Free The Murder of a Queen Bee by Meera Lester Page B

crouching and holding out his open palm for Sugar to smell.
    The dog backed up and barked nonstop.
    â€œI’m a friend, not a foe,” Clay said in a tone that clearly conveyed a calm self-confidence. But Sugar was having none of his small talk.
    â€œIt’s okay, Sugar Pie,” Abby said. She wheeled the tool cabinet aside, and Clay stood up. In one swift movement, he reached out and tenderly touched the hair at Abby’s temple, letting a finger pull forth a reddish-gold curl.
    Abby froze.
    He clasped a hand beneath her chin and tilted her face upward. “I’ve missed you, woman.” He leaned in for a kiss, but a quick maneuver enabled Abby to avert it. She turned toward the slider.
    â€œWe can’t do this, Clay,” Abby said, unable to face him. “Over a year of not hearing from you.” Her voice cracked. She busied her shaking hands with opening the blinds.
    Sugar sniffed Clay’s loafers, his socks, and pant legs before retreating backward a few steps. She gave another fierce yip , yip , yip , as if to say, “You don’t get a pass yet, mister.” After running past Clay to the bedroom, the dog quickly returned, then gave a final yip as she trotted outside.
    Abby left the slider ajar but slid the screen door shut. She watched Sugar chase a butterfly to the back fence, where the ten-foot Sally Holmes spilled over in a perfusion of blooms. A memory came flooding back to Abby of her planting the rose from canes Clay had gotten from a neighbor after she first bought the farmette. She shook off the memory and wondered how Clay had managed to get himself and the tool cabinet to her place. Maybe by taxi, since his truck wasn’t on the property? But the question remained, but how did he get in? The realization came suddenly. He must have used his old key. Abby mentally chastised herself for not changing the locks, but what was the point now? The more pressing question was, why had he come back?
    â€œI always told you one day I’d have to go, Abby. I never lied about that. But, Abby . . . Abby, turn around. Look at me.”
    He stood near enough for Abby to smell the soft notes of his Armani cologne. Like it or not, her body had longed for his presence. His hand stroked her hair, pulled the elastic band from the ponytail, letting her curls tumble loose, and then taking hold of her shoulder, he spun her around to face him. With both of his hands on her shoulders, she had nowhere to run.
    Galvanized by the intensity of his gaze, Abby struggled to quiet her heart—make it still and unfeeling.
    â€œIf I could ever promise anyone a lifetime, Abby, it would be you. You are like a root of one of your plants, deep and strong and stable.”
    Abby felt her cheeks color under his gaze and waited for the but . . . and the excuse that would surely follow.
    â€œBut my spirit is restless. It’s a curse,” he said. He released his grip on her shoulders and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Abby, you awake each day with the certain knowledge that you are exactly where you belong. But for me it’s the opposite. Four walls are thresholds I have to break through. I wish I could settle. Why do you think I choose work that takes me all over God’s creation? I keep thinking I’ll find that one place where I belong. Put down roots. But I don’t. I can’t. I guess I’m flawed that way.”
    Despite her best efforts at control, Abby’s heart hammered. “But what you did, it . . . was unthinkable. We never talked about your leaving. I thought you were happy here. And I thought you’d at least write or call or stay in touch. At least that.”
    Rubbing a palm over his cleanly shaven cheek, he spoke in a tone tinged with emotion. “I’m here now.”
    The ache in her chest moved to her throat. Abby swallowed against the lump that had formed. She pushed back. “It’s not that simple, Clay. We can’t just