy reminded me of Boone. Left to their own devices, both tended toward mischief and both wanted to annoy me.

After ushering the three pooches back inside, I split the chicken pieces between them based on size. When I finally dug into the pasta, it tasted as good as it smelled.

After I finished, I took the plate and walked around the front of the house to check the driveway. Boone’s car still wasn’t here, so I ventured inside.

“He hasn’t come back yet?” I asked Marge when I found her in the kitchen.

“He’s been and gone,” she answered as I handed off my dirty dish. “He scarfed down his food faster than a starving wolf.”

I nodded.

“He had an appointment to get to,” she continued.

Who called a date an appointment?

She picked up a phone off the counter. “Would you be a dear and take this over to Boone at Mrs. Clausen’s?”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Stacy Clausen. Her husband, Carter, is deployed with the National Guard, and Boone is over there.” She had to be kidding me. Boone had a date with a married woman? One whose husband was away?

I recognized the phone as Boone’s. “I’d rather not.”

“Please? I don’t drive well in the dark.”

Maybe Marge was as crazy as he was. Boone dating a married woman bothered her less than driving in the dark.

“I’m not sure interrupting him is a good idea.” Once again my mouth had gotten into gear ahead of my brain. At least I’d put it diplomatically.

“Nonsense,” she said. “He’s just a man doing what men feel compelled to do, but he forgot to take this along.”

Compelled to do?What kind of family made these excuses for the menfolk?

“I’m really tired,” I said.

“Please? For me? I can’t drive in the dark or I’d go.”

I accepted the phone. “I’m only doing this for you.”

“And don’t forget your promise to tell me what’s going on between you two.”

“I haven’t.”

“The Clausen place is Thirty-eight Hummingbird Lane,” she added.

As I headed for the door, she called after me, “And tell him he needs to call Gary.”

I waved. “Right. Gary.”

As my phone navigated me there, I came up with a plan. Drop the phone at the door, knock, and run away as fast as I could.

I couldn’t bear having to look at the woman if she opened the door, much less Boone.

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