“Those women were desperate.” Sarah shuddered at the memory of her own desperation when Paul turned up at her door. No way was she prepared to cope with that again. “I was just someone who’d been in their shoes. I’m no counselor.”
Sophie nudged into the group and handed Sarah the drink she’d left on the table. “We can find counselors, but according to Julie, you’re a helluva manager, and that’s what we need.”
“You’re in on this, too?” Sarah accepted the beverage and gave Sophie a brief smile.
“Yep,” Sophie raised her glass in a toast. “Libby, too. She’s already got some summer fundraisers planned over at the winery, and I have a feeling this is going to become Henry Dugan’s new favorite charity.”
Julie placed a bolstering arm around Sarah. “We aren’t talking about a hundred beds. The place will hold up to five or six families or maybe a dozen single women at most, and no one would be staying longer than a couple of weeks.” Her tone lowered to a more persuasive timbre. “You know, a stop to get them fed and clothed and provide new IDs before we send them off to wherever they want to settle. A safe house. That’s all. I’m gonna do this no matter what, but we need you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Before everything went down with your bastard ex, I’d been intending to ask you to consider coming up here. He just moved things along.”
Sarah trembled, her mind awash with scenarios, both good and bad. However, she had to confess she was ready for something more to do. She’d been thinking more along the lines of maybe learning to knit. That yarn shop in the village was pretty interesting and she remembered watching her grandmother knit. It seemed like a soothing activity. But starting a new shelter for women who’d experienced the very thing she was hiding from here intrigued her exactly as her friends knew it would.
If she got involved, there was a better-than-good chance Paul would find her. Hell, she hadn’t a single doubt that he’d turn up in Willow Bay at some point anyway. That was inevitable. Paul Prescott didn’t lose—ever. Hiding here wouldn’t deter him forever.
But for now, in this moment, she was breathing, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, anticipation, not dread, stirred inside her. When she gazed across the peaceful water of Lake Michigan, that cold brick of fear almost, but not quite, began to thaw.
She caught her lower lip with her teeth. “Five hundred grand is a good start, but it’s not even close to what we’ll need to open.”
EIGHT
Raucous chatter and laughter met Tony as he came down the stairs from the bridge. “I’m looking for that sous-chef who claims to make a mean pico de gallo,” he called as he approached the group who, it appeared, had just refilled their margarita glasses from an icy pitcher set between them.
Sarah sat with her back to the wall at the big teak table, which didn’t surprise him in the least. She may have relaxed some as they’d been out on the water; however, he noticed her constant vigilance, always checking the area, going on hyper alert if another boat came within a few hundred yards of the Allegro.
“I can do that if you show me—” Carrie’s offer was interrupted by an elbow to the ribs from Sophie. “What?”
“I think he’s looking for Sarah,” Sophie stage-whispered, then looked at him with pleased approval while Julie raised her brows.
“Well, that was subtle.” Sarah slipped out of her chair, drink in hand. “As a matter of fact, he is looking for me. Ready for KP, Captain.” She turned those Caribbean blue eyes on Tony and his knees went weak.
“Oh. Oh. Okay.” Carrie’s face beamed with comprehension, and he realized a little come-to-Jesus talk with the Posse was going to be necessary in the very near future. He certainly didn’t need these three tag-teaming her about him. He wanted to get to know her better, but this was his ballgame and he sure didn’t want this well-meaning bunch scaring the crap out of her before he even got up to bat.
“Who’s got the con?” Sophie asked as Henry and Will sauntered around the corner, Will carrying a tray laden with bags of tortilla chips and jars of salsa. “Ah, okay, so Liam’s on the bridge.”
He nodded, basking in the warmth of good friends, a beautiful boat, and a Lake Michigan sunset. It was good to be captain; he couldn’t deny how much he loved his life—especially today. He glanced around, his focus settling on the tiny redhead who’d come around the table to stand beside him, and he fought an urge to yank the clip out of that mass of thick hair so he could watch the waves spill over her shoulders.
In one smooth move, Henry passed behind them, handed Sarah a new drink, and collected her used glass. “A virgin marg for the lady rocking my wife’s Stanford sweatshirt,” he said with a grin. “Looks good on you. We’ll bring you back one of your own next time we go west.”
“Thanks, Henry, I’d love that!” Her smile lit up the deck and Tony’s heart lurched.
A little worried that his infatuation was showing, he gave Will and Henry the evil eye. “Good God, men, don’t you have any couth at all? You could’ve at least stuck a spoon in each jar and brought out some plates.”
“Hey, Martha Stewart, we used a tray.” Will held the snacks out. “What more do you want?”
“How about baskets for the chips? Napkins? Oh hell, give me that.” He took the tray and with a head tilt toward Sarah headed for the galley. “We’ll be back in few minutes.”
Hoots of laughter followed them down the gangway and the impish grin she tossed over her shoulder sent a twinge of longing through him. It’d been a long time since a woman had intrigued him like Sarah. He eyed her cute little backside as she shouldered the galley door open and he wondered how any man could ever want to harm her. Fury replaced desire for a moment when she turned those amazing eyes on him and asked how she could help.
What kind of monster wallops the crap out of a woman? Who does that? What kind of sick son of a bitch tears into a person half his size and intimidates and abuses her for years on end? And why, dear God, does she stay and take it? He had so many questions he wanted to ask her, but they weren’t there yet.
Julie hadn’t given him any details about what happened to Sarah. However, he’d learned about domestic violence in the criminal justice and psychology classes he’d taken at Western after Sheriff Earl Gibson deputized him. He’d even been called to a couple of domestic disturbances right here in Willow Bay since becoming a deputy. Bucolic as it seemed to tourists, the village had all the drama of any other town, only on a much smaller scale.
Last week, after coaxing a bit more information out of Julie one evening, he’d used the computer at work to check out the case file on her ex-husband, Paul Prescott. He’d found more details than he’d ever wanted to know. Crime scene photographs of her teenaged daughter taken after she’d been run over and dragged down the driveway made his gorge rise. The autopsy report showed that, mercifully, she’d died on impact.
His heart ached at the pictures of Sarah in the file—the bastard had broken her nose that last round, yanked out a handful of that beautiful red hair, and blackened one eye. Her face was so cut and swollen he’d barely recognized her. She had four broken ribs and was a mass of bruises on her back and thighs. According to the report, she spent more than a week in the hospital before she could even bury her child. Most infuriating was the mug shot of Prescott, who looked as if he was posing for an ad in GQ—not a hair out of place and wearing an arrogant smirk that made Tony want to punch the computer screen. He’d killed his daughter and beaten the living crap out of his wife. The man was a monster.
“Where are they?” Sarah’s question brought his focus back to the galley.
“Where are what?” He blinked and realized he was just standing there holding the tray.
“The baskets.” She peered at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He set the tray on the island and gave her a warm smile. “Sorry, senior moment.”
She laughed, a rich delicious sound that filled the galley, and once again, he was overtaken with the urge to wr
ap her in his arms and keep her safe so that laugh would never disappear again.
What the hell was going on? He hadn’t been this distracted by a female since he’d gotten hit in the head with a basketball while drooling at Mary Jane McDonald in her cheerleader outfit.
“Senior moment?” she scoffed. “You hardly qualify, my friend.”
“I’m fifty-two. Hell, woman, I’m a grandfather, remember?” He pulled three large wicker baskets from a cupboard under the island and pointed to a drawer behind her. “Napkins for lining the baskets in that drawer.”
“As I said, you hardly qualify.” She shook out three red-and-white-checked cloth napkins and tucked them into the baskets while he ripped open the bags of chips. “I can’t believe you’re a grandfather.”
“I am.” He nodded toward the bulletin board beside the door. “To that little heartbreaker right there in the pink overalls.”
She wandered over to examine a photo posted among the detritus of fire exit instructions, carryout menus, and recipes. She stood for a long moment, running her fingers over the matte surface of the picture. “How gorgeous,” she whispered and swallowed visibly.
“Thanks.” Although he was longing to ask about her daughter, this wasn’t the time, so he redirected her attention to the food. “Okay, so yellow corn tortilla chips in this one for Henry and Julie and me”—he filled one basket—“and white in this one for Will, Liam, and Carrie because they’re not crazy about the yellow.” He poured thinner white corn chips into another basket. “Potato chips in this last one because Sophie doesn’t like tortilla chips at all— she’s always the odd man out on Mexican night.”
“You really do take care of them like you were their daddy, don’t you?” Sarah’s face brightened—clearly, she was grateful for a chance to change the subject.
Tony shrugged. “It’s my job. Besides, when you’ve been together as long as we have, you kinda learn what people prefer.”
“You guys are all so close—it’s nice.” Wistfulness edged her tone.
“We’ve been friends a long time and it’s a small town.” He stuck the baskets of tortilla chips in the microwave and gave them forty-five seconds each. “But we’re always open to new friends. Love ’em in fact.” He handed her some small bowls. “Here, dump the salsas in these, and the French onion dip for Soph goes in the clear glass dish. Believe it or not, Carrie bought colored spoons for the salsas so she could tell which was hot, medium, and mild. She hates anything too spicy.”
“Oh, this is too cute. Red for hot”—Sarah put the spoon in the hot sauce—“yellow for medium and green for mild.” She placed the other spoons appropriately. “And is that sugar? What’s that for?”
“The sweetness makes the mild sauce even milder.” He’d crowded a sugar bowl onto the tray with the other dishes and added small paper plates and napkins. “Carrie’s hard over about not wanting food to burn her mouth.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Personally, I like a little heat.”
He almost dropped the baskets of warm chips as he watched her dip her finger in the hottest sauce and suck it off. Unquestionably, it was the sexiest thing he’d seen in ages simply because the gesture was so innocent. Sarah wasn’t flirting with him; she had only relaxed enough to be herself. He handed her the baskets. “So do I.” Anticipating the great view, he picked up the tray and, with a nod, indicated for her to lead the way.
* * * *
Sarah blinked back tears as she diced a sweet onion into tiny pieces and dumped them into a bowl. No matter how sweet the onion was, it always made her cry. She swiped the back of her gloved hand across her cheek as the tears spilled over.
“Here, try this.” He set a lighted votive candle on the counter next to her cutting board. Gloved himself, he was seeding and chopping jalapeño peppers. “I saw Alton Brown do this. Claims the smoke from the candle draws away the odor of the onion.”
They were back in the kitchen preparing the taco bar after delivering the snacks to the main deck and hanging out with the group for a while. Sarah had ignored the knowing glances from Carrie, Julie, and Sophie as she nabbed a plate of hot salsa and some chips. No question those three were matchmaking, even though they had to know this wasn’t the appropriate time in her already-confused life for that.
“The gloves are genius.” She sniffed, grabbed a paper towel, and blew her nose. Very elegant, but what else could she do? “Where did you learn about that?”
“Life lesson, actually.” He grinned as he added his peppers to her bowl of onions. “Is that enough or do you want more?”
“That looks like plenty, thanks.”
He moved to the sink to rinse the roma tomatoes he’d produced from a bowl on the counter when they got back to the kitchen, no, galley, after they’d delivered snacks to the main deck.
She was still working on the lingo, determined to get the terms right. For some odd reason, she felt Tony would be pleased, although why she cared about that was a mystery. She’d decided long ago that she would never again try to please another man. Maybe please was the wrong word. Perhaps the boat was simply a place to connect with him, and she was shocked down to her socks at how badly she wanted to connect with this man on any level. But she did.
“I got the box of gloves after I damn near blinded myself rubbing my eye when I’d seeded hot peppers once.” He grimaced as he told the story. “I washed my hands; I guess the essence stays, because I didn’t think I’d ever open my eyes again. I saw a chef in Puerto Vallarta using them after I’d figured it out, so not original thinking, just a good idea. How many tomatoes?”
“Why don’t we chop all of them? Then we’ll have them for the taco bar, too.” She reached into the colander the same time he did. When their hands bumped, her stomach fluttered in a way so unfamiliar she stopped mid-grasp and almost dropped the tomato. She recovered quickly enough, although heat flushed her cheeks. “The gloves are great, but they do make things slippery.” A pretty good save considering her knees were shaking under the giant apron he’d given her earlier.
Well, crap.
Was she really becoming smitten, as her Southern belle grandmother used to say? This was so not the time for her to get all dewy-eyed over the local deputy sheriff—she had way too much emotional baggage to add anything else right now. She was fairly sure Dr. Benton would agree. The pull was there, though, and she wasn’t sure what made Tony Reynard different from any of the other men she’d met since leaving Atlanta. He was handsome, but so were plenty of other guys. Although he was twice her size, his warm brown eyes and ever-present easygoing smile kept him from seeming intimidating. She stole quick peeks at him as they chopped tomatoes in peaceful, companionable silence.
And there was the real rub—the reason she was so attracted. He was obviously a serene soul. With a few notable exceptions like Will Brody and Liam Reilly, Sarah had grown so accustomed to men simmering with rage that she’d come to expect all men to be like her ex-husband. Most didn’t disappoint her as they came storming into the shelter looking for errant wives or girlfriends. Not all were openly violent; some seemed perfectly harmless, charming even. Those were the ones you truly wanted to watch. Turned out that the more charismatic a guy was, the more dangerous he could become.
For all his size—and Tony Reynard was a very big man indeed—he was also obviously a gentle man. And a gentleman in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Sarah could let her guard down a bit with him—not completely, perhaps never completely, but for now, they could be friends.
Friends would be nice.
NINE
The house needed work, no question about that. Sarah shook her head as she stood with Julie in front of the dilapidated old structure on Eastern Avenue. “A diamond in the rough,” the real estate listing sheet read. At the moment, Sarah was having a hard time even considering the place a “fixer-upper.”
“Do you think it’s even structurally sound?” she asked. “What if all we can do is rent a bulldozer and start over? We
don’t have that kind of money.”
“The house is sound,” Julie said with way more confidence that Sarah felt. “Mattie assured me there’s good bones and Will’s gone top to bottom. It just needs a little work.”
“You keep saying that, like all we have to do is sweep out the cobwebs, paint the walls, and wash the windows.” Across the front, a wrought-iron fence was still intact, including an ornate gate that must have beautiful at one time, but was now all rust and peeling black paint. However, along the sides as far as she could see from the street, gaps showed where chunks of the old fence had been taken, probably to be sold for the metal.
“I know it’s going to be a lot more work than that.” Julie’s perfect brows pinched together in a frown, then she brightened just as quickly. “But the historical society is ready to be rid of it, so they’re practically willing to give the place away.”
Sarah doubted that seriously—nobody gave anything away. “Two hundred and fifty-seven thousand isn’t giving away—that’s half our grant. And how does a nonprofit sell off an asset? Does our purchase price come to them as a donation or what? Are we going to be tied up in IRS red tape for years?”
“Oh, who knows? I’m sure the attorneys for the society have that all worked out or they wouldn’t allow them to sell the place. And a quarter mil isn’t even close to what we’ll be offering. Truthfully, I’m hoping we can convince the society to donate the place or sell it to us for ten bucks. Can’t you try to look past all the warts and see the perfection?” Julie threw her arms out as if to embrace the property. “It’s a big sturdy house built at a time when people had lots of kids, so there are six bedrooms and a huge kitchen and dining room. The downstairs has a library and a solarium and two parlors, and a maid’s room off the kitchen that would be a perfect office for you. There’s even a freaking butler’s pantry, for Pete’s sake. Plus a full finished basement where we could put a space for the kids to play and storage for supplies and donations.” Her eyes sparkled as she headed off on a tangent. “Oh, donations. Most of these women are gonna arrive with only the clothes on their backs. We’ll have to start collecting stuff as soon as we can.”
Saving Sarah Page 7
