Merging with traffic on the Taconic, she glanced in her rearview mirror to see Scott’s unmarked car stuck like glue to her bumper. She couldn’t see him, of course, with all the tinted glass, but felt such a profound wave of relief that the feeling came as another shock, so wildly out of proportion to what she should have felt.
Scott had been Mike’s partner and friend, but in this moment, when she felt so off center and anxious and unsure, she knew he was more.
Riley glanced again in the rearview mirror, the relief still so completely there red flags were flying. When had Scott become her friend, a part of her life? When he’d made it clear he’d intended to keep his eyes on his best friend’s family? By regularly calling her in Florida? By listening to her unload about the details—big and small—of her days? By helping Brian around the farm?
Or maybe this relief was simply a side effect of the anxiety she felt right now. Though she’d covered her fair share of drug busts, even had a few run-ins where she’d been in the way, she’d never been this rattled. She couldn’t cover breaking news without getting into the thick of things, and breaking news had been all she covered in her prekid life. But now…
Mommy died. Mommy died like Daddy.
Sometimes the voice was Camille’s, sometimes Jake’s. And the only thing that helped Riley get a grip on her emotions was knowing that the man in the vehicle behind her had cared enough to drive to Hazard Creek to make sure she was okay. Him, and deciding to spend the night researching the requirements to become a teacher in Dutchess County. She had a master’s degree, after all. Shouldn’t it be a matter of getting some sort of teaching certificate?
But her anxiety melted away the instant she pulled into her in-laws’ driveway. The front door swung wide and her kids burst out at a run.
“Mommy, Mommy! Are you all right?” Camille called out, ponytail bouncing as she clomped down the porch steps in sandals not meant for breakneck speed.
Jake, in sneakers, raced ahead, eyeing Riley with such a look of worry that her heart ached. He made it to the driveway so fast Riley had to shoo him back to get her door open.
“I’m good, guys. How was your afternoon?”
“Grandma said you got boo-boos. Where?” Camille caught up and gazed at Riley, who tugged her ponytail in greeting.
Hiding what had happened hadn’t been an option. Not while adorned with gauze and grass stains. Still, she didn’t want to make a big deal and worry the kids.
Reaching for Riley’s hand, Camille urged her to her knees. The adhesive pulled painfully against her skin, tugging the raw flesh along her thigh, but Riley schooled her expression to meet two worried gazes.
“Not big boo-boos.” She lifted her elbow to reveal the gauze bandage. “Just some scratches.”
Camille pressed a careful kiss to the wound. “There, all better.”
Jake didn’t say a word, just rubbed her shoulders, comforting her in a way that would have comforted him.
“Were you worried?” she asked him.
He gave a stoic nod.
“Mommy’s fine.” She gave him a smile then pressed a kiss to Camille’s hand where the tiny nails had been polished a blinding shade of pink. “Your nails look lovely.”
Camille lifted a sandaled foot and wiggled her toes. “Look, my toes match.”
“Beautiful.” She glanced up as Rosie appeared in the doorway with Joe behind her.
Riley waved and gave them a reassuring smile just as Scott joined her.
“Are you okay?” Joe huffed to a stop as he joined the small party congregating beside the minivan.
Mike’s dad looked a lot like Riley imagined Mike would have looked at the same age. Tall and fit even well into his sixties. His northern Italian heritage was all over the gray hair that had once been a tawny blond, the warm eyes and sturdy olive skin that did a lot to conceal his true age.
“I’m fine,” she said. “But how did you know?”
“Scott called.” Joe nodded toward the man in question.
Again, that feeling of relief. Riley kept the smile on her face. She guessed Scott had wanted to reassure everyone. Of course, no one would have known what had happened had he not given them a heads-up. But knowing Scott had her back, that he’d stepped in to calm the people she loved…
“Appreciated you getting over there.” Joe clasped his hand and thanked him for the call.
Scott waved off the gratitude with a grimace.
Riley seized the chance to distract her father-in-law from the discussion she sensed forthcoming. A conversation that made Scott seem uncomfortable.
“Come on, kiddos,” she said. “Collect your things so Grandma and Grandpa can have their day back. What’s left of it.”
“Oh, no, dear.” Rosie looked aghast from her perch on the front steps. “You’re staying for dinner. Ground beef’s all thawed and Camille’s been helping me cut up the veggies. The kids told me we’re having tacos.”
Okay. Riley was not up for a party at the moment. All she really wanted to do was get home and surround herself with normalcy. But what could she say? Everyone wanted to help, so she kept her mouth shut and followed the group as they headed toward the front steps.
“Scott, you’ll stay, too,” Rosie said then frowned. “Unless you have to get back to the station. Got twenty minutes or so? That should be enough to get things together.”
“You know I’d never turn down food in your house, Rosie,” he delighted her by saying. “I don’t think the chief will mind me taking a break.”
Rosie laughed, giving Scott a hug when he reached the top step. “Not unless he wants to answer to me.”
As it was just past four in the afternoon, this break qualified as less a late lunch than an early dinner. But Riley took each of the kids’ hands and led them inside, unable to help noticing the way Scott preceded Rosie into the heart of the Angelica home well familiar with the way.
Rosie immediately began issuing orders.
“Camille, you help Grandma Rosie get everything on platters. Jake and Grandpa, you get the table set. Oh, and make sure you put out extra napkins. Riley and Scott, you two wash up for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Scott spun on his heels and disappeared down the hallway where the guest bathroom was.
Riley stood for a moment, watching all the activity, feeling disconnected, as if she was an outsider looking in on this warm family scene.
While Rosie and Joe had always had an open-door policy, Riley had never known Scott to be one who readily accepted social invites or dropped in anywhere for casual visits. But he seemed more at home than she could ever recall seeing him.
When Mike had been alive he’d regularly had his buddies over for barbecues, dinners and whatever game was on TV. Their house had often been pleasantly full with friends and family. Scott certainly had been a guest, but now that she thought about it, she realized he’d rarely been there on his own—instead being one of many visitors. And until she’d moved to Florida, she could easily count on one hand the number of times she’d had a private conversation with him.
So why this connection now? Why was he the one to help her get her equilibrium? And why did she want him to be the one she could turn to? Why did it seem so natural for him to be here, at the Angelicas’, with her?
No, wait. He wasn’t with her. No. He was simply looking out for her and the kids. Fulfilling some promise made between friends and partners. That’s all this was.
Still, when he brushed past her to enter the kitchen, the brief physical connection felt intense and far from casual. It felt strong, intimate…a man-woman touch rather than a friend’s touch. That surprised her.
Because she wasn’t sure when she started noticing Scott as anything more than Mike’s partner.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“YO, BIG HOME,” General E. called to Scott while launching himself into the air to sink an easy basket.
Groans erupted from the nearly half-dozen teens with chests bared beneath the blistering afternoon sun
swarming the court. General E.’s team wore T-shirts. A few players cheered.
It didn’t take long for Scott to decide where he was needed. Yanking off his T-shirt, he tossed it onto a bench.
“Hey, homie. Hey, homie.” The acknowledgment went up among the “skins,” and Scott laughed, pounding a few fists before Mateo passed him the ball.
Throwing himself into the game, Scott was grateful for the activity and some downtime for a brain that had been steeping in frustration from one too many stalled cases.
And too many thoughts of the woman he shouldn’t be thinking about.
A hard-nosed game of basketball would be just the ticket, and these guys were hard-nosed about everything. Everyone always wanted to come out on top. But all things considered, this was a good group of kids, which was a break for Renaissance. All too often the tough job of turning around inner-city kids was made even tougher by past history on the streets.
Scott and the other volunteers who kept the program going tried to create an environment that didn’t invite gang rivalries inside the walls of the leased warehouse that housed the program. The Center, as it was known, was a place filled with counseling rooms for support groups and classrooms for tutoring programs that helped kids get through school or earn their general education diplomas.
The Center had even carved out a few niches for specialty interests. A local artist volunteered time to teaching younger kids how to paint. A martial artist taught tae kwon do. A nurse-practitioner not only performed triage on kids without access to reliable health care but taught parenting classes to kids who had kids themselves.
Renaissance was a safe haven for anyone who didn’t want to die behind bars or from drugs or in a gang war. In a perfect world, it would be Poughkeepsie’s equivalent of Manchester Bidwell, a social program that had originated in Pittsburgh decades ago and still boasted a mind-blowing success rate.
Funding didn’t allow Renaissance to compete on the same scale as Manchester Bidwell, but Scott and the other volunteers didn’t need money to adopt the concept. So they raised their expectations for the kids who found themselves here, sometimes without being able to explain why they’d come. Those expectations were high, because the simple fact was, when the volunteers believed in these kids, the kids learned to believe in themselves.
The results got better and better each year.
Of course, Scott got older and older each year, too, which meant he was sweating a lot more than these kids by the time General E. sank the basket that irrevocably widened the point gap. But age and experience wasn’t always a negative. It helped him recognize the instant the tenor of the cheering changed. He was already wiping the sweat from his eyes with his T-shirt by the time the snarling started.
Sure enough, General E. was in Cakes’s face. Instinct took over, and in the blink of an eye, team members were taking sides.
“Don’t make me start breaking heads.” Scott grabbed a fistful of General E.’s collar and hauled the big teen backward.
“What you gonna do, Big Home?” General E. tried to pull away, hostility a few steps ahead of rational thought. “Kick me to the pavement?”
“Hell to the no.” Twisting the kid’s collar tighter, Scott forced him around until they could make eye contact. “I’m going to pull my service piece and shoot off your ear. The one with the gauge.”
It stung Scott’s pride to acknowledge that might have been the easiest way for him to take down this kid, who had a good four inches and fifteen pounds on him. General E., whose real name was Eric, stood six foot four with a build that had made him a natural in command, hence the nickname. He’d been on his way to senior status in 16 Squared, the gang that owned 16th Street around town square, before a judge had sent him to Renaissance for his one and only chance to straighten up.
“Get a grip, Eric.” Scott held his gaze.
With any luck, General E. would funnel all this natural talent for leadership in a productive direction. If these kids could get a break, a decent job or enroll in community college, they usually created new identities for themselves and fit back into their real names again. Not all kids did, but General E. looked as though he might make it as he sucked in a deep breath.
“You breaking your own rules, Big Home?” General E. sounded genuinely shocked. “You brought a piece into the Center?”
“Not hardly.” Scott twisted his collar harder for good measure. “I wouldn’t bring a gun around you thugs. Wouldn’t trust you not to steal it and blow off your damn feet.”
That got a round of laughter and made General E. growl out, “What? You going to take me down with your busted self, old man? Like your boys shut down that cookhouse in H Creek.”
Cakes threw down his arms and backed off, shaking his head. “Hell with you, chump.”
So word had gotten around the streets about Jason Kenney’s nightmare bust. That got Scott’s attention.
“You go, Cakes.” He released his grip on General E.’s collar, and backed up enough for the kid to straighten up.
Cakes raised a fist and said, “Pound it.”
Scott connected fists and didn’t have to say another word. Renaissance was all about teaching these kids to expect more from themselves than society did. Cakes had every right to feel good right now. It was too easy for them to get sucked into not-so-old habits.
General E. was still visibly wrestling with his pride, but Scott let him be, content when the other kids started breaking away, grabbing shirts that littered the perimeter of the court. The pack mentality evaporated as fast as it started. Good. Scott wasn’t in the mood today to deal with this crew out of control.
Pulling his shirt over his head, he turned toward the sound of wolf whistles and found a group clustering around the fence as two girls walked by. “Dudes, you really need to act like gentlemen in front of the ladies.”
“Man, who are you calling ladies?” Mateo yelled out, loud enough for the girls to hear.
One of the girls flicked him off, and a bunch of the guys hooted with laughter.
“I think you’re pretty, ladies,” Do-Wap said. “So does Big Home here. Forget those losers.”
“You need a life, Do,” Cakes called out.
Cakes’s real name was William Brown, and Scott had never understood the nickname. Some handles made sense. Devonte “Do-Wap” Smith was from Wappinger Falls. Easy for his “busted old self” to figure out. But all Scott had heard about Cakes was that he was a world-class liar who could cover up anything. Like icing covered a cake?
Scott had no clue.
“You need a life, too, Big Home.” Cakes fell into step beside him as the guys started filing inside the Center.
Scott, of course, was Big Home. He couldn’t remember who’d started calling him that because it had been so long ago, but he answered to Big Home. Kept him one of the crowd.
“What, you’re tired of seeing my smiling face around here?” he asked. “I’m hurt.”
“Dude, you called Shae Cherry a lady.”
“Do-Wap seems to think she—”
“Do-Wap’s the only one in town who hasn’t tapped it.” Cakes shook his braided black head sadly. “Do-Wap and you, looks like. He’s angling, but you need to hook up with someone who can show you the difference between a lady and a ho.”
“That’s harsh.” Scott motioned to the hallway filled with teens coming in from the court and emerging from a tutoring session. “Exactly when do I have time to hook up? If you hoodlums aren’t keeping me busy running the streets, you’re wearing me out on the basketball court.”
“You need to chill with your lady, dude.” Cakes’s eyes widened in horror. “You do have a lady? You know what I mean…tending the farm.”
“Don’t you worry about the farm.” Scott wasn’t having any part of this conversation.
The only woman in his life right now was the one he couldn’t think about. Big difference between feeling and acting on a feeling, exactly what he preached to these kids. He knew firsthand because he had
n’t been any different than they were before learning that he had control of his life, that he could turn things around with the choices he made.
He’d chosen not to think about Riley. He valued looking himself in the mirror more than letting his feelings get control of him.
“The cows are mooing, man, so let it rest.” A lie. “General E. mentioned H Creek. Lot of talk?”
Cakes eyed him narrowly as if he suspected the motive behind Scott’s change of subject. “Word’s out the busters screwed up.”
“Suppose that’s one way to call it.”
“Sheeeet. What else do you call Drano in your cop shop?”
“It’s not my cop shop,” Scott clarified. “And that’s what you’re hearing—a leak?”
“H Creek ain’t Mexico,” Mateo added, obviously keeping up with the conversation. “You all brothaz in blue.”
Scott had no problem discussing gang-related activities if these kids needed to talk. Not only was a leak in the Hazard Creek bust news to Scott, but his senses were tingling.
Mateo was right about one thing—law around here was tight. No surprise when Hazard Creek, Hyde Park and Pleasant Valley orbited like satellites around Poughkeepsie.
Then there was Riley. She might only have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but in his mind she was now involved. Any word on the streets that might impact her was his business.
“Who’s talking leak?” Scott asked.
Cakes gave him a sidelong glance.
“Why you scared, Angel Food?” Mateo demanded with a laugh then turned to Scott. “Everything is everything. You know talk’s out about how the chefs in that cookhouse did a ghost.”
“Who heard they were tipped off?” Scott asked.
“Some peripheral was running her mouth about how she’d hooked up with a prince from Big House. She was way fine, too.”
Do-Wap gave a low whistle, another eavesdropper to the conversation. “I’d buy anything that sweet piece was selling.”
Cakes snorted. “You’d sell your mama for a piece o’ anything.”
Her Husband’s Partner Page 6
