by Jo Goodman
Sullivan wondered how Ramsey had come by her job. Had she been at another Ridge store in another state? How had she come to West Virginia and Clifton in particular? He’d get around to asking her eventually when he thought she might trust him enough to give him a straight answer. It was unlikely to be anytime soon, especially if their first date went as badly as she predicted. Ramsey Masters struck him as someone who had a fair amount of practice deflecting personal questions. He understood, could even appreciate it, and as a consequence he would wait to have his curiosity satisfied by the woman who gave rise to it.
Sullivan was jerked out of his musings when his radio squawked. Dispatch reported a disturbance outside the Bottoms Up bar and strip club on Main Street. He glanced at the time. Sure enough, twenty minutes before last call. The natives were drunk, high, and horny. He responded to the call, turning his vehicle sharply onto the closest side street and heading toward Main.
The morning of the wedding Ramsey consulted her phone for the weather report. Eighty degrees at four o’clock. Clear skies. A dew point in the fifties. If the app could be trusted, and generally it could, there would be a breeze out of the southeast and zero percent chance of rain. No point, then, in wearing her slicker and duck boots. Sullivan might be disappointed but this weather favored the bride.
Ramsey did not want to admit that she was looking forward to the date. She hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Briony who continued to hint that she should dive deep into the dating pool again, starting with Sullivan Day. She purposely held off getting ready until the eleventh hour. It was her idea of mindfulness, to keep herself occupied with the preparation so she wasn’t distracted by what was coming next.
She showered, shampooed, and applied moisturizer before she turned the blow dryer on her hair. Because her hair had a tendency to defy her and because she was all thumbs, she left the underside a little damp so she could manage it. She twisted and tucked the length into something that resembled a chignon, secured it with a few hairpins hidden deeply in the twist and then stabbed it with a couple of gold studded tortoise shell combs. She shook her head, the chignon stayed in place except for a few tendrils that fell against her neck just as if she had planned it that way.
She rarely wore more than mascara and lip gloss to work. There had been a time when she had applied makeup with care, and wore it with confidence, but that was a long time past. Her fingers actually trembled when she lifted the eyeliner. She set it down, called herself all kinds of a fool, and when her hand was steady, she added a thin line to each eyelid without thinking too much about what she was doing. A little foundation, mascara, blush, and sheer rosy lip color, and she was done.
She had several ideas about what she would wear, all of them weather dependent. Now she whipped through her closet and selected a pair of pleated ivory linen Bermudas that fell just above her knees. She added a loose fitting linen-blend tank and an ivory jacket with three-quarter length sleeves. She dithered about the shoes for a few minutes, trying on several pairs until she found the ones that did not make her legs look stumpy in the Bermudas. The heel was a high, straw covered wedge that would keep her from sinking into the ground. She pitied the woman who wore stilettos to a wilderness wedding.
She was digging through her jewelry when the doorbell rang. Her stomach lurched. She quickly grabbed some copper and gold bracelets and slipped them on her wrist, then on impulse, she opened the pouch that held the exquisite Marco Bicego diamond multi-strand collar necklace and fastened the ball-and-joint closure at her nape. She laid her palm against the delicate gold strands and fingered one of the diamond-set stations. Too much? she wondered. No. She worked at the Ridge. She was accompanying a cop. Who would suspect this from gold plate and cubic zirconium? She gave herself a last look, tugged on the hem of her jacket, and she was off. It was only when she reached the door that she realized she had forgotten earrings. She turned off the security alarm, opened the door, and said, “Just another minute,” in a husky, breathless voice before she closed the door in Sullivan’s face and hurried to her bedroom for earrings.
Sullivan was leaning against one of the columns that supported the front porch roof when she stepped outside carrying a clutch in one hand, earrings in the other, and wearing a pair of tortoise shell sunglasses on her head. She did a cartoon stop when she saw him, the kind where the toon character halts so abruptly his body actually vibrates. At least that’s how it felt.
She took a breath, sipping the air through pursed lips, and released it slowly. She managed a lopsided smile. “I needed these,” she said, unfolding her fingers to show him the earrings. “And this.” She raised the clutch. “Oh, damn. I forgot my sunglasses. I’ll just—”
“On your head.”
Her lopsided smile flattened as she raised her eyes as if she’d be able to see the glasses. “Right. Of course. Fashion accessory, not eyewear.”
Sullivan pushed away from the post, plucked the sunglasses off her head, and settled them on her face. “Better?”
Ramsey nodded dumbly, frozen in place by the odd intimacy of the gesture. “Um, thanks.”
“Can you manage the earrings?”
“Yes,” she said in dry accents, thrusting the clutch at his chest. When she was certain he had it, she inserted the lacy gold leaf earrings, turning her head right and left as she did so. He was staring at the curve of her neck and shoulder when she faced him again. She touched the spot where she felt the focus of his eyes. “Do I—” Ramsey stopped because he was shaking his head, and his eyes had already moved back to hers. Her fingertips dropped away; so did her self-consciousness.
Recovering some measure of poise, she pointed to the door behind her and said, “I need to set the house alarm.”
“Sure.”
She was back in seconds. He held out her clutch. She took out her keys, locked the deadbolt, and then announced she was ready to go. “I haven’t made us late, have I?”
“Nope. On time. I might have been a few minutes early.”
“Because you thought you’d have to nudge me along?”
“No, because if I’m on time I feel as if I’m late.”
“Oh.” She started down the steps to the sidewalk, very much aware that he was following close behind. It surprised her that she didn’t feel unnerved with him at her back, but neither was it completely comfortable. That would take some time, if there was time. She never knew if there would be.
He came abreast of her on the sidewalk. It was all she could do to keep from glancing sideways at him. He had looked quite handsome standing on her porch. It occurred to her to tell him that he cleaned up well, but then that was just a trite throwaway line because even out of uniform, he was always a little on the shiny side.
She had noticed his dark hair was still a bit damp and spiky. It was encouraging. Maybe he, too, had waited until the last possible minute to get ready, or in his case, the last possible minute he could delay and still be early. It made her dizzy to think about that kind of planning.
He wore an easy fit black polo shirt with thin red horizontal stripes and the maker’s logo unobtrusively stitched on the chest. The shirt was tucked into black trousers. The belt was black leather with a simple silver buckle; his shoes were black leather and suede loafers. It was the socks, though, that gave her pause. They were bright red with black polka dots, and she was fairly certain the fabric was baby alpaca, not cashmere. She’d seen a story on Sunday Morning about a New York hosiery designer who was giving men new choices in footwear. She wondered if Sullivan had been inspired by the same story or if he had always had the sense that a man’s fashion statement shouldn’t be limited to his tie.
“Do you own a lot of ties?” she asked. The non sequitur made him stop suddenly as he opened the car door for her.
His forehead puckered between his eyebrows. “What?”
Ramsey shrugged. “It’s a fair question. Do you own a lot of ties?”
“What in the world—” He stopped, shook his head. “No. Never
mind. I’m not going to ask. Define ‘a lot’.”
“More than six.”
“I own three.”
“All right. That’s what I was thinking. You let your socks speak for you.”
He looked down at his feet, raised one just enough to allow the sock to show. “You noticed.” When he looked back at her, he was grinning. “You think they’ll annoy Aunt Kay?”
One of Ramsey’s eyebrows lifted in an arch that topped the rim of her sunglasses. “Annoy her? I don’t think so. Not if she recognizes them as V.K. Nagrani’s. They are, aren’t they? The real deal.”
“Well, yeah. But how did you know?”
“I saw a story. They’re pretty expensive, those socks.”
He opened the door wider so she could slip in. “Sometimes you have to step out of the uniform. Socks kind of do it for me. But just so you know, this Beemer’s a rental.”
Ramsey settled into the black sedan’s passenger side seat. She waited until he closed the door and got in behind the wheel before she spoke. “I didn’t really notice the car.”
“The socks made that big of an impression? Huh. I’m going to keep that in mind. As expensive as they were, they’re still cheaper than a Beemer.”
She chuckled, fastened her seat belt. “Why are we in a rental anyway?”
“My truck’s transmission is on the floor of my garage. My neighbor’s helping me work on it but our schedules don’t mesh well. My other car’s a Harley. That’s for a different date.”
“If there is one.”
“Right. If there is one.”
“We haven’t even left the driveway.”
Sullivan took his sunglasses from the visor and put them on. He started the car and put it in reverse but kept his foot on the brake. “I thought the date began when I rang your doorbell.”
“Nope. I didn’t even have my earrings on then. The date starts when we’re on the road.”
Sullivan lifted his foot, gave the Beemer a little gas, and it rolled smoothly down the driveway. “I suppose I should have asked for the parameters in advance. How will I know when the date’s over?” He turned his head in her direction, ostensibly to look for cars in the street, but really to gauge her reaction. “The obligatory goodnight kiss or the sendoff in the morning?”
Ramsey gave a bark of laughter. “First, I don’t do obligatory anything so put that out of your mind. As for morning, I admire your optimism. I really do.”
“So that’d be a no way.”
“That’d be a no fucking way.”
“Good to know. Now I can relax. Anticipation is overrated.”
Realizing she was enjoying herself, she smiled. “There are no cars coming,” she said.
“Right. Leaving now.”
7
They arrived twenty minutes early for the ceremony and were ushered to the bride’s side of the roped off venue. There was seating for one hundred fifty guests on roughhewn, backless benches and standing room for at least another fifty inside the perimeter. A white canopy had been erected for the minister and wedding couple, but the bridal party was meant to stand on either side of it. Large wicker baskets of sunflowers lined both sides of the center aisle, and more baskets filled with daises and wild flowers rose in a five-tier display under the canopy.
People turned this way and that in their seats to get a glimpse of the bride but she was very well concealed inside a tent that Sullivan pointed out used to be the big top for the Ringling Brothers. Ramsey poked him with her elbow. “Someone will hear you and believe it,” she whispered.
“So? It could be. It looks like a circus tent.”
She shook her head. “And no one’s talking about us,” she said as though deeply disappointed. “We are practically invisible. You were so sure there would be comments.”
“Off to a bad start, are we?”
“Hmm.” Ramsey let it drop. Among all the guests, she felt certain she was more curious about Kay Dobbs than she was about the bride. If Medusa had emerged from the tent, she would not have blinked, but when the mother-of-the-bride finally made her appearance—wearing stilettos of all things—her jaw went slack because recognition was instantaneous.
It was not easy to forget the woman who had clobbered her two days before Christmas with a canvas tote bulging with a frozen turkey breast.
Kay Dobbs was not a big woman. She was downright delicate, in fact, petite in every sense. But three years ago, when Ramsey stopped her in the vestibule of the Ridge and confronted her with her theft, some inbred source of entitlement gave the diminutive Kay Dobbs the strength of a gladiator. She swung that tote as if it were a broadsword and nailed Ramsey squarely on the side of her head. Ramsey went down like a felled tree and Kay Dobbs marched out of the Ridge with no witnesses to what happened except for the surveillance cameras.
The concussion sent her to the hospital and kept her at home for a week; she never got to review the recording. Paul studied it for her and couldn’t identify the shoplifter. Something about static interference. She didn’t like it, but she had to accept it.
Ramsey figured the woman was so bold that she would come back to the store eventually. The shoplifters generally did, even ones as well dressed and well-heeled as this woman. Ramsey’s lip practically curled as she thought of Kay Dobbs as this woman. If a thought was capable of taking on a sneer, then this thought did just that.
Sullivan leaned toward Ramsey and said quietly, “Hey, you don’t have to dislike her on my behalf.”
That’s when Ramsey realized it was more than a thought that was sneering. She carefully tucked the corner of her mouth back into position. “Sorry.” She ignored the odd look he gave her and turned her head to put Kay Dobbs out of her line of sight. She focused her attention on the bridesmaids who were leaving the tent and lining up at the end of the aisle with their escorts.
Ramsey concentrated on the ceremony. The bride and groom wrote their own vows and exchanged sentiments that were clearly deeply heartfelt. It surprised her, then, that when she looked askance at Sullivan, his expression was not merely solemn. It was grave. He told her he wasn’t married, and that was all she’d asked to know. In regard to dating him it was what was important. In regard to seeing him again, she wanted to know more.
It didn’t tweak her conscience a bit that she was not going to give up as much information as she was going to get.
“Are you up for this?” asked Sullivan as they waited their turn to be excused and herded toward the receiving line. “How would you like me to introduce you?”
“You can use my name. No reason for an alias.”
“I meant, can I say you’re my friend? My date? My online escort?”
She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Just my name. No point in muddying the waters, although I’m partial to online escort.”
“Hmm. I thought you might be.”
Ramsey was not sure how she felt about a face-to-face with Kay Dobbs, but it wasn’t because she expected the woman to recognize her. Shoplifters often regarded her blankly when she appeared in court to give testimony. They didn’t know who she was until she took the stand and identified herself as the Southridge employee who caught them with one hand in the cookie jar.
No matter how much Kay Dobbs might have objected to the venue, she and her husband were still the hosts, and some bridal how-to manual somewhere dictated that she be the first to greet the guests. Ramsey struggled not to smile as the man beside her—the tall, broad-shouldered, impressively framed Sullivan Day—inched closer and placed his palm at the small of her back. She did not shake off what some people might regard as a considerate gesture or a small intimacy. Ramsey might have done so if she thought he was being either considerate or intimate. Her sense was that he was using her for cover. She wondered if he was familiar with his aunt’s powerful right hook.
Ramsey saw Kay Dobbs stiffen ever so slightly as Sullivan stepped up to the plate. It was the only indication that she was disturbed. Sullivan had been right. A recent Botox
injection had frozen her features, or at least it seemed that way. She supposed it was possible that the woman’s natural smile was a grimace.
Sullivan inclined his head toward his aunt by way of greeting her. She raised her chin but did not proffer her cheek. “Aunt Kay.”
“Sullivan.”
“This is Ramsey Masters.”
Ramsey responded to Sullivan’s gentle nudge and took a half step forward. She did not want to crowd the pocket-sized Kay Dobbs. Experience made it a matter of self-preservation, although unless the woman had a roll of quarters in her tight fist, Ramsey thought she was probably okay.
“Mrs. Dobbs. A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, dear,” she said. She did not smile, but her gray eyes, so much like her nephew’s, were cool and curious as they settled on Ramsey’s face. “He’s mentioned you so often that I feel as if I must know you.”
Ramsey marveled that Kay Dobbs made this last statement without a trace of sarcasm.
Kay Dobbs went on, darting a reproving glance at Sullivan. “Which is to say, of course, that my nephew has said nothing whatsoever.”
Sullivan opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again.
Ramsey spoke into the awkward silence. “It’s a lovely setting. Sylvan. Romantic. How fortunate you are to have found such a perfect location.”
“Mm.”
It was not possible for Kay’s brow to pucker, but Ramsey thought the mother of the bride made a valiant effort as those coolly curious eyes continued to study her. “Do I know you, dear? I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“It’s Ramsey. Ramsey Masters. And, no, I don’t think so.”
“Masters. A relation, perhaps, to Ryan Masters?”
Standing at his wife’s side, Mark Dobbs took Kay’s hand and squeezed it lightly. “The receiving line, Kay. We have a bottle neck.”
