Holding up both hands, Jackson said, "Understood."
"Thank you," I replied. "Now, what the hell do you want?"
Jackson clasped his hands in his lap, inclined his head. "I don't have to tell you our women are best friends."
"Jesus Christ," I muttered to myself. "No, sheriff, you don't have to tell me they're best friends, but it would be good if you found a way to speak of them as something more respectful than 'our women.'"
"What's disrespectful about that?" he asked, his brows bent together and confusion rippling his features.
"Do I actually have to explain to you that they don't belong to us? I recognize there are shades of meaning here and the notion might give you some warm fuzzies, but I'd rather not reduce Brooke or Annette to possessions. In case it's not obvious to you, neither of them need us."
"No, that's plain to see." He bobbed his head in agreement, but he was busy deciding whether he understood my point.
"Listen, I'm not trying to bring down your worldview. I'm just trying to tell you there's a big difference between the things you say to Annette privately, when you're at home, when you're in your bedroom, and what you say to other people. It matters how you talk about women."
He ran his hand up the back of his neck, around the inside of his collar. "I thought I was good at this. The feminist stuff."
"You can be good at it while also accepting some feedback to get better," I argued. "I'm not saying you're a misogynistic piece of shit. I'm saying there's a better way to start a conversation about Brooke and Annette than minimizing them as 'our women.'"
"All right, let's try this again. Annette and Brooke are best friends. That's not about to change. I thought it might be different after we'd moved in together, after we got engaged. Don't know why I thought that," he added, laughing. "I think we have the privilege of taking part in their world. We need to find a way to deal with each other because they wouldn't blink an eye at dropping one or both of us if we ever tried to make them choose."
"That's the straight truth," I replied.
"They've made a family of each other and it's the only family they truly have," he continued. "You and I, we have a number of differences. We don't agree on many things. Hell, half the time I don't think we speak the same language. But it's in our best interest to get this right."
Pressing my fist to my lips, I stared at the sheriff. I didn't relish him being right, if for no reason other than my longstanding disdain for people telling me what to do. Authority figures had been grating on me as far back as my memories went. There was no clean genesis to my anarchist bent; I preferred to command myself, regardless of the outcome.
But Jackson wasn't the real authority figure here. It was Brooke. She was as much of an authority as anyone. I couldn't refuse his peace offering because—for the first time in my life—anarchy wasn't my answer.
"You're right about them making a family," I conceded. "I'm not about to take that away from Brooke."
"And you're not about to let her go," Jackson added. "Or did I misread things over dinner last night?"
Rolling my eyes, I leaned forward, folded my arms on the desktop. "Let's establish some ground rules, friend. Number one, you don't read shit into my relationship and I'll offer you the same courtesy."
Fighting a smile, Jackson said, "I can agree to that."
"Second, you're not the sheriff in social settings. You want to argue about drunks stumbling out of my distillery and raising hell on your streets, you save that for a conversation like this one."
"The badge doesn't come off because I sit down for a meal," he replied.
"You don't have to take the badge off, but I'd prefer if you kept a lid on your law enforcement crusades when we're gathered for a damn dinner party."
"Watch it. Annette spent hours making everything perfect for that party," Jackson snapped.
"And it was perfect," I replied. "I ate the leftovers for breakfast. But you have to know the proper times and places to pull the sheriff card."
He circled his hand, urging me to continue. "What else? This is your opportunity, Harniczek. Get it all out."
"We need to find something to discuss that isn't Nate Fitzsimmons or local law enforcement efforts because that's all we've ever talked about and I'm maxed out. Football, the last book you read, the weather, whatever the hell you want."
He stared at me for a long beat before saying, "I'll give it some thought." He continued staring because it wouldn't be a valuable conversation without slapping me with his power penis.
"Are we done here, sheriff? Or shall we play this game until someone comes looking for us? Nate can entertain himself with citrus fruit and ketchup all afternoon, but I'm sure your absence won't go unnoticed."
I expected him to leave without a word or make an ominous remark about keeping an eye on me, but he asked, "What have you heard about the kids hanging out near the old Walker farmstead?" He rattled off a few names. No surprises in that crew. "Every time one of my deputies swing by, they say the kids are being kids and there's no trouble beyond some minors in possession of alcohol. What do you think?"
It was good to slip back into the comfort of our long-established dynamic of sheriff and barkeep, where I kept a handle on under-the-table affairs in these parts and Jackson was the heavy when needed. We knew and enjoyed these roles and they were far less complicated than the ones we found ourselves in now, as the men in Brooke's and Annette's lives.
"I think it's probably a nonissue," I said. "If it's not one abandoned farm, it's another."
"Isn't that the truth," he replied. "So, how about those Rangers? Think they'll make it to the Stanley Cup?"
"That's enough." I pointed toward the door. "We've covered plenty of ground today, sheriff. We have to save something for tomorrow."
"Right," he agreed, pushing to his feet. "We should ask Annette to recommend some books for us. To keep the conversation going."
"We're not starting a book club, sheriff." I jabbed my finger toward the door again. "Not until I know we have compatible taste in reading material."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brooke
Arbitrage: any strategy that invests for the long-term in one asset and short-term in a related asset.
June
I was angry about everything today. Everything, but also nothing.
There wasn't a singular source of my issues and that was also bothersome. I wanted to collect all these pebbles of fury and resentment, roll them into a big, craggy rock, and shove it out my front door. If I could push it away—or throw it at someone—I wouldn't have to lug this weight around anymore. I wouldn't have to be angry.
Instead of staying home and marinating in my mood like any normal person would, I filled my pockets with those pebbles and marched down to the Galley. The mermaid with her wheat and berries on the tavern's sign earned an apologetic frown from me on the way in. That poor girl deserved better.
I found the dining room and bar packed with customers, but my usual spot at the bar was open. Small miracles. Watching as Nate and Jed worked together pouring drinks, their backs to me, I slipped onto my stool with a contented sigh. Finding a new seat at the bar would've been the last straw in a day filled with last straws.
After sending a tray full of beverages off with a server, Jed made his way toward me. I didn't intend to stare at his bare forearms or the black shirtsleeves cuffed to his elbows or the way his belt buckle sat impossibly low on his waist, but I couldn't stop myself. Couldn't stop myself from noticing the heartbeat between my legs either.
Pointing at his watch, he asked, "What are you doing here at this hour? You don't come looking for attention until after the sun sets."
"That's the problem with the days getting longer. It fucks up my attention-seeking rhythms."
He stepped closer, folded his arms on the bar, leaned toward me. "What do you need, sweetheart? What can I get you?"
"I'd like to make a reservation with your dick," I said, edging closer. The freckles dott
ing his face caught my eye. I curled my hands around my biceps to keep from tapping my index finger to each one of them. "Later this evening, a seating for one."
Jed ducked his head, laughed. "No request required. You have a standing reservation."
"To think, I dressed, brushed my hair, and put on makeup," I mused, dragging a finger along the neck of my shirt. His tight-lipped gaze followed that finger and dipped to my breasts for a beat. He was still tight-lipped, but that gaze was hot enough to warm me all the way through. "Now, I find out I don't need to do any of it."
He ran his knuckles over the back of my hand. "Need to? No. Never. But you look good enough to eat, Bam."
"I might let you," I replied.
We stared at each other, the noises and people around us fading away. He closed his hand over my wrist. "Talk to me. What's going on with you?"
I glanced around him to watch Nate filling another tray of drinks. I shook my head. "You're busy."
"Shut the hell up and talk to me," he snapped.
"Think about that statement for a second, Jed. Just take a second with it and maybe you'll see why you're asking for the impossible."
Releasing my wrist, he stepped back, pointed a finger at me. "Your head is full of something." He reached for a glass and plucked a wine bottle from the chill chest. "Have you eaten? Never mind. I know the answer to that."
"I'd eat if there was something other than bananas at the house," I replied, grabbing hold of those pebbles again. "But Dad is back on his banana bullshit. This week, it's banana pancakes. It's the only thing he wants. The whole damn house smells like banana and I hate banana." I glanced at the wine he set in front of me. "What is this?"
He deposited a glass of water beside the wine. "It's the Sauvignon Blanc you like."
"I didn't ask for wine." I lifted the glass to my lips. "You're becoming rather presumptuous, Jedediah."
"Because bananas," he replied as he shifted toward the point of sale system. "Chicken Caesar salad, right? Extra croutons?"
I watched as he tapped the screen. "Yeah, sure," I agreed cautiously. "But since when do you know which wines I like and how I prefer my salad?"
Not looking up from the screen, he said, "I don't think I've ever seen you eat anything other than a chicken Caesar. It's the only thing you order here."
Raising the glass to my lips, I studied the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and how it nipped in at his waist. Giving his jeans a thorough review was safer than articulating any of the thoughts in my head or my heart. It made better sense to objectify him than admit it mattered that he remembered the croutons.
Hell, I didn't know how I'd put that into words without sounding like a moron. "Thanks for remembering I like croutons."
Eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled, Jed returned to my corner of the bar. "You have to stop with that face, Bam."
"Which face?"
"The one that's a cross between wanting to suck a dick and snatch a soul," he replied, his tone dark enough to bring goose bumps to my skin. "I can't get out of here for a couple of hours and there's no way in hell I'm letting you sit there and make that face at me until then. Fix it now or you can eat your salad at home with Butterscotch."
I propped an arm on the bar as I pointed at him. "First of all—"
"Brooke-Ashley! Oh my goodness, I haven't seen you in months! How are you and where have you been hiding?"
Jed held my gaze for a long moment, his brows pinched and his lips falling flat as if apologizing for leaving me with Denise Primiani. The woman was old-school Talbott's Cove, through and through. She grew up here, taught in the town's public schools, gossiped like it was her job, and worked her ass off to look like a page out of an L.L. Bean catalog. The turtleneck and Bermuda shorts paired with duck shoes and the type of raincoat folks around here referred to as a "slicker" was fully on-brand. To be fair, Denise had been the first person to turn up at my father's house after his accident, a wagon of casseroles in tow. She'd talk about you behind your back, but she'd make sure you had enough beef stroganoff to get through a difficult time.
With a shrug meant to forgive his abandonment, I shifted to face her. "Denise, it's great to see you. As for me, I'm doing well. I've been here"—I shot a glance in Jed's direction and got a chuckle in return—"and there."
She touched her fingers to my wrist and gave me that close-mouthed smile that women used on each other to make it clear only one of them was capital-S Struggling. "But, how are you?"
Since I wasn't plugged into the local rumor mill, I didn't know why I was Struggling today. There was never any shortage of reasons—the unwell father often topped that chart—but there was also the matter of me moving back home. They understood my presence immediately after Dad's car accident, but they wanted to know why I was still here.
My neighbors took it upon themselves to fill in those blanks and that yielded some truly remarkable fiction. I'd lost everything—job, money, will to live, you name it. I'd been disbarred by the SEC, which wasn't a real thing that occurred, but that didn't stop anyone from saying it. I'd been the victim of a terrible crime—rape, attempted murder, kidnapping—and couldn't bear to live in New York any longer.
The ugly, horrible stories always beat out the obvious explanation.
"I'm great. Things are good. It's finally warming up around here ," I replied with as much breezy joy as a tampon commercial. "Every year, it seems like the winter is worse than the one before."
Still pity-smiling, Denise said, "And what about your father? How is he getting around? Is the leg improving at all?"
Jed cleared his throat as he set the salad in front of me. "What else do you need?" he asked, making no attempt to cut the familiarity from his tone. He shook out a cloth napkin and fussed with the silverware, setting each piece in its proper location while Denise watched. "More croutons?"
I laughed at the mountain of croutons rising up from a base of romaine lettuce, chicken, parmesan cheese. I laughed because it was ridiculous, but also because it stopped me from climbing over this bar and into his arms. I wouldn't have the right words, but I could put the pulse in my pussy to good use. "This seems like enough."
Under his breath, he said, "Fix your face." Then, to Denise, "What can I get you, Mrs. Primiani?"
She launched into a detailed story about eliminating sugar for a cruise, but then the cruise being canceled on account of an outbreak of some communicable disease on the ship, and now it was rescheduled for next year, and oh yes, she was still off sugar, so she'd like a dry red wine.
I figured she'd lost track of the unanswered questions in this time, but that wasn't the case. "What were you saying about your father, dear? I haven't seen him in ages, not even puttering around the garden. This time of year, I would've thought he'd be out." Before I could open my mouth to reply, she continued. "I can't tell you how much I miss talking through community issues with him. He'd sit right here, in this very spot"—she slapped her hand on the bar twice while Jed shook his head because no, Dad never sat at the bar—"and discuss the problems. He always knew how to get things done. It's such a shame he never ran for office. If we'd had him on the town council instead of Owen Bartlett with his liberal agenda, we wouldn't be in this mess."
"Which mess is that?" I caught Jed's eye on the other side of the bar and he shrugged, gave a quick shake of his head.
"Too many to count," Denise replied. "The taxes are outrageous while the schools are falling apart and packed to the gills. These children are leaving the cities in droves and overwhelming our classrooms. Do you see any roadwork being done? Not a bit. It's nothing like it used to be. It's not like that at all. They call it progress, but I call it a mistake." She leaned in close, lowered her voice. "And don't get me started on the drug and juvenile delinquency issues. We didn't have those problems in my day." Her eyes as wide as they could stretch without injury, she tipped her head toward Nate. "I hope you're keeping Judge Markham informed about these issues. I'm certain he'd want to know and m
ake his opinion known."
I shoved a crouton in my mouth. "Mmhmm."
"You know what I should do? I should pay him a visit."
I shook my head. "No. No, not right now," I said around the crouton. This conversation needed to end by any means necessary. "Maybe a few months from now. We'll see how he's feeling, all right?"
"Oh, well—"
"Thank you for understanding," I continued. Still gnawing that chunk of crunchy bread. "I'm sure you can imagine the recuperation has been difficult and unpredictable."
"My sister-in-law fractured her hip two years ago and—"
"Please don't let me keep you," I said through a bold, brassy smile. "I know we could chat all night, but I'm sure you're meeting people and I'd hate to make them wait."
She wiggled her fingers at a group of women seated at a round table in the dining room. "How did you know it's my night out with the school girls?" she cooed. "We try to get together once a month, but we're lucky if we manage every other month."
Nodding, I went for another crouton.
"It was wonderful to see you, dear." Denise returned her hand to my wrist and resurrected the sad smile. "I'm so pleased you're getting on all right. Give me a ring if there's anything I can do for you and don't forget to pass my thoughts on to Judge Markham. See if you can't convince him to attend some of the town council meetings. We need him on our side!"
I went on grinning as she slipped off the barstool, but I wanted to gather those rocks in my hands, close my eyes, and throw them in every direction.
* * *
"How do you do it?" I glanced at Jed as we walked toward his house later that night. "How do you, I don't know"—I shook my hands in front of me as if I intended to strangle something—"put up with this town?"
"Narrow it down for me, sweetheart. We could be talking about anything. What am I putting up with?"
Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel Page 20
