Marina Adair - Need You for Keeps (St. Helena Vineyard #6)

by Unknown

  “Oh God.” Emerson thunked her head against the wall.

  Harper ignored this. “Every year the Coat Crusader helps the Fashion Flower gather enough donations and money to supply winter coats for kids in need. And he wants to help you, Shay.”

  “Great,” Shay deadpanned. “Can the Coat Crusader help me raise eight grand? Because after giving Mr. Russell first and last months’ rent yesterday, and making sure I leave enough in my account for the next couple months, that’s how much I’ll need.”

  Harper said nothing, just filled in the next two lines, then stepped back to admire them.

  “Oh, don’t forget Ida and Clovis have offered to donate some cages,” Peggy said, catching the spirit and taking the pen from Harper, shading in another two lines. “And you still have Warren’s Cuties with Booties calendar signing at my shop next Wednesday.”

  A signing with Jonah’s biggest rival. How had she forgotten?

  “Look at that, day one and already six lines closer,” Harper said, completely ignoring the other six left to go.

  Shay opened her mouth to point this out, but Emerson held up a hand. “Don’t. Just let her go. She will find the money somehow, even if it means offering to clean out every garage and storage closet within city limits in search of old jackets and spare change. It will happen.”

  “We found enough jackets to keep three hundred kids warm in one weekend,” Harper defended proudly. “And last year I got the local preschool to pitch in, and the kids did a walk-a-thon and raised eleven thousand dollars for new coats.”

  “Eleven grand?” Just for walking? Maybe Harper was on to something. “But how many preschoolers are there? I mean, there are only four of us and like a thousand of them.”

  “Ninety-two,” Harper corrected. “And how many pet owners do you think live in St. Helena?”

  Suddenly the doom and gloom lifted and Shay started to see this as a real possibility, that maybe this could all work out, and that with her friends she could make a success of St. Paws.

  “People are going to pay you so they can walk their own dogs?” Emerson asked.

  Harper shrugged, not concerned in the slightest. “We just need a good cause and a hook and people will open their wallets. We have the first one already. What’s more endearing than puppies and kittens?”

  Nothing, Shay thought. She was proof of that. Not much could penetrate her carefully constructed walls, but a button nose with soft paws and floppy ears, and she became a big ball of mush.

  “That’s it,” Shay said, looking at the wall she’d planned on turning into Couture Corner. “What if we make it a catwalk event, where everyone gets to show off their pet?”

  “I can pull out the Halloween inventory left over from last year when it rained,” Peggy added.

  “I like this,” Harper said. “We can charge people an entrance fee and let them get sponsors for the walk if they choose. I bet you we’ll have enough to do all of this and have leftovers to spay and neuter the new pets you will bring in.”

  “If we start the walk at town hall then head up Main Street it can end in front of the new St. Paws,” Shay said. “To introduce people to the new shelter.”

  “I can park my cart out there and offer all kinds of human and pet-friendly foods,” Emerson offered. “All the proceeds could go into the Coat Crusader’s pot.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” Shay said, completely humbled and overwhelmed by the generosity in the room.

  “You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.” Emerson’s look told Shay that her mind was made up so Shay could get on board or get out of the way. “Plus, who knows? Maybe I will be able to book a few gigs that don’t demand chicken tenders and clown shoes.”

  Shay didn’t know a whole lot about Emerson’s past, but she was pretty sure that when Emerson came home from culinary school in Paris, she’d had bigger plans than owning a refurbished hot dog cart and catering birthday parties and bar mitzvahs. But with a kid sister and dependent father to take care of, Shay thought Emerson was doing the best she could. So her offer to help meant a lot.

  “I want to make sure it doesn’t cost you anything,” Shay said sternly.

  “Fine.” Emerson shrugged. “All of the money minus expenses.”

  “Count me in for a case of wine and some of my chocolate-dipped exotic fruits for the winner,” Ida said from the doorway.

  “And I have a bunch of boas left over that I’d love to donate. Can’t have a strut without boas,” Clovis said.

  “Prance,” Peggy clarified. “Animals prance when they feel glamorous.”

  Shay stood up. “The Prance for Paws Charity Pet Walk!”

  “It’s perfect,” Harper said. “Every animal lover in town is going to turn out.”

  “Especially if we sweeten the deal and offer a prize,” Emerson said. “People would totally turn out for pets and money.”

  They would, Shay thought giddily. And all of her fosters would be right there, front and center, glammed out and looking adorable. Who better to adopt her babies than an animal lover? It was like she was creating an event that gave them the best shot of finding their families. So even if Shay was a day or two late on opening her shop, her dogs would be safe.

  “You could do this every year,” Peggy said. “Since Bark in the Park has been moved, you can have your prance the third weekend in August.”

  Shay thought of all of the other shelters and foster parents who lost out because of Shay and Estella’s spat. She could offer them a discounted entry rate so they too could showcase their pets.

  “It’s perfect,” Clovis said.

  Yeah, perfect, Shay thought, taking in the five women who had come to offer their support. Shay hadn’t called them, hadn’t asked for their help, yet they’d shown up anyway with Pita Peddler to-go bags, a case of wine, and something that Shay hadn’t had since her mom died—a sense of belonging.

  The cat was driving him insane.

  It was 6:09 in the morning, on Jonah’s one day to sleep in, and Kitty Fantastic had been staring at him for the past twenty minutes. So close Jonah could smell last night’s tuna on his hot breath.

  To be fair, Kitty Fantastic always got his breakfast and meds at five forty-five, right before Jonah left for work, but today Jonah was on late shift and really wanted to sleep until noon. Kitty wasn’t having it.

  He sat on Jonah’s chest, flicking his tail. At least he wasn’t on the bed or the pillow.

  “Mew.”

  Jonah opened his eyes. “You’ve got kibble.”

  Kitty Fantastic wanted tuna.

  “Sorry buddy, if I feed you wet food, you’re going to fill up the litter box.” Something Jonah wasn’t tolerating. He wanted to sleep a silent, smell-free slumber. “Go back to sleep.”

  Kitty hopped off the bed, and Jonah, with a soul-deep sigh, closed his eyes, enjoying the quiet. His breathing slowed and he started to drift off.

  Jingle. Jingle. Jingle.

  Great, the cat had liberated the stick toy from the bottom of Jonah’s underwear drawer—which meant he’d probably liberated all of Jonah’s underwear in the process.

  Unconcerned with any of that, since he wouldn’t be cleaning it up, Kitty Fantastic perched himself on Jonah’s stomach—and the stick on Jonah’s nuts. A furry paw darted out and tapped the feather, which was on Jonah’s face.

  Jingle.

  “Yeah, jingle, jingle.” He leaned up on his elbows, his eyes so gritty everything took a few minutes to focus. “Do we really need to bond before—”

  Jingle jingle.

  Kitty hunched down low, going as flat as a piece of plywood, his eyes big, tail flicking in anticipation.

  “Right.” Jonah ran a hand over his face, then picked up the stick and wiggled it. The cat jumped back, arched up, and did a weird side-walk thing that made his hair look as though he had gone through the dryer without a fabric softener.

  When he wasn’t stringing the toilet paper from the rafters or using the recliner as his own personal
scratching post, the thing was kind of cute.

  Jonah flicked the string again and the cat went apeshit crazy, darting back and forth across the bed, swiping his paw at the feather, then batting it dead. This went on for a good ten minutes until Kitty Fantastic lay on his side just watching the feather whiz by. With one last flick of the paw, his eyes finally slid closed.

  Thank Christ. It actually worked. Jonah lay back down and, deciding to overlook the fact the cat was on his bed—two inches from his pillow—he too closed his eyes.

  Then the cat started snoring.

  Several hours later Jonah was back at work, trying to keep his mind on the problem at hand, which wasn’t easy due to the headache forming behind his right eye. Jonah jotted down detailed notes as Clovis explained the ongoing situation with Giles as though Jonah were a detective working a case when, in fact, he felt more like a receptionist.

  He had no idea how he’d managed to get stuck on front desk duty and handling this case. Except, oh right, Warren was too busy running for sheriff to do his damn job.

  “That man should be arrested in violation of penal code three fourteen.”

  Jonah dropped his pen. “So you’re saying Giles exposed himself?”

  “I would call wearing a man-hammock to show off his swizzle stick in a public pool all kind of indecent exposures. Wouldn’t you, Deputy?”

  Jonah wanted to tell her that just hearing her complaint was violation enough. “Where did this happen?”

  “At Valley Vintage’s pool.”

  Jonah stopped scribbling and looked up. “And what were you doing there?” Because he knew every resident of the senior community, and Clovis wasn’t one of them. She lived downtown, a good five miles from the place of the supposed incident.

  Clovis stopped, her face going a little flushed. She recovered in record time and flapped a dismissive hand, as though she were the expert on the matters of penal code violations. “That’s irrelevant.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jonah stared at her.

  Clovis stared back, her wrinkles rippling at the expression she adopted. Moments passed, along with a few silent challenges.

  Finally, with an exasperated huff, she plopped her enormous purse on the counter to dig around inside. “I have pictures somewhere, if you need them as evidence for the warrant.”

  Jonah wasn’t buying it. “When did he, uh, expose himself to you?”

  “Not me,” Clovis snapped. “It was that swim teacher.”

  Pausing, she glanced at the other people in the station, then leaned in and lowered her voice, and Jonah was beginning to see the real problem. “Giles has been paying her twenty-five dollars a pop for ‘lessons’ so he can watch her flotation devices up close. Only this week he got bold, faking that he couldn’t swim, and started flapping around. His man-hammock, which he bought at some fancy out-of-town shop, swayed with the current, if you know what I mean.”

  Clovis signaled with her eyes to her lower regions and Jonah threw up a little in his mouth. There was nothing about his uncle’s man-hammock that he was remotely interested in knowing. Although the only reason Giles would go out of town to buy a man-hammock—and there went another gag Jonah had to suppress—was if he was too embarrassed to buy one in town.

  One of the most important rules for getting to the truth of the matter, Jonah knew, was to ask the right question. “Now, Ms. Owens, does this have anything to do with his Pinterest page?”

  A page that was becoming the bane of Jonah’s existence.

  “It’s not a page, it’s a board—his Sexy and Single in St. Helena board—and no.” Clovis folded her arms over her chest—rather under because her arms weren’t long enough to go over. “It most certainly does not.” Although her pained expression told a different story.

  Jonah didn’t argue. He just stood quietly until Clovis’s beady eyes got even beadier, trying to intimidate him into submission. Only Jonah didn’t intimidate easily. Growing up with a sister and great-aunt who weren’t afraid to fight dirty—to use fists, knees, any sharp body part that could do damage—gave Jonah a leg up on the older woman. Unless she was concealing a weapon inside her bag, or aimed her cane at his boys, he wasn’t caving.

  “I think you should bring him in for questioning.”

  Jonah closed his notebook and put it away so he could put his hand on Clovis’s, and softened his voice. She wasn’t mean or vindictive, just a lonely woman with the misfortune of having feelings for a man who was blinded by the latest and greatest model in sweater-kittens. “Maybe instead of trying to get him arrested, you should tell him you want to be friends. Cook up one of your famous lemon-iced fig cakes and take it as a peace offering.”

  “He wouldn’t invite me in,” she said.

  “I don’t know a man in town who could turn away one of your cakes, Ms. Owens.”

  “Oh.” She looked away, shy and nervous—and soaking it all up. “I don’t know about that. Plus, we’d start arguing before we even cut the first slice.”

  “Don’t bring up the board or Celeste, just be yourself. Show him that flotation devices eventually deflate, but an evening with a charming woman who has a big”—Jonah smiled until Clovis was good and flustered—“heart and a wealth of life experiences is a night well spent.”

  “My fig cake,” she said with a shaky nod and collected her cane. He wasn’t sure if she would take his advice, or if he’d solved the problem, but at least the real issue was out in the open.

  He watched her slowly make her way toward the exit and wondered how much energy the older woman expended on covering up the fact that she was lonely.

  A lot, he decided, thinking about his work schedule. A whole hell of a lot.

  “You just earned my vote,” a sweet voice said from the other end of the counter.

  Jonah turned to find the best set of sweater-kittens he’d ever seen in a bright blue sundress held up by tiny straps. The neckline was clearly made to mess with his mind. It fell down into a deep V, and there was just enough fabric to cover her without covering everything. He couldn’t tell if the dress went to the knees or flirted around her thighs—the counter was in the way—but he took his sweet time imagining the latter. Then he imagined a big gust of wind blowing through the door and smiled.

  Desk duty wasn’t looking so bad after all.

  “Well, if doing my job is all it takes to get votes, then maybe there is still hope,” he said, glancing at the woman waiting at the ticketing counter in a WARREN’S GOT BOOTY tee.

  Shay looked over her shoulder and chuckled. “Warren’s the pick of the week, a passing phase.”

  He eyed the woman again and wished he could say he agreed. A few days ago, it wouldn’t have even crossed his mind that a slacker like Warren could wind up as sheriff. Now, he wasn’t so sure. “I hope it passes before the election.”

  She placed her hand on his. Everything about her in that soft dress, with those soulful eyes, called to him. “He needs a badge to prove he’s sheriff quality, a leader. You’re already that man, Jonah, and the town knows that.”

  Jonah looked into her warm eyes and found himself hoping that she included herself in that statement. For some reason, the idea of disappointing her or, worse, being a passing phase in her world, didn’t sit well.

  “And that wasn’t you doing your job. That was you taking care of someone.” He rolled his eyes and she laughed. “What? I think it’s sweet.”

  “Sweet?” he choked. Then to be sure he was clear, he said, “I am not sweet.”

  Sweet was a word someone used when describing a basket of puppies, not someone who carried a Glock and was trained to kill with his hands. It most certainly did not pertain to someone she had X-rated dreams about.

  And that was a problem. Jonah didn’t want to be just another one of Shay’s strays, another lost soul she felt the need to rescue. He wanted to be—well, he wasn’t sure, but it was nowhere near sweet.

  “You so are,” she laughed, then leaned in, showing him a little slice of heaven encased in
hot pink lace. “It’s one of your best-kept secrets, Sheriff. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

  He liked the idea of sharing a secret with Shay, as long as she was willing to be a part of that sharing. Secrets were about give and take and usually led to common ground. And common ground would hopefully get him more sure footing so he could go behind enemy lines and demonstrate just how far from sweet he could be.

  “Thank you,” he said, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Now it’s only fair you tell me one of yours.”

  He was hoping for the secret that led to getting in her panties, because so far he was oh-for-two in that department. But more than that, he wanted to understand how a woman could give herself so completely to her flock of animals but hold herself distant from everything else life had to offer.

  “I don’t have any secrets. I’m an open book.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. Loudly. “Trouble, you are like Pandora’s box.” She pressed her lips tightly together and raised a brow. “Fair is fair.”

  She thought about this, then gave a slow nod, her eyes serious as she leaned in and—hello, that neckline went from V to plunging. So he leaned in too, his chest all kinds of serious as she cleared her throat and made a big deal about lowering her voice.

  “I’m here to get your signature.”

  He liked the sound of that. According to Adam—and Facebook—getting a man’s signature in St. Helena was woman-speak for I’m interested if you are. He looked down at her cleavage again—how could he not?—and grinned, because, yeah, he was interested. “Where would you like me to sign?”

  “Right here,” she said, pulling a form out of her purse and setting it on the counter.

  He could tell by the color and size that it was a permit from the city, and his right eye twitched.

  Impatient as ever, she pushed the permit closer for his viewing ease and he subconsciously stepped back. He looked behind him, disappointed to find not a single other deputy around to hand this off to.

  “You haven’t even read it,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Don’t need to.” The second he touched it, gave it even an ounce of consideration, he’d be sucked into one of her schemes. “I don’t do permits. Shirley, the secretary, does though, and she’ll be back from her break in about ten minutes.”