Identity by Nora Roberts

Author:Nora Roberts
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter Seventeen

He had Sunday off, and Miles intended to do little to nothing with it. No pressing work, no meetings—even family—no crises, small or large, on the horizon.

A handful of household chores, sure, but he could enjoy them when he didn’t need to squeeze them in.

He did his version of sleeping in, so rolled out of bed before nine, let the dog out. Then, because he’d had the foresight to install a coffee station in his closet, he enjoyed his first Sunday morning cup on the bedroom terrace.

As usual Howl patrolled the perimeter of the backyard, defending against any possible invaders. Sometimes he wondered what went on in the dog’s mind, and usually decided not a whole lot.

Trooping down to the basement and his home gym, he put in a solid hour, felt righteous.

He grabbed a shower, a long one. Sunday morning indulgence. After tossing a load of laundry in, he fed the dog, scrambled some eggs, toasted a bagel. With a second cup of coffee, he sat out on the back patio and read the paper on his tablet while enjoying breakfast in the summer sunshine.

And because of the sunshine, he hung the laundry out to dry.

He put fresh sheets on the bed, hung fresh towels in the bath, dealt with the dishes, and considered his indoor tasks complete.

Because the day called for it, he puttered around the gardens. They didn’t require more than the puttering, as the grounds crew from the resort would tend to them if and when he didn’t have time.

Still, he knew how to tend, as part of his training had been a summer working with the grounds crew.

Howl lay on the grass in the sun and watched.

He worked in the quiet because he prized the quiet when he could get it. Just the chirp of birds—which reminded him to fill the feeders—the occasional mutter from the dog, the hum of bees doing their work.

Deliberately, as he did every full Sunday off, he’d left his phone inside on the charger. If something vital cropped up, someone would come get him. Otherwise, he was, for one day, incommunicado.

As an experiment, he dug out a tennis ball, showed it to Howl. Then tossed it. And, as always, Howl sat, watched the ball fly, land, then looked at Miles as if to say: What? Go get it yourself.

“What kind of dog are you?”

Howl’s grumbles and mutters equaled a canine shrug.

Miles got the ball himself, stuck it back in the garden shed.

By two, laundry dry, folded, put away, sun tea chilling, all chores stood complete. Now the day stretched ahead, tempted him to check his phone. He wouldn’t, a matter of discipline, but it tempted him.

He could sit on the front porch and read a book. He could put on his boots and go for a hike. He’d have to take the dog because it seemed wrong not to.

A hike, then the book made sense, but if he reversed it, he could swing into town, pick up something for dinner, spare himself the cooking.

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