The Sign of Seven Trilogy by Nora Roberts Page B

“Which also means you probably don’t have any fake sugar. Those little pink, blue, or yellow packets?”
    â€œFresh out. I could offer you actual milk and actual sugar.”
    â€œYou could.” And hadn’t she eaten an apple like a good girl? “And I could accept. Let me ask you something else, just to satisfy my curiosity. Is your house always so clean and tidy, or did you do all this just for me?”
    He got out the milk. “ Tidy ’s a girlie word. I prefer the term organized . I like organization. Besides.” He offered her a spoon for the sugar bowl. “My mother could—and does—drop by unexpectedly. If my house wasn’t clean, she’d ground me.”
    â€œIf I don’t call my mother once a week, she assumes I’ve been hacked to death by an ax murderer.” Quinn held herself to one scant spoon of sugar. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Those long and elastic family ties.”
    â€œI like them. Why don’t we go sit in the living room by the fire?”
    â€œPerfect. So, how long have you lived here? In this particular house,” she added as they carried their mugs out of the kitchen.
    â€œA couple of years.”
    â€œNot much for neighbors?”
    â€œNeighbors are fine, and I spend a lot of time in town. I like the quiet now and then.”
    â€œPeople do. I do myself, now and again.” She took one of the living room chairs, settled back. “I guess I’m surprised other people haven’t had the same idea as you, and plugged in a few more houses around here.”
    â€œThere was talk of it a couple of times. Never panned out.”
    He’s being cagey, Quinn decided. “Because?”
    â€œDidn’t turn out to be financially attractive, I guess.”
    â€œYet here you are.”
    â€œMy grandfather owned the property, some acres of Hawkins Wood. He left it to me.”
    â€œSo you had this house built.”
    â€œMore or less. I’d liked the spot.” Private when he needed to be private. Close to the woods where everything had changed. “I know some people in the trade, and we put the house up. How’s the coffee?”
    â€œIt’s terrific. You cook, too?”
    â€œCoffee’s my specialty. I read your books.”
    â€œHow were they?”
    â€œI liked them. You probably know you wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
    â€œWhich would’ve made it a lot tougher to write the book I want to write. You’re a Hawkins, a descendent of the founder of the settlement that became the village that became the town. And one of the main players in the more recent unexplained incidents related to the town. I’ve done a lot of research on the history, the lore, the legends, and the various explanations,” she said, and reached in the bag that served as her purse and her briefcase. Taking out a minirecorder, she switched it on, set it on the table between them.
    Her smile was full of energy and interest when she set her notebook on her lap, flipped pages to a clear one. “So, tell me, Cal, about what happened the week of July seventh, nineteen eighty-seven, ninety-four, and two thousand one.”
    The tape recorder made him…itchy. “Dive right in, don’t you?”
    â€œI love knowing things. July seventh is your birthday. It’s also the birthday of Fox O’Dell and Gage Turner—born the same year as you, who grew up in Hawkins Hollow with you. I read articles that reported you, O’Dell, and Turner were responsible for alerting the fire department on July eleventh, nineteen eighty-seven, when the elementary school was set on fire, and also responsible for saving the life of one Marian Lister who was inside the school at the time.”
    She continued to look straight into his eyes as she spoke. He found it interesting she didn’t need to refer to notes, and that she didn’t appear to need the little breaks from