“Yes, Andy?”
He held out his hand. “Dar sent me after you. You forgot your keys behind the bar.”
Cassidy reached for the key chain. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Are you going to the Trading Post? Dar asked me to pick up some things; I’ll walk with you.”
Cassidy glanced back toward the door of The Northern. Quick work, Dar; Mac to herself and an empty bar. Deciding she didn’t care what either of those two did, she answered, “Yeah.” Her cell phone had been next to her keys under the bar. Well, she wasn’t going after it for anything, not now.
Falling into place next to Andy, she requested casually, “Could you drop my cell phone at the Trading Post when you get off work? I left it inside, too.”
Andy paused. “Oh, I can go get it.”
“No, drop it there later. I don’t need it. It’ll be nice to have forced peace and quiet.” It was a lie, but she needed very badly to stay unaware of what was happening in The Northern.
Chapter eleven
Cassidy
GAME ON
Cassidyopenedhereyesto a bright day, as though the last four of being mired in depression hadn’t happened. She’d returned from her shift at the bar and slipped. Toward the beginning of her fall, she’d heard Mac tapping on her patio door, informing her he was returning her cell phone. If her eyes had been lasers, he would be a pile of cinders through the closed blinds and glass.
Coming out of a depressed funk was so disheartening and disappointing it almost sent her right back in. It had been her pattern for too many months, for more than a year: wake, relieved to be lighter, ashamed to have been non-functioning, embarrassed to face the outside world because of it, and slip right back into a depressed state.
This time, though, she’d managed to take care of Fred. Feed him, at least; he had his doggie door. Her phone had lit up like the Fourth of July after she’d retrieved it from the porch. She hadn’t looked at the messages yet.
The most distressing part was how fast she’d tumbled. A trigger followed by the fugue; this time a stupid, stupid, insignificant one. How many times had she and Mac sparred over Fred’s affections? It had been annoying, but it hadn’t meant anything—not enough to send her into a spiral…
It hadn’t been Mac who started this. It had been hearing the words,Elijah’s not here.She knew that, of course, but it was the first time those words had been said to her in public. That’s just how her depression worked.
Kicking off the mounds of blankets, she sat up. She had a post-depression hangover—feeling the effects of too much sleep and too little movement, a little disorientated because she wasn’t sure what day it was, and she smelled. Days with seeing to the barest of needs did that to a person. Her home was warm, and she was sure it stank, too. She was wearing a pair of pink cotton bikini panties and a cotton cami—her go-to for nightwear—but she’d been wearing them for days.
Fred was happy to see her move. Good old Fred, putting up with every insane thing she did with unwavering love and enthusiasm.
Her brain started clicking off everything she needed to do, the amends she needed to start making; her behavior will have disappointed people. And that’s what made it so easy to crawl back under the covers. Because avoiding her actions was easier than dealing with them.
Pushing a hand through her hair, she stood, catching her balance. Fred panted and pranced, energized; he could tell she was alert. “Slow down, buddy; I’m still rejoining the living.”
She moved through the motions of turning on the kettle for coffee, opening the blinds, and then the windows to let air flow through the house. She breathed deeply, letting the cool breeze drive away the stench of defeat. She opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the porch with Fred as he bounded out into the yard.
The soggy yard.
Frowning, Cassidy struggled to bring forth her memories. Yes, maybe she remembered hearing thunder? She wasn’t sure when. Her eyes swung in horror toward the lake—if it had stormed—had she secured the lines? She and Elijah had been religious about placingThe Caseliin the boathouse when there was a storm.
Her boat wasn’t there.
Panic seized her; had the storm been so bad the lines had ripped from the cleats? Had it rocked and rolled enough that it came loose? Had she not paid enough attention and not done a good enough job, so the storm ripped her boat away? Had she forgotten the anchor?
Not caring or realizing she was practically naked, she started running. Fred loped beside her, panting happily. Cassidy’s concern—her heart-stopping fear—was that she’d lost Elijah’s boat, the last place she’d had him, the last place they’d been a family, the last place she’d had both him and Blake.
She slipped on the cold mud as she descended the hill, letting out a startled, short shriek as she went down, landing hard on her ass. Fred was immediately in her face, licking and snorting, attempting to provide encouragement and comfort. Pushing him away with muddied hands, she turned her head. “Fred, stop.” But she used his solid body to regain her feet.
Wiping the mud from her hands onto her thighs, she kept going. She needed a shower anyway, so what was a layer of mud on her ass going to hurt? She had bigger things to worry about. The boat’s monumental loss wasn’t something she could think about, so she tried to recall their insurance agent’s name, the paperwork she would have to complete: concentrating on the practical instead of the emotional. Randomly, she was thankful it hadn’t snowed, but her boat was gone anyway, so did it matter if a storm or snow sunk it?
That’s when she heard a familiar lapping sound from the boathouse. She paused. Tears blinded her. She tried not to be excited. She tried to prepare herself for the worst—an empty boathouse. Changing direction, she took the path to the left of the dock, stepping up onto the planks and opening the door.
A hand flew to her mouth as she stared in atThe Caseli, bouncing gently against the bumpers. She approached the boat as she would an apparition, expecting it to disappear, sureshehadn’t done this; it was all she could do to remember to feed Fred.