Recap of Previous Chapter: Sookie spends a long, hard morning with E.J. and realizes how much her life has changed.

Chapter 8: Missing

"Hello, Had Peabody speaking."

"Hello, Had?"

"Yes."

"It's Sookie. Sookie Stackhouse."

After recovering from my three-hour morning mayhem with E.J., I decided I was ready to take another try at finding Eric. My next step was to call Had Peabody, the family friend who oversaw the rentals of some of the dune shacks.

"Sookie! How are you? I was just talking about you the other day. Maggie Twomey from over at Elder Services mentioned that you'd had your baby, but she didn't know what you had."

News sure does travel quickly around here doesn't it? I'd only gotten home yesterday—today was April 5—and already news of the birth had traveled via the local network from one end of the Cape to the other.

"A boy."

"A boy! Your Gran would be so proud. Oh! I didn't mean it that way! I mean, she would have been proud either way—boy or girl."

"She would have loved him to pieces." 'Proud' might not be the right word, but she would have opened her arms wide to E.J.. Suddenly, I felt very sad knowing that they'd never meet each other.

"Anyway, congratulations. That's what I really mean to say. Enjoy him now while you can, hon. It goes so fast."

Right. 'Cuz this morning went zooming by. "Thanks, Had. I sure will. He's a keeper, all right."

He chuckled. "I remember what it was like with my own kids. They get tangled in your heartstrings before you even know what's happening. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"I'm trying to get in touch with someone who rented a dune shack from you last summer. His name is Eric Northman. Tall guy. Blond hair. The one you sent to me about my house."

"I know exactly who you mean. Have you heard from him lately?"

Disappointment had already set in. "No. That's why I'm calling you. I'm trying to get in touch with him to see whether he could help with some work I'm planning to do on my home."

"He's not on my list this summer. In fact, I tried to reach him last fall, sometime before Thanksgiving, but his cell phone was no longer working, and his work just gave me a run-around. Since I didn't get a deposit from him by Jan 1, I had to move down my list."

"Oh. All right then." I didn't know what else to say.

"Listen, if you talk to him, let him know I tried to get in touch with him. I know how much he liked those shacks, but you know how it is with that waitlist."

"It's okay, Had. I know you have to play by the rules or else there'd be hell to pay."

"You have no idea. Those waitlisters are vicious even when I do play it straight. But I don't know what else to suggest for you. Maybe you could try calling other architecture firms in the area."

"Thanks, Had. I'll give that a try."

"Sorry I couldn't do more. How's Jason?"

I really needed to get off the phone. "Just fine. Thanks for asking. I'll stop by with the baby next time I come through."

"Can't wait to meet him! Take care, hon."

"You too, Had."

The phone disconnection clicked in my ear. For a moment, I felt myself sink into my own little pity party.

The thin light of the kerosene lamp was the only source of illumination in that one room. We'd opened the windows and felt the strong ocean breezes chase through the shack, but the light held true, shielded by its chimney.

There was more work to be done.

After getting E.J. settled in the sling, I started up my computer and searched first for Eric's name. The hits were scrappy at best. There was a paper he'd co-written, probably when he was in school, on historic architectural investigation. Then I found someone's web page of a house renovation. I couldn't tell the location, or whose home it was, but Eric was listed as the lead architect. No contractor was listed. I also found it strange that the date of the renovation seemed to pre-date Eric's graduation from school.

Most interesting, Eric's name was no where to be found on the Leclerq website. Not only was there was no mention of how to get in contact with him, but none of the examples of previous projects, even the old home renovations, mentioned Eric's name. It was as though someone had gone through and wiped his name completely from their website. Squeaky clean, lickety split.

So then I tried searching for a listing of architecture firms in Boston and just started calling. The results, again, were dismal. Eric seemed to be well-known as someone who specialized in old homes. Most knew of the changes at Leclerq and wondered where he'd gone. More than a few mentioned that though they had tried, they hadn't been able to get in touch with him. For a big, well-known guy, he sure had managed to pull off a disappearing act.

I was so absorbed by the search that I lost track of time and realized I was overdue to feed E.J. and that Amelia would be arriving soon. With E.J. still in the sling, I raced around as best as I could—waddled was more like it—trying to get the place straightened up to meet a potential roommate. I picked up a load of trailed laundry from the floor alone. Tripping over a bouncy seat, I wondered how all of this baby gear had wrangled so much space in our home.

As Amelia was knocking on the front door, I realized I hadn't brushed my hair or straightened up my rumpled, shapeless clothes.

"Hi, Sookie!" Amelia greeted me with her usual enthusiasm, but then stopped herself, casting a nervous look over me. "Can I help you?"

"No, I'm fine. Sorry I'm in such a state. Things won't be like this always. It's just that last night was our first night home."

"Oh! I shouldn't have come today!"

"No, no," I reassured her. "I'm glad you came. The sooner, the better."

"Look at him! So content and sweet." Ahem.

She peered over the side of the sling before turning to look out toward the water. "I had no idea you had such a view! Right on the bay. And so secluded."

"Yep. We have access to the beach down that path over there. The beach itself is technically not our property, but other than the access from my property or the two properties next to me, the only way to get to it is by boat, so no one else ever shows up. That floating dock about 50 yards out is ours to use too."

"Who are your neighbors?"

"William Compton lives on that side of us. He's very quiet. Keeps to himself usually. Spends some time out in his gardens during the summer. But he works a lot and rarely ever goes down to the beach. And on the other side, a professor from a school in Boston comes during school breaks. He'll bring family sometimes in the summer, but they stay over on their side, on the other side of those rocks."

Amelia had turned back toward the front door.

"Come on in and I'll show you around. It's nothing fancy, but I do try to keep it clean."

"Oh," Amelia breathed, "How old is this house?"

His eyes lit up as his hands ran across the rough-hewn beam, the dents of the crude tools used to shape it still embedded in the wood grain. "Sookie, this was all done by hand using hand-forged tools. Might have even come from a tree cut down right on your property."

"I don't know exactly. Pretty old."

"Sookie, it's amazing."

I stopped to appreciate her compliment. "Thanks. It's special to me too." I didn't know who I'd be without it.

I brought her into the largest room at the front of the house, the one Gran always called the parlor.

"This was originally the most important part of the house, where all of the meals were cooked right there in that fireplace."

"Just look at that huge fireplace! You could walk into it! Does it still work?" Oh, yes, quite well.

"Yep. I don't use it often because of all the trouble hauling wood. Or I'm not able to tend to it."

"Is that a separate room through that door over there?"

"I bet that door leads down into a small, sunken room?"

"Yeah. It's really creepy. Gran used to call it the hidey hole."

"They would have used that to store food through the winter."

"It's a small storage space, but I don't use it for anything but garden tools since it's unfinished."

"And look at these floor boards!"

"King's boards, so named because they were so wide, the story goes, they were reserved for the king's use.

"This would be your room over here, with a nice view of the bay. I'm sorry it doesn't have a closet, but you can use that armoire. I emptied it out."

Amelia stepped into the room and headed right toward the window. "When can I move in? Oh! I'm sorry! You haven't even offered me the room yet. I just got so excited about it."

As tired as I was, I let Amelia's energy wash over me, not even bothering to try to keep up with her emotionally. "It's yours if you want it." Whether or not she'd drive me nuts didn't even matter. I needed the money, and I knew from working with her at the diner that she was no ax murderer.

I excused myself to sit down and let her poke around the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom on her own. And then before I knew what was happening, I was holding a rent check, a nanny referral, and the phone number for her dad, who apparently was a big contractor on the Cape.

I counted it a successful afternoon. (You have to count your blessings, right?)

Before I crashed with E.J., I left two messages, one for the potential nanny, Octavia, and another for Amelia's dad.

It was the sound of L.L.'s voice that woke me up. Disoriented, I jolted up off the sofa and found myself wobbling into his arms. Immediately, I became aware of the background noise of the alarm clock.

"What?" I stammered, confused, looking up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came over to check on you and pick up some things I had left behind. I tried knocking, but you didn't answer. And I could hear your alarm clock. I was worried, and your door was unlocked, so…"

L.L.'s eyes diverted nervously from mine, looking down toward the sofa and then back to me. He gripped my elbow tighter.

"What?" I stammered again, wishing the blasted alarm clock would stop sounding. I reached back to shut it off and caught sight of the sofa, a bright red staining the cushion where I had been resting. Now fully awake, I cursed myself. I'd never be able to get that stain out. And it wasn't like new furniture would be in my future anytime soon.

"I'll call Dr. Ludwig."

"I'm okay. I just fell asleep for longer than I should have."

I threw an afghan onto the sofa and sat back down, hot tears stinging my cheeks. This little incident would probably set back my separation from L.L. by a few weeks.

"Would you mind handing E.J. to me?"

He was reaching for the baby when the phone rang.

"Just leave it," I snapped.

He stood there awkwardly as the message started. "Sookie. This is Copley Carmichael calling you back about that architect you are looking for. I don't know him, but if he specializes in antique homes, you really should call Pamela Ravenscroft…"

"Pam Ravenscroft?" L.L. spat out. "What are you doing with her?"

"Nothing! It's not your business."

E.J. started to fuss. I leaned down to shush in his ear.

"Sookie, trust me. You do not want to get involved with that woman!"

I rubbed my forehead in an attempt to gain some clarity and lucidity.

"Sookie! Do you hear me? You do not want to call that woman!" L.L.'s hands grasped my shoulders.

I was less distracted by his touch than by the insistent tone in his voice. Also, I had the nagging suspicion that I had heard that name before.

"Pam Ravenscroft." I said aloud, trying to jog my memory.

"Pam Ravenscroft," L.L. said again, "is the building commissioner for the Cape Cod Historic Preservation Society. She's known as a real hard ass. If your house gets listed in the Cape Cod historic registry, then trust me when I say that no building improvement gets past her without her explicit approval. Federal standards are nothing. You get involved with her, and your home improvement expenses will cripple you. I've seen it happen to others."

L.L.'s eyes had never looked so certain and convincing.

"So essentially she oversees any kind of building improvement or renovation for buildings that are listed as historic?"

"Yes."

And then I remembered…

Stepping out of the hidey hole, he'd said, "Looks like you might need to do some repair work to the foundation, which could be costly, and you don't want to let just anyone handle it. I know someone who can help you, though. Pam Ravenscroft. She can help you get some tax breaks and maybe even some grant money."

"Pam Ravenscroft!" Excited that I had remembered her name, I mused aloud, "Why would Eric have given me her name if she would cause me trouble?"

The words spilled out like hot coffee from a tipped mug. I wanted to pull them back before they splashed the surface of the table, before they scalded anyone, but once they flowed, they would not be contained again.

Now it was L.L. who looked puzzled. He didn't even have the tact to hide the fact that he was trying to figure out who Eric was.

"Eric?" he said aloud.

Desperate for any kind of distraction, I started babbling, "L.L., can you believe how much laundry a baby makes? I've already done a full load of blankets and towels and onesies and sleepers and…"

"Eric." He said again, simply. And then his face shifted, his features changing from a look of puzzlement to one of grim recognition. Though he said nothing else, I knew he was making some internal connection that he would not share.

"What, L.L.? What's the matter?"

"I mean it, Sookie. Stay away from her."

"You're hiding something from me! What is it?"

"Just stay away from her." He walked toward the door.

"L.L.! You can't just leave!"

For once, that's exactly what he did.

What he knew, I didn't know, but the more I thought about it, the more confused I became about what I knew about Eric.

"Have you called Pam Ravenscroft yet?"

"Who?"

"Pamela Ravenscroft. The woman who can help with historic home preservation."

"No."

Truth was, when it came to money woes, I felt like I already had a big heaping plateful of more than my share. I wasn't about to go back for more. Not when I could have a side dish of Eric to myself all summer instead. "I'll get to it in the fall."

"Don't wait too long. You know government agencies."

We were sitting sideways, facing each other, on the rattan sofa out in the screened porch area that spanned the side of my house. From his position, he could look out to the ocean, while I faced the pond.

I leaned over to kiss him. He gave me the equivalent of a peck and pulled back.

I admit I felt a little snubbed. His brooding mood was opposite my own on this early summer evening. The quiet poke of impatience needled me.

I rearranged my feet. I smoothed my ponytail. I tugged on the straps of my camisole. I fluffed a pillow. Finally, noticing his empty glass, I poured him some more wine. Red. His favorite.

His lips met the curve of his wine glass as he tilted his head back, the sound of his rippling swallow joining the other noises around us—the lapping of the waves, the crinkle of fabric beneath us, and the steady call of the frogs in the pond.

Gunk. Gunk.

I laughed. Amidst the deep mooing noises of the bullfrogs, a green frog had called out like a mistuned banjo string. "I'm glad we're not frogs."

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad we're not frogs. That's their mating call. So not sexy."

He smiled, though I got the impression it was more out of politeness than his finding humor in anything I had said. I wondered how I could break this dark, pensive mood.

I darted forward impulsively to lick his lips. "I love the taste of wine and you."

"How do I taste?"

"Hmm…I need another sample." I tasted him again. "Dark and robust and meaty."

He leaned forward, reciprocating. "That's funny. I taste lush and juicy and well-rounded."

I scooted down a little and rested my head against his arm, stretched across the back of the sofa. He leaned back again. "There are no lightning bugs here."

"What?"

"You know—fireflies."

"No. I don't think I've ever seen them."

"Do you mean you've never seem them here or you've never seen them anywhere?"

The way he said the word 'anywhere' made me feel small and inexperienced. The scope of my world had indeed been limited, a fact now painfully obvious in a discussion about insects, of all things.

"Never seen them," I admitted, feigning a flippant tone. And then I was reaching out, toward his waistband, toward the familiar softness of his favorite belt. Eric, I had come to learn, was a casual dresser, enjoying comfort over all else. It just so happened that the closest shopping district near his home was Newbury Street, so the clothes he wore with designer labels were merely a matter of convenience.

I tugged at his belt, attempting to pull him toward me, but the solid mass of him toppled me into him instead.

He laughed, the edges of his mouth broadening into that funny, unexpected smile of his, a splash of color on an otherwise dark palette. A cupcake atop crossbones. He met my lips softly and tenderly. I leaned into his hand, his thumb stroking my jawline. His touch alone would have been enough to hold me, the way he devoted his attentions to every little part of me. Where his thumb had played, his lips trailed, mingling kisses and nips with the whispered warmth of his breath. I sighed, my contentment coming from deep and low within. It was just about all I could do to keep myself from heaving my whole body against his, knowing what miracle he'd be able to work.

But once again, he pulled back, looking out into the yard. "It's funny. I never noticed they aren't here."

"What?"

"The fireflies. When I was a kid, in Pennsylvania, I used to catch them."

"I guess I don't know what I'm missing."

"Oh?" He reached over to stroke my arm, tracing wispy patterns. Leaning his head down onto the back of the sofa, next to mine, his eyes drew me into his searching, scrutinizing gaze. My breath caught as an unexpected surge of adrenaline goaded my heart.

His eyes flickered over my shoulder. "Is that your Gran?" His fingers continued stroking.

I steadied my breath, pushed composure over me, before turning to where he was looking. "Ah, mm-hmm." That was one of my favorites pictures of her. She'd skipped out on a Daughters of the American Revolution luncheon that day to throw on a pair of overalls and dig in her garden. There she was, in her full glory, dirty, sweaty, and supremely happy.

When I turned back to Eric, he'd inched closer. His mouth trailed kisses down, down my neck, down, down my chest to the lacy top of my camisole, where he pressed his cheek. My heart thundered in my chest in a way that felt abusive.

Abruptly, he pulled back, eyes widening. I wondered whether he had heard the same pounding in his ears that I heard in mine.

"You surprise me." His voice sounded throaty.

I breathed hard, my heart thrashing against its claustrophobic confines. Confused about what was provoking me so uncomfortably, I shoved aside anxiety and grabbed hold of a different kind of arousal—raw lust and desire.

Raw lust and desire would have their way, give flight.

I slid to the floor. Tugging at his other leg tucked up on the sofa, I positioned myself between his legs. My hands rubbed against his thighs, stroking upwards firmly before pushing his shirt up, feeling the tightening ripple of muscle under smooth skin. Holding his gaze, I freed him from his jeans and in one swift motion, plunged my mouth deep around him. He gasped, shifting beneath me, the hard touch of his fingers traveling restlessly as tension wound tight. And when his shudders faded, he leaned down to kiss me deeply, his mouth pressed resolutely against mine.

Parting, I smiled mischievously at him. "I don't think I missed anything."

Only now I wondered. Which pieces of the Eric Northman puzzle was I missing?

A/N Hmm...any ideas? Sit tight, folks, and enjoy the ride. There's another big E/S flashback coming up next chapter, which should post soon, if FFN cooperates.

~Thanks for reading!~

Thanks, makesmyheadspin, for beta-ing.

Disclaimer: All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris. I'm just taking them on a tour of New England.

The cupcake-atop-crossbones design belongs to Johnny Cupcakes.