Free To the Grave by Carlene Thompson Page B

wife.”
    â€œAm I interrupting a beautiful moment?”
    Lawrence and Patrice turned. Lawrence’s son, Ian, lounged in the doorway, surveying them with the large, thickly lashed blue-gray eyes that had inspired the rapt fascination of many teenage girls and earned him the nickname Dreamy Eyes, which he hated.
    â€œYou’re interrupting a small display of affection. Get used to it,” Lawrence answered good-naturedly. He glanced at his watch. “You’re late for Sunday brunch.”
    â€œI forgot to turn on the alarm clock.”
    â€œâ€˜Forgot to turn on the alarm clock,’” Lawrence repeated. “I remember using that line during my wild youth. Can’t you come up with a better excuse for being late and looking a little ragged?”
    â€œMaybe I had too much to drink last night. Anyway, I had to stop for gas at the convenience store and ran into Robbie Landers.”
    â€œ Deputy Roberta Landers?” Patrice asked. “You know her?”
    â€œYes. We started talking and more time got away from me. Sorry.”
    â€œI’m sure she’s just an acquaintance.” Lawrence had turned a question into a statement. “And I’m not angry that you’re late. There’s not a thing wrong with a good-looking young guy sowing his wild oats on a Saturday night, although I don’t want you to make a habit of it. You have responsibilities now that you’re an important part of Blakethorne Charter.”
    â€œI won’t.” Ian glanced at the dining table covered with a light green linen cloth. “It seems late in the year to be eating in the sunroom.”
    Patrice nodded. “Well, it’s like any other room; it’s air-conditioned and heated. I know it’s chilly outside, but the weather is so lovely. I thought I should take advantage of all these windows. I told your father I hope it stays nice through next weekend for the wedding.”
    â€œI’m sure it will,” Ian said absently. He sauntered into the room and gazed out one of the windows overlooking the sun-drenched patio. As always, Patrice noticed the handsome twenty-two-year-old’s resemblance to his mother. At six foot one, he had his father’s height but Abigail’s honey brown hair, fair skin, straight nose, dimples, and remarkable eyes. “At least the hedges won’t have to be trimmed again this year, Dad.”
    â€œThank God,” Lawrence said. “The sound of three or four of those electric hedge trimmers roaring along at the same time drives me wild.”
    â€œGet rid of them.”
    â€œI thought you loved them,” Lawrence said in surprise, but Ian merely shrugged. “Maybe it was only your mother who loved what she called her ‘magic hideaway.’”
    As usual, whenever Lawrence spoke of Abigail his voice turned slightly caustic. He’d never forgiven his wife for putting their ten-year-old son in the car and driving over the speed limit during a wild spring storm after she’d taken a mixture of tranquilizers and alcohol. The resulting wreck had killed her instantly. Ian, who’d nearly died as well, had spent a week in a coma and the next several months in rehab recovering from two broken legs, a broken arm, a broken collarbone, and a severe head injury. All the while, his remaining family had waited in agony until the neurologists felt safe in pronouncing that his head trauma had not resulted in permanent brain damage.
    Lawrence brushed a hand through the air as if whisking away a pesky memory. “Noisy hedge trimmers or not, though, I intend to cut down on the hours I spend at my office after next weekend.” He winked at Patrice.
    Ian grinned. “Now you have a good reason not to spend more time here. You’ll have a new bride.” He looked at Patrice. “Mom.”
    â€œOh, please, Ian, you’ve called me Patrice since you were three. Let’s keep it that