by Francis Ray
“I understand that you have an eighteenth-century Louis XV double pedestal dining table with the original chairs,” he said. “My wife was in here last week. She wanted me to have a look.”
“Certainly. This way.” Maureen led the man to the table and chairs, planning on telling Traci she’d met a distinguished man, but he was already taken. “By the way, I’m Maureen Gilmore. I own the store.”
“Edward Johnson,” he said.
“Here it is. The rectangular dining table is the most traditional shape and well suited for formal dining.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, running his hand over the back of a chair. “We’ve been looking for some time. We’re renovating a farmhouse in Georgia for our retirement home, but we still plan to entertain a lot.”
“This is a beautiful set. You’ll note the chairs have the original seat coverings.” She moved to pull out the chair and saw the teenager in the Sheraton mirror over the sideboard just as he picked up a cut-crystal inkwell from a nineteenth-century Italian inkstand. He slipped it into his backpack, and headed for the front door.
Her first reaction was shock, quickly followed by anger. Despite her anger, she kept her voice pleasant when she spoke to Mr. Johnson. “Please excuse me. I want to check on the other customer.”
“Go ahead,” he said, pulling out the dining room chair and examining the covering and carving.
Maureen reached the door seconds before the teenager. “I saw what you did.”
Fear flickered in his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “I didn’t ta—”
“Shut up and keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Give me the backpack and sit down until I deal with this customer.”
“I don’t have—”
She pulled her cell out of her jacket pocket and held it up. “Yes, you do.”
“Mrs. Gilmore, when you’re finished, I’d like to ask you a question,” Mr. Johnson said.
“Certainly.” Maureen held out her other hand for the backpack. The teenager eyed her, then the door. “Thinking of trying to get by me is a bad idea. I can promise you I won’t let you go without a struggle, and I’m tired of waiting.” She reached for the backpack herself. He stepped back.
“Is everything all right?” Mr. Johnson called.
“Have it your way.” She pressed 9, letting him see her do it. He quickly shrugged off the backpack and handed it to her. “Sit down until I finish.” Holding his backpack, she went to Mr. Johnson, casually putting the bag on a nearby loveseat. “How can I be of assistance?”
“Are you able to ship merchandise?”
“Yes. I deal with a very reputable firm. Of course, if there’s any damage during shipment your money is refunded,” she told him. “But in the six years I’ve been in business, that’s never happened.”
“Thank you. We’re definitely interested.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better run. I teach at the Citadel and I came on my lunch break.”
She handed him her business card. “Please feel free to come back as many times as you’d like. Good afternoon.”
He nodded and was gone. Maureen turned to see that the young man had grabbed his backpack and was hurrying to the back. He wouldn’t get far. The rear door had a coded combination lock.
Maureen picked up an iron poker as she passed the fire tool set. She had no intention of using it but, after the break-in, she firmly believed the saying “walk softly and carry a big stick.”
“I thought I told you to stay on that sofa.”
He swung around, and his eyes widened as he saw the poker. “You can’t keep me here. I didn’t steal anything. You can check my backpack.”
She glanced around. The crystal inkwell was on the floor. She picked it up and saw the chip on the hinged silver and crystal top. “The inkstand set that was valued at twelve hundred dollars is now worth a fourth of that because of the damage you caused. You owe me eight hundred.”
“It’s just your word against mine.”
Maureen placed the ruined inkwell on her desk. “You might have done something stupid, but you don’t look stupid. Whom do you think the police will believe?”
He moistened his mouth. “Call them then. I don’t have it on me. They can’t do a thing to me.”
He sounded tough, but he trembled. If she called the police, would it solve the bigger problem of why he’d stolen from her? Scare him into not doing it again? “For weeks I’ve given you free rein in my store. You’ve never taken anything before. Why now? Why this?” She motioned toward the inkwell. “You like paintings.”
Folding his arms, he looked away. She wanted to— Heat enveloped her. A shocking wave flushed and dewed her body. She flicked open the fan to cool her face.
The teenager unfolded his arms and looked at her strangely.
“You picked the wrong day to mess with me. Empty the backpack on my desk. Now!”
“I—”
“Do it,” she snapped, fanning faster.
His mouth tight, the boy unzipped the serviceable black backpack and removed several books. As the heat wave subsided Maureen noted he didn’t just upend the pack. He cared about the contents. She also noted the art books from the library, a social studies book, a school ID badge, and a spiral notebook.
She picked up the notebook. His name, address, and phone number were written in neat cursive on the inside of the binder. Flipping the pages, she saw the detailed drawings of buildings, furniture pieces, fruit. “Did you do this?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to mess with me today, Jason.”
His hands went into his pockets. “What if I did? It’s just something I do.”
Maureen could tell he was lying again. He cared about drawing, but was too stubborn to admit it. “I’m going to do something much worse than calling the police.”
His gaze snapped to the poker in her hand. He stumbled back.
“I’m calling your mother.”
A new kind of fear entered his eyes. “She won’t come.”
“Why don’t we see.” Maureen rounded her desk to dial his home number.
The store would close in fifteen minutes, and Jason’s mother had yet to show.
After repeatedly calling the house number for over an hour, Maureen had finally reached Jason’s mother, Phyllis Payne, who sounded more annoyed to be interrupted on her day off while “conducting business” than concerned about her son stealing. After making sure Maureen knew she would not be responsible for her son’s debt, she said she’d be there when she finished. Four hours later, she still hadn’t arrived.
“I told you she wouldn’t come.” Jason, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, thin shoulders hunched, did his best to appear unconcerned, but it was clear by the way he refused to look at Maureen that he was hurt.
What kind of mother wouldn’t come if her son was in trouble? Maureen asked herself. After working with the families of the high school students she and the Sisterhood mentored, she’d learned not to judge. A large majority of the parents were single mothers who had their backs against the wall.
A few might not care, but most had their hands full trying to keep a roof over the family’s head and food on the table, just trying to keep the family together and survive. “Then we’ll just go to her. Get your backpack.”
“Let it go, lady, and I’ll pay you back.”
She folded her arms. “Obviously you don’t have a job. Just where do you plan to honestly earn eight hundred dollars?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t get one,” he said.
She’d heard enough young people speak poorly to realize he came from a home where the mother was educated. The potential was there. He wasn’t lost. “The backpack.”
Giving her a go-to-hell look he went to her office, stuffed the things back inside and shrugged it over his shoulders. Another thing about Jason, he hadn’t cursed her. Even at his angriest. He respected her. He’d learned manners. She was determined to find out why he had been driven to steal.
Maureen rang the doorbell of the neat frame house on a street in an older but well-cared-for neighborhood with clipped lawns.
The door opened and a tall woman with a pretty but unsmiling face answered the door. She was neatly dressed and groomed. Over her shoulder Maureen saw the front room was clean, if sparsely furnished. Beside Maureen, Jason dropped his head. “I’m Maureen Gilmore. I called you about Jason.”
The frown on the woman’s face didn’t clear. “I appreciate the call, but Jason knows the rules. Get into trouble and he’s on his own,” she said.
Since the woman didn’t invite her inside, Maureen didn’t ask. “The cut-crystal inkwell he damaged cost twelve hundred dollars.”
“What?” Her face hardened. “Jason,” she snapped, and his head jerked up. Her gaze drilled into him. “Don’t I have enough trouble with you? First, I have to pay for summer school so you can graduate on time because you were too lazy to check with your counselor about graduation requirements until school was almost out. Now this!” She put one slim hand on her hip. “Why do you want to be like that worthless father of yours?” Her hands flashed out, caught the strap of the backpack, and dragged him into the house.
“How do you propose the debt be paid?” Maureen asked.
“He’ll have to work it off,” his mother said. “He can come to your store after class until the debt is paid.”
Maureen was stunned. “Surely you don’t expect me to let him work in a store where he can steal from me again? Besides, he isn’t knowledgeable about antiques. I don’t need him.”
“I’m not handing over my hard-earned money,” she said. “I told him if he did the crime, he’d pay the time.”
“But he’s your son,” Maureen said, unable to hide her disbelief.
“That doesn’t mean he’s going to ruin my life.” The door closed in Maureen’s face.
C h a p t e r
7
Something was wrong.
Simon didn’t know why Maureen had canceled, but he hadn’t liked hearing the shakiness in her voice. She hadn’t sounded that upset when her house was burglarized. Before the night was over he intended to know the reason.
Calling Ryan and asking him was out. One thing Simon did know was that Maureen wouldn’t appreciate him going behind her back, and he wasn’t so sure she wanted Ryan to know they were attracted to each other.
There was only one thing to do: learn the reason for himself. Getting out of his brother Patrick’s truck, Simon went to Maureen’s door and rang the bell. Patrick, as usual, was with his fiancée, Brianna, one floor down in her condo. Simon had borrowed the truck because his car was being serviced and they hadn’t finished on time. Also, if Ryan and Traci were planning to get together tonight, he didn’t want Ryan wondering why he was there.
The door opened and he knew he had made the right decision. The perpetual smile was missing from Maureen’s face. She looked miserable. “Simon.”
He liked the way his name sounded on her lips. “Good evening, Maureen.” He held up the wicker picnic basket in his hand. “I thought we might have dinner.”
“I—”
“Please,” he coaxed, knowing he’d have to talk fast. “We can eat, and then I can leave and you can get back to work.”
She hesitated, then moved aside. “Please come in.”
“Thank you.” He stepped into the spacious foyer. The beautiful and gracious house was a reflection of the owner. “It’s a nice night. I thought we might eat outside on the terrace, if you don’t mind.”
She looked relieved. “I have a pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator. I’ll get it and some glasses.”
He shook his head. “Everything is in here.”
“You seem to have thought of everything,” she told him, the corners of her mouth lifting.
“I certainly tried.” He took her elbow, watched as she swallowed. Good. He still got to her. He started toward the double glass doors and the lighted terrace. “I even have a tablecloth and napkins.”
“You must have done this before,” she said, then tensed and bit her lip.
Simon pretended not to notice. Maureen was too well mannered to pry or criticize. He didn’t mind if she was a bit jealous, but he wanted her to know how unique and special she was to him. “First time.” Releasing her arm, he opened one of the double French doors and followed her outside to a rectangular glass-topped table near the pool, which was complete with a whirlpool. “I wanted this to be fun and effortless.” Setting the basket on a padded chair, he opened the top and took out a blue plastic tablecloth. He’d noticed blue and cream were the predominant colors in her house.
“Let me help.” She reached for one end of the cloth.
“Thanks.” Together, they set the table and put out the food. “Hope fried chicken is all right.”
“It’s fine. Please sit and I’ll prepare our plates.”
Simon had planned to do that, but he took his seat. She still appeared a bit nervous. Perhaps keeping her busy was for the best. She served, then he held her chair for her. Once seated, he blessed their food. “Can I ask you a question? Two really.”
She tensed immediately, setting her glass of lemonade on the table. “It depends.”
“Why do you keep changing your mind about me?”
She looked away.
“I might be putting my foot in my mouth, but I think you wanted to go out with me when we first met. You accepted the other day, then you canceled. Some women don’t like dating policemen, but you were hesitant before you knew my profession.” He studied her. “You aren’t the indecisive type. Do you mind telling me why you are with me?”
“What is the second question?” she asked.
“Why did you sound so shaky this morning?”
She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Immediately sympathetic, his hand covered hers. He’d thought she had gotten over the burglary. “I’m sorry.”
She peered down at his hand on hers. Simon didn’t even think of moving it. He wanted her to know he cared.
Her head lifted. “It … it didn’t have anything to do with the burglary.”
Instinct told him that her not sleeping and her being upset this morning were related. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Her thick black lashes flew upward as she pulled her hand from beneath his. Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her gaze. “No.”
Since he didn’t want her to be uncomfortable, he changed the subject. “Is tomorrow afternoon around one all right to come by your shop to do the inspection?”
“Yes, but I need to tell you about Jason before then,” she said.
He stiffened. Anger shot through him before he could prevent it. “You’re seeing someone?”
She looked startled, then pleased. “No. Jason is a high school student I caught trying to steal an inkwell today.” She told him everything. “I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t ruin his life.”
“Maureen, I guess you know what a chance you’re taking,” he told her.
“Not as much as you might think. He’s been to the store many times in the past. This is the first time that he’s taken anything,” she told him. “Jason can be saved.”
His hand swept down her arm, giving in to the desire to touch her; her skin felt as soft as he’d dreamed. “For both your sakes, I hope you’re right. There’s nothing worse than facing the reality that, no matter what you do, you can’t keep a person from going down the wrong road.”
“One of your teens?” she asked.
“More than one.” He blew out a breath. “I worked with a lot of them in Myrtle Beach. I’m doing the same thing here with another policeman coaching a basketball team. They think they’re tough and know all the answers. When reality slaps them in the face, many of them act tough when you can see the fear in their eyes.”
“Jason was the same way,” she revealed. “He’s scared of his mother, yet something stronger than that fear made him take that inkwell. He
never even looked at it before. I’ve watched him. His interest is painting, and he’s good at it.”
“It would be my guess that he did it for a gang initiation,” Simon said. “The more valuable, the higher his standing. He hadn’t reckoned on you.”
“He picked the wrong day to mess with me,” she said, her mouth tight.
“Hopefully the day has gotten better,” he said.
She smiled. “It has. Thanks to you.”
He smiled back. “Can I press my advantage and ask you to go out with me on my brother’s boat this weekend? He and his fiancée might join us; that is, if they aren’t doing last-minute preparations for their wedding.”
Her face softened. “They must be excited.”
Simon chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly. They glow when they’re together. Her parents and my older brother and his wife are the same way.”
“That’s how it should be,” Maureen said quietly.
“No one has to tell me that you and your husband were happy,” he told her.
“Yes, we were. When he first died I didn’t think I could go on, until I remembered what he always said to me.” Her face grew thoughtful, her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “‘Remembering me with a smile, living your life to the fullest, is the greatest tribute you could give our love.’”
“Sounds as if he was a wise and unselfish man.”
“He was.” A sigh fluttered softly over her lips. “Ryan reminds me of him so much.”
“Is he spending the night again?”
“No. I refuse to let them make me afraid to live in my own house,” she said, her face defiant.
“Glad to hear it.” He came to his feet and began cleaning up the table. “I’d better get out of here and let you get back to work.”
Maureen came slowly to her feet. She didn’t want him to go. She’d enjoyed talking to him. And not once had she had a HF. “If the offer is still open, I’d like to go out Sunday afternoon.”
“Will three be all right?” He paused in putting the lid on the potato salad.
