Nights Under the Tennessee Stars

by Joanne Rock

  She looked up and down the street to see if anyone was around. Main Street was quiet for midday, however. The front door of Last Chance Vintage was open, and she could hear the country music Heather liked floating on the breeze, but other than that, the storefront was still.

  As she crossed the street and neared the car, she could see a note taped to the top of the basket—“I have a much better surprise for you this time.”

  The words were scrawled in thick black marker in—she was almost positive—Remy’s handwriting. Besides, who else would leave a note about surprises?

  Her pulse kicked into high, hopeful gear way too fast. She should be careful about this. Cautious. Wary. He’d hurt her before, after all.

  Yet, her trembling hands didn’t care what her head said. She lifted the hamper lid. Taped inside the top was another note. But this one was scribbled in her handwriting, the very same instructions she’d left for Remy that last day they’d been together—directions to the Harpeth River for the fishing trip she’d suggested.

  What on earth? She had only a moment to wonder what he had in mind. Inside the picnic basket was a bottle of wine—the same Chianti he’d brought to her house that first night. Cheese and crackers—the cheese was still cool—and some grapes. There were glasses and silverware, plates, napkins and a bakery box that could contain only one thing.

  Cupcakes.

  A small gasp escaped her lips. Hopeful tears burned her eyes, the feeling so much different than all the tears she’d shed in the past four weeks.

  Underneath all of it, she found an MP3 player with a note taped to it. “Play me.”

  The note was in Sarah’s handwriting. The letters were colored with purple stripes of ink. So, gathering up her basket and the tattered remains of her hopeful heart, she put everything inside her car and headed for the Harpeth River.

  Hands still shaking, she plugged in the MP3 player and hit the only icon on the screen, labeled “Erin’s Songs.” There was a short list of titles in French. Or more likely, Cajun. But the first on the playlist was labeled “From Sarah.”

  “Hi, Erin.” Sarah’s voice filled the car as Erin drove east out of town. “I sneaked in a quick heads-up to you because even though Dad is super excited about his surprise, I know he’s also really nervous. And I’m excited and nervous, too, and hate it that I can’t be there to see how things turn out. But—amazingly—I have a college interview this week.”

  Erin smiled as she listened, her heart in her throat to think about Sarah and Remy planning a surprise for her.

  She missed them so, so much. She put on her signal light for the left-hand turn.

  “Anyway, I want you to know I miss you and love you no matter how today goes, okay? I’ll tell you about my interview if you’d like to hear. But the main thing I wanted to tell you is this. Dad is trying. I’m not just saying that because he’s my dad, either. He’s, like, really trying.”

  Erin listened for a few more minutes as Sarah chatted about how much she missed Tennessee and Lucas. About how she wanted to decorate her dorm room with mirrors like the one Erin had given her. And also about her graduation ceremony and the creepy teacher who tried to hit on her dad and how Sarah had to throw herself between them to prevent the woman from using the occasion as an excuse to kiss his cheek.

  By the time she reached the pull-off for the fishing spot, Erin felt she’d had a good pep talk from a friend. A friend she hoped would be a much bigger part of her life.

  The parking area sat empty except for one white Lincoln with out-of-state plates that had to be a rental car. Still, she remained in her seat with the doors locked while she took in the scene. Bayou music played on her MP3 player—fiddles and accordions that would make her feet tap if she wasn’t so nervous.

  A canoe floated in the water, tied to a short wooden dock. A mouthwatering man sat in the boat, his profile so achingly familiar she knew every nuance of expression on his face as he turned his gaze to her. A blanket had been spread on the seat facing him. An antique parasol, which happened to be for sale at Last Chance Vintage just yesterday, rested at an angle to shade the empty seat. Fishing poles and a small silver tackle box were tucked behind him.

  Standing carefully, he stepped out of the boat and jogged up the hill toward her. Her heart beat with new purpose, as if it had been in a state of suspended animation for the past four weeks and only just now recalled how to function the right way.

  “You came.” He stopped just short of her, his hazel gaze roaming all over her. “Thank you for that.”

  He seemed relieved. And yes, nervous.

  That made two of them.

  “I like surprises more these days.” Her voice sounded odd, as if she hadn’t spoken in a while.

  “I messed up the last one, but I worked really hard on this one.” He sidestepped to the passenger side of her car and pulled out the picnic basket.

  “You sure came a long way for a picnic.” She felt so uncertain, she wasn’t sure she could get in the canoe until she understood what he wanted. What he hoped to gain from coming here.

  In the trees, birds chirped and whistled. The water gurgled around a small cove, but for the most part, the river provided a calm, easy place to paddle a boat or fish. The weather had turned warmer and Erin’s bare arms were hot from the sun.

  Remy’s cargo shorts and T-shirt showcased lean muscle. He eyed her as if he wasn’t sure where to go next. But then, apparently coming to a decision, he put the picnic basket on the ground. His hands caressed her shoulders.

  “Erin. I love you. I came all this way to say that, but I am ready to show you in every way possible, if you’ll give me another chance.”

  Speechless, her mouth fell open.

  “It’s okay. You don’t need to answer or anything. I just... I’ve had a lot of things building up that I want to say to you if I can just get it all out.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I know I wasn’t ready before, and I was scared to think about a future with you when I wasn’t doing very well on my own. Or with Sarah. I figured I had to be more—sure of myself—before I could make you happy.” He stepped closer, the clean, masculine scent of him making her want to drag in deep breaths. “But the thing is, I would have never felt like that—restless and dissatisfied with myself—if I wasn’t full-on, one-hundred-percent crazy about you. You make me want to be better.”

  Her heart sang at his words. Her eyes stung with tears at the rightness of the moment. But he wasn’t finished yet.

  “I’ve thought about this a lot. And I’m going to save a little more from the shows I’m producing next year and then I’ll be ready to go back to photography, which will give me a lot more flexibility. And happiness.”

  Erin still couldn’t make her mouth move or her brain function. She just dived into his chest and squeezed him tight. Tighter.

  “I’ve missed you so, so much,” she finally managed to say, crying softly against his shoulder and wetting his T-shirt. “I knew we were right together and it hurt terribly when things were falling apart, but I didn’t know how to fix it.”

  “I’m fixing it.” His hands stroked up and down her spine, his broad palms warming her from the outside while his words soothed her insides. “I’m fixing me, Erin. That was the problem the whole time. You’re incredible. And loving. And patient with me.” He kissed the top of her head. “Beautiful, too. I like the highlights.”

  Happiness filled her to overflowing. This was real. This amazing man loved her.

  “I love you.” She wiped her eyes and met his gaze, knowing she wanted to look into his eyes for the rest of her life. “I knew it, even before you left, but I could tell you weren’t ready, and I was scared to admit to myself how much I’d already gotten in over my head.”

  “Marry me, Erin.” His arms circled her waist, his eyes filling with love and an intensity that humbled her. “I want to spend every day of my life with you. Here, when you travel, or wherever you go. I want to be with you
.”

  “Oh!” A shocked gulp caught in her throat. “That really is a surprise. A huge surprise.” She realized he’d taken her breath away. “Honestly?”

  “Sarah and I debated for an hour whether I should buy you a ring or wait for you to choose one. But we thought—if there was any chance you heard me out long enough to get to this part—well, we thought you might want a vintage ring we look for together.” He stroked her hair and tenderly kissed the back of each hand.

  He kissed the ring finger on her left hand longest and she melted.

  “Yes. Yes.” She lifted her voice to shout it. “Yes!”

  Startled birds took flight as she jumped into Remy’s arms and let him spin her around.

  “Yes to all of it,” she whispered in his ear, barely daring to believe her dreams were coming true. “I want to be with you forever. I’m going to make you so happy.”

  He scooped her up off her feet. “Starting right now.” He grabbed the picnic basket with the other hand and marched them down the hill toward the canoe. “We’re going to have the best damn picnic ever. Right after we catch the biggest fish.”

  “You mean right after you kiss me.” She arched up closer to brush her lips over his.

  “That part is a before, during and after kind of thing,” he said, pausing long enough to kiss her thoroughly. Kiss her senseless. “I picture a lot more of that happening.”

  She still felt as if they were spinning when he settled her onto the blanket in the canoe.

  “This is the best surprise.” She stared up at him as he situated the picnic basket between them.

  Sunlight limned his shoulders and his golden-brown hair, reminding her what he must look like paddling his pirogue through the bayou waters. She’d found a smart, charming, thoroughly devoted man she could trust with her heart forever.

  “And the good news is, it’s only just started,” he reminded her, sitting down and stretching out his long legs. “We’ve got a lot of plans to make, Erin Finley-soon-to-be-Weldon.”

  Oh, she liked how that sounded.

  “But you know what we need to do first, right?” She pulled her phone out of her purse and opened up her messaging screen.

  Remy grinned. “I have a good idea.”

  “Can we take a quick picture?” She leaned toward him and held up the camera for a romantic selfie. At the last second, he turned and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  It was, quite possibly, the cutest picture ever.

  Erin attached the photo to her text message to Sarah and typed out three words—I said yes.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from TO LOVE A COP by Janice Kay Johnson.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  “WILL YOU LOOK at this,” a complete stranger said reverently.

  Only a few feet away, among the crowd in the aisle between vendor tables at this opening day of the gun show, Ethan Winter couldn’t resist taking that look, even if the guy hadn’t been talking to him.

  The price tag caught his eye first. $12,500. He had to shake his head, even if it was a Perazzi MX3 ORO twelve-gauge shotgun with original case lying there. Engraving, gold inlays, damn near mint condition.

  Still nothing that would tempt him. After a moment, Ethan wandered on, leaving a cluster of men staring covetously at the shotgun and listening to the vendor expound on its virtues. His gaze continued to rove the exhibit hall, and he half listened to the buzz of conversation around him, picking out snippets here and there.

  He wasn’t a collector, and wasn’t in the market for a new weapon. Like many in law enforcement, he carried a fourth-generation Glock .40 caliber and was accustomed to its feel at the range and on his hip. He had friends who liked to upgrade more often than he replaced his vehicles, and, sure, there were some nice handguns out there. Once in a while at the range, he’d try out something new and always handed it back without any inclination to whip out his credit card. His Glock had saved his life, and that was good enough for him.

  He was here today to keep an eye on the crowd, not the merchandise. It was something of a personal mission he’d taken on the past few years, after watching and reading coverage of too many mass shootings, the weapons purchased at gun shows like this. He hadn’t told anyone else what he was doing. Odds were against him ever witnessing anything significant. Big as this exhibition hall at the Portland Expo Center was, a deranged individual could be buying an armory worth of weapons right this minute two aisles away without him seeing a thing.

  Still...there hadn’t been anything special he’d wanted to do today. And you never knew.

  To avoid standing out, he needed to look at something besides faces, though. He actually enjoyed studying some of the antique guns. In fact, a minute later he was contemplating a Confederate revolver, imported from England into New Orleans in 1861. He knew the A.B. Griswold revolver was often carried by Confederate officers. This one was in good enough condition to have a price tag of $9,500. He winced again.

  “Man, that is so cool.”

  He turned slowly, his attention caught by how youthful this voice sounded.

  And, yeah, it was a kid standing at the next vendor, looking down at a semiautomatic rifle. Ethan carried a similar one in his police vehicle. The one for sale was equipped with a fixed sight. It looked, and was, lethal, manufactured for the tactical professional. The kid’s expression was eager enough to bother Ethan.

  “You don’t look old enough to be shopping for anything like this,” the vendor said easily, and to his credit. Plenty of people brought their kids to gun shows, but Ethan didn’t see a parent nearby.

  “Huh?” The boy lifted his head. “Oh, my dad’s around. I was just getting bored.”

  “Ah.” The vendor, a middle-aged, balding man, started talking about the DDLE duty rifle’s effectiveness and versatility. The kid seemed to be drinking up every detail.

  Ethan drifted on, but not far. He wondered a little about the boy, who, at a guess, might be thirteen, fourteen at the oldest. Hard to tell, when some boys shot up way younger, and others lagged. This one was skinny, five foot seven or eight, with dark hair and eyes. Seemed early for him to be out of school, but middle schools and high schools did let out pretty early in the afternoon. Still, Ethan didn’t see any other kids yet. Today was Friday, and the show had opened at noon. Right now it was—he checked his watch—barely two thirty. Most of the business would come on Saturday and Sunday, although the crowd so far was respectable and he’d seen a few sales taking place already.

  The boy moved on, too. He appeared uninterested in the antique weapons, although he paused briefly to study a World War II “Liberator” .45 pistol, a strange looking, stubby weapon made by General Motors to be air-dropped to Resistance fighters in Europe. Maintaining a little distance between himself and the boy, Ethan paused to look at that one, too.

  Mostly, the kid was fixated on semiautomatic handguns. The Heckler & Koch VP9, a new Beretta, the oversize Desert Eagle, an HK polymer-frame pistol with a barrel threaded to accept a suppressor.

  And fixated was the word. He looked at every one of those damn guns with a hunger that disturbed Ethan. This kid could care less about .22 rifles, hunting rifles, BB guns. Nope, he was fascinated by handguns designed for the sole purpose of killing human beings.

  And Dad was nowhere to be se
en.

  Nothing and no one else caught Ethan’s attention, so he kept wandering at roughly the same speed the boy did. Finally, curiosity overcame him and he stopped right next to the boy, who was currently studying a FNH FNP-40, another polymer handgun.

  “I’ve fired that one,” Ethan said with a nod. “Nicely balanced.”

  The kid looked at him eagerly. “Really? At the range?”

  “Yeah, friend of mine has one. He says it felt like his best friend the first time he shot it.” Ethan was careful to keep his posture relaxed to avoid any hint of threat. He was a big man, towering over the kid.

  The boy’s gaze slid to his holstered weapon. “That’s a Glock, isn’t it?” He was hungry still, but there was an extra hint of heat in those dark eyes taking in the butt of the Glock. It was as if he was looking at a favorite food that had made him sick the last time he’d eaten it.

  Or maybe I’m imagining things, Ethan thought. “It’s a Glock 22,” he agreed.

  “Are you a cop? Lots of cops carry those, don’t they?”

  “They do, and I am.” Ethan held out his hand. “Detective Ethan Winter, Portland Police Bureau.”

  They shook hands.

  “So you don’t wear a uniform anymore? Or is this your day off?”

  “It is my day off, but I don’t wear a uniform on the job, either, except for special occasions.”

  “Do you work homicide?”

  Ethan shook his head. “I may request a transfer there someday, but I’m currently part of the unit that investigates assaults and bias crimes.”

  “What are you talking about, bias crimes?”

  “We’re plugging up the works here.” Ethan nodded. “Let’s get out of the way so we’re not blocking the table.”

  The vendor nodded his appreciation. “Can’t interest you in this FNP, Detective? Since you liked the feel?”

  “I’m happy with what I carry. Familiarity is important.”

  The man smiled and shrugged both. “Can’t argue with that.”