by Gayle Wilson
“No,” she said truthfully.
“Well, that’s good,” Maggie said, sounding relieved. “Babies come when they will. When the good Lord wants them to.”
Or when you don’t do anything to prevent them, Abby thought, almost amused by the fatalistic comfort the woman offered.
“I’m gonna take his plate on up. You want me to fix yours before I go? Or maybe you just want to drink your coffee in peace.”
“Just the coffee, thanks,” Abby said, lifting her head from her pretended concentration on her mug to smile her thanks. “Just for now anyway, Maggie.”
“Don’t you let him mess with your head,” Maggie warned.
Abby’s question must have been reflected in her eyes.
“That one’s not an easy man, for sure,” Maggie went on. “He don’t let things rest. Always thinking about stuff. That’s half of what’s wrong with him. I done told him that.”
She turned back to the stove and began dipping eggs and sausage and grits onto a thick stoneware plate.
Or maybe what’s wrong with him is that suddenly he’s blind and has forgotten a big chunk of his life, Abby thought. A part of his life which, good agent that he was, Nick Deandro would probably give anything to remember. All that was surely enough, she decided, to justify a little ill temper. Maybe even enough to explain what he had said on the stairs last night.
Maggie was right. Nick thought things through carefully. Abby had been aware of that even in the short time she had known him before he was shot. Always thinking everything through. Like what he had been trying to find out when he confronted her last night—the real reason Rob Andrews had sent her here.
That’s what had kept her awake last night. Knowing that she’d better get prepared, because eventually Nick was going to figure that part out. And she needed to decide what she was going to tell him when he did.
WHEN THE GROUNDS alarm went off a few minutes later, Abby was truly surprised, despite her previous concerns about loose security. She eased herself up out of the kitchen chair, easing her gun out at the same time. She had been hiding out in the kitchen, she supposed, drinking coffee while Nick Deandro ate his breakfast upstairs.
But if the alternative to hiding was another meeting like the one last night, then she had decided that she preferred being a coward. After her bath this morning she had left off the customary and unthinking dabs of perfume. No more memory triggers until she was ready to deal with their possible effects.
Maggie, who had just returned from her trip upstairs, looked over at the alarm box. “Front walk,” she said nonchalantly. “We got us some company.” Her eyes returned to the plate she was dishing up for Abby, leaving Abby to walk over to kill the alarm. Apparently feeding her was more important to Maggie than the fact that someone had come calling
But the caretaker might not realize the implications of this unannounced visitor, Abby thought. The implications of any visitor who had shown up at what was supposed to be a safe house without phoning ahead. Abby hurried through the dim entry hall and slipped into the dining room. She twitched the damask draperies aside a fraction of an inch to look out.
A marked police car, topped with the unmistakable bar of multicolored lights, was sitting where Rob had parked his car yesterday. And the man coming up the walk wore a khaki uniform, his narrow hips circled by a thick black gun belt holding all the necessary implements of his profession. The local law, Abby thought. Sheriff whatever-the-hell-his-name-was.
He was above medium height, but not as tall as Nick, she decided, watching him walk, and he was far more wiry in build. His hair was brown, threaded with streaks of blond or gray that caught the dots of sunlight that were being diffused through the avenue of oaks.
Abby tried to remember the name Mickey Yates had said. Broussard? She shook her head, knowing that wasn’t right, but she dropped the curtain she’d been holding and started to the front door. The bell rang before she reached it.
When she opened the door, the .38 still in her hand but again concealed behind her leg, she watched the sheriff’s eyes widen. They were blue, darker and richer in color than Nick’s. His skin had been darkly weathered, but the lines in it were interesting, especially the minute white ones that fanned out from the corners of his eyes, marks put there by constantly squinting into the strong glare of the Southern sun.
His cheeks were lean enough that the slow smile he gave her creased them. He had taken off his hat, and he dangled it now in the fingers of his left hand, right in front of the buckle of the belt that held his own gun.
“Can I help you, Sheriff?” Abby said.
His eyes held hers another moment, but he couldn’t resist. She watched the blue gaze slide downward to her waistline, examine it quickly, and then come back up to meet hers again.
“Captain Andrews gave me a call yesterday afternoon. Said someone new was coming out. I thought I’d drop by to introduce myself. Let you know we’re around if you have any trouble.”
“Then I guess I don’t have to call your office and report that the alarm you just set off doesn’t mean anything,” Abby said.
It was a rebuke, and the blue eyes indicated that he had gotten her message: He should have called. According to Rob, this guy was aware of what was going on out here, even if he didn’t know who it was they had in protection.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
She nodded. And then she let the silence build. He was the one who had come out here unannounced and uninvited. He must have had some reason. Maybe just curiosity. Maybe boredom. But she hadn’t called him and asked him to show up, so conversation should be his responsibility.
“Everything going okay?” he asked finally.
“Everything seems to be fine,” she agreed.
“Do I smell Maggie’s coffee?” He cocked his head a little, raising his nose like a hunting dog. He shifted his weight at the same time, the boards of the old veranda creaking under his polished boots.
Local law, she thought again, trying to decide. Local law whose goodwill she just might need. There was no harm, she supposed, in giving the man a cup of coffee. Rob had vouched for him, and judging from Nick’s behavior in the last twenty-four hours, there was little danger of the sheriff running into their reclusive witness.
“And you probably can smell Maggie’s breakfast as well,” she said. Cops and doughnut shops, Abby thought in amusement. But she had eaten more than a couple of complimentary beignets in her career. “Have you had your breakfast, Sheriff?”
His lips didn’t move, but his eyes were suddenly filled with an answering amusement. It lightened the blue. He was really a very attractive man, Abby thought. Not handsome, but rugged-looking A Marlboro-Man type, especially in the khaki uniform.
“Not that kind,” he said. “Not Maggie’s kind of breakfast.”
“Then why don’t you come in,” she invited. “I’m Abby Sterling, by the way.”
She stepped back from the door and slipped her gun back into its holster. She supposed it looked ridiculous worn over the long pink sweater, which was cut full enough to cover the bulge of the baby. She had given in and bought a few pairs of maternity slacks and some jeans, but she had refused to even consider the tentlike tops that she had fingered and then rejected at Wal-Mart.
For some reason, she was very aware of the sheriff behind her as she walked, leading the way through the dimness of the hall and into the brighter kitchen. Maggie turned as they entered. She had already set two plates on the kitchen table, and she was again holding the metal coffeepot, ready to add coffee to the two mugs that sat beside them.
“Maggie,” the sheriff said. “How you doing this morning?”
“Doing fine, Sheriff Blanchard,” Maggie said, directing a stream of dark liquid expertly into the mug Abby had been using before the alarm went off. “How you doing?” she asked without lifting her eyes.
At least now she had his name, Abby thought. That might be convenient since it appeared she was going to be havi
ng breakfast with him. And she was hungry, she realized, even if breakfast was not one of her favorite meals. Even if this one might be more appropriate for a stevedore down at the docks than for a woman her size. What Maggie had put on the two plates while she answered the door looked very good.
“Y’all sit down,” Maggie urged, “’fore it all gets too cold to be fit to eat.”
Blanchard moved before Abby could, politely pulling out her chair. She glanced at him, but his face was innocent of any expression. As she sat down, she thought she saw movement at the corner of his mouth, but she couldn’t be sure.
When he took his place at the table across from her, sitting down with a creak of leather, an almost pleasant noise Abby was certainly accustomed to, his face and his eyes were as guileless as a schoolboy’s. After a few minutes, amused by her realization, she decided that he had an appetite to match.
Maggie waited on them with careful but unobtrusive attention, keeping the coffee hot and the buttered biscuits in the basket replenished. Abby lost count, but she thought Sheriff Blanchard had eaten six of those.
“How do you manage to do that?” Abby asked finally as he began to spread pear preserves on another. Judging by the mason jar the preserves were in and the paper label that included nothing but a date, Abby guessed Maggie had made those, too.
The sheriff’s blue eyes lifted from the biscuit to question hers. “Manage what?” he asked.
“To eat like that and still stay…in shape?”
“My daddy never put on weight either. Ate like a horse and never gained an ounce. Good metabolism, I guess. Or the fact that taking care of this parish keeps you plenty busy.”
“I understand your daddy was sheriff here before you?” Abby picked up her coffee, looking at him over the rim of the mug, politely waiting for his answer before she took the next sip.
“Captain Andrews tell you that?”
She nodded. His eyes had moved to Maggie, who was standing at the sink, her back to them as she washed the pots and pans she had used to cook breakfast.
“He was sheriff here for more than thirty years,” Blanchard said, his gaze shifting back to hers after a few seconds. “I grew up in that office. Felt like Opie most all my life.”
She laughed aloud, the sound quick and spontaneous, and after a moment he joined her. “And that’s not such a bad life, either, I guess,” he added softly.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Abby agreed. “It must be pretty quiet around here.”
“Most of the time. A few fights. Drunks. Some domestic violence, usually as a result of too much beer. No gangs. No drugs. Not that I know of, anyways. It’s easier to keep all that out of here. Easier than someplace like New Orleans.”
She nodded agreement, taking another sip of her coffee.
“So how’d you end up being a cop?” he asked. “Somebody like you.”
“Somebody like me?” she repeated, her eyes lifting to his.
“Refined, I guess I mean. Probably college-educated. And I know what cops make in New Orleans. What y’all do for that little bit of money doesn’t seem to me like it’s worth the risk.”
“You’re a cop,” she said, smiling at him. She had heard this or a variation of it a hundred times. She still didn’t have an answer. Not one that made much sense to most people.
“Not there. I go home at night, and I sleep real good. Most nights, anyways. Not a call. Not a problem. And there’s not any of the real meanness you all got to deal with. Crazy folks cutting each other up for a dollar or a dime bag. Drug dealers. Mafia. And I got respect in this parish. Nobody looks at me like I’m not fit to sweep trash off the sidewalks.”
Abby couldn’t deny that was the attitude of most citizens of the Crescent City toward their police force, especially given the corruption that had come to light in the last few years. But she had grown tired of trying to defend the cops in her city, so she decided to answer his original question instead.
“We all get in law enforcement for the same reasons, I think,” she said. “Ultimately the same reasons. Trying to do good. To make a difference. Fight the bad guys.”
“Protect the women and the children,” he added with a touch of mockery, but his smile had reached his eyes again.
Hers was a familiar litany, she supposed. Even she had wondered, especially since she had been involved in the corruption investigation, if there was anyone else left who still believed in all that.
She couldn’t really explain why she was a cop. Not, apparently, in any way that made sense. Not even to another law-enforcement officer.
“I got to go,” he said, pushing up from the table, gun belt creaking again. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Sterling. Maggie, you did yourself proud this morning.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Maggie said without turning around.
“I’ll walk you out to the front,” Abby offered, sliding her chair back. He was there before she could get up, pulling it out for her and putting his hand under her elbow, much as Rob had done yesterday.
She didn’t pull away, but she met his eyes, letting hers reflect the tinge of coolness that was appropriate. He removed his hand, but he didn’t hurry over the process.
Because he was a man who was very secure about just exactly who he was, Abby thought. About his masculinity. And secure in his position down here. His power. Opie Taylor all grown up and right at home.
MAGGIE HAD ALREADY cleaned off the table when Abby got back to the kitchen. She was scrubbing the dishes they had used in fresh dishwater, the bubbles foaming around the sunburned darkness of her freckled hands as she worked.
“I think he liked your biscuits,” Abby offered. She walked over to the alarm box, intending to give the sheriff time to get out of the range of the sensors before she turned it back on.
The sound Maggie made in response was part harrumph and part something else. Surprised, Abby turned to look at her. Her back was stiff under the starched cotton of the housedress she wore.
“Should I not have invited him in?” Abby asked.
No answer beyond the soft clink of the dishes Maggie was handling. She turned on the hot water, letting it push the soap off the plate she held under its stream. Then she put the dish into the drain tray, and shut off the water with her elbow.
“Maggie?” Abby questioned.
“It don’t matter,” she said. Her voice was as stiff as her shoulders, thin and tight beneath the faded cotton print.
“I won’t ask him in again if you don’t want me to.”
There was something going on here that Abby didn’t understand, but it was obvious Maggie was annoyed. Or upset. And the only thing that had happened that might have brought that about, that might have changed the relationship that had been growing between them, was Sheriff Blanchard’s visit.
“It don’t make no never mind to me what y’all do. Food was here. He might as well eat as not.”
Abby hesitated, still unsure what had provoked this reaction. Finally she nodded, and then felt foolish because Maggie still had not looked at her. She armed the system and waited a second to make sure that all was well.
When she turned around, Maggie was watching her over her shoulder. The caretaker’s head turned quickly, the dark eyes dropped, and her attention seemingly returned to the dishes in the drain tray.
“Is there something I should know about Sheriff Blanchard, Maggie? Something I don’t know that you need to tell me?” Abby asked softly. Woman to woman. There had been an element of trust in their short friendship. She’d hate for something to happen that would destroy that.
“I don’t know nothing about that man. Nothing that everybody else in this parish don’t know, too.”
Unconsciously, Abby nodded. This was turning out to be a hell of an assignment, she thought. Nick Deandro was hiding out upstairs. She was avoiding him by hiding down here. In the meantime, she had invited into this supposed safe house someone that Maggie, who had lived in this parish all her life, didn’t like. Obviously didn’t like. Or didn’t
trust.
Opie Taylor, indeed.
Chapter Four
By the end of her first week at the safe house, Abby realized that Mickey Yates had been exactly right in what he’d told her. There was really nothing to do out here.
And if it hadn’t been for seeing the occasional light out on the bayou, her periodic phone conversations with Rob, and Sheriff Blanchard’s visits, she might have been forced to wonder if there was a world still functioning beyond that quiet avenue of oaks.
At first she had been amused when Blanchard arrived every morning, just in time for breakfast, almost as if he could smell Maggie’s cooking all the way to his office. Maggie had begun setting two places at the table, although she still treated the sheriff as if he weren’t welcome. Abby had never solved the puzzle of Maggie’s attitude, and it hadn’t gotten any better.
However, the more Abby was around the sheriff, the more she liked his quiet humor and easy manner. Apparently he felt the same way about her. The last two days he’d shown up in the late afternoon, on his way home, he said, and tonight he’d accepted her invitation to stay for supper. She welcomed the company, and after all, he presented her with no cause for anxiety. Indeed his frequent presence out here was reassuring.
After that first morning, Blanchard was careful to phone ahead so she could cut off the alarms. He was still friendly, and he hadn’t again stepped over the line of being familiar. He was a fellow law-enforcement officer, so they had a lot of things in common, a lot to talk about.
And as the slow days had passed, Abby found herself looking forward to his arrival. Another voice. Just someone to talk to. And if this existence was lonely and boring for her, she often wondered, what must these last few months out here have been like for a man who had once been as vital and active as Nick Deandro?
Nick, she thought again, always coming back to the same problem. Surprisingly, there had been no further confrontations with the man she had been sent out here to protect. Indeed, she had seldom seen him in the last seven days. Given what had happened on the stairs that first night, she supposed she should be grateful for that, as she began to slip out of her clothes at the end of another long, uneventful day.
