Carolina Blues

by Virginia Kantra

  “Lauren.” Meg flashed a smile, setting the cookies on the table in the hall. “How’d it go today?”

  It. The writing? Or the panic attacks?

  Lauren made an effort to breathe. To smile. “Oh, you know. It’s going. Sort of. Nowhere.”

  “Well, you just got here. You need to give yourself some time.” Meg’s tone was encouraging, but her eyes were worried. “It’ll take a while for you to find your rhythm.”

  As if a change of pace or place would fix what was wrong with her.

  “I’m sorry,” Lauren said humbly. “I’m screwing things up for you, too. Did you hear back from that writers’ group in Maryland?”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Meg said. “I’m handling your schedule. You concentrate on your writing. No pressure.”

  Lauren pressed her lips together to stop a hysterical bubble of laughter from escaping. No pressure. Except she was letting everybody down. Not just Meg and her editor and agent. Everybody. Including herself.

  For the last twelve years, ever since her dad died, Lauren had been the responsible one, the one Mom and Noah could count on. Dad’s life insurance hadn’t even paid off the mortgage on the house. And with Noah applying to colleges . . . And the other obligations she’d taken on . . .

  Lauren felt her chest tighten, smothered by the press of obligations. She was dying inside.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Meg said. “You got a letter.”

  Lauren froze. A letter. Not a bill. She paid those online. Reader mail went to a PO box, almost everything else to her mother’s house. Thirty-one years old, and my permanent address is the house I grew up in. The only person she knew who wouldn’t contact her by e-mail was . . .

  Meg emerged from the office alcove, waving a thin white envelope with the Illinois Department of Corrections prisoner number printed neatly in one corner. “Here you go.”

  Ben.

  Lauren swallowed and took the envelope.

  Meg continued to watch her with those too-perceptive, too-sympathetic eyes. “Everything all right?”

  Lauren forced herself to smile. “Fine.”

  If anything was wrong, Ben would have called. He had her number. She was on his approved list of contacts. She took a slow, deep breath.

  “Want a cookie?” Meg asked.

  She shook her head mutely.

  “Oxygen?”

  Lauren’s breath sputtered out on a laugh. “I’m fine.”

  “How about a glass of wine?”

  Alcohol, the drug of choice for self-medicated clients everywhere. The traditional antidote for writer’s block.

  She had a sudden vision of Jack Rossi’s strong, dark face, his flat Philly accent. Guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, either.

  Her smile this time came more easily. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  The letter would keep. Ben wasn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t be out of prison for at least another six years. She winced.

  “Right this way,” Meg said.

  Lauren followed her down the cozy paneled hallway toward the kitchen. The inn guests took breakfast in the dining room. She hadn’t visited the family quarters before.

  “Wow.” She stopped, taking in the sleek granite counters and warm oak cabinets, the stainless steel appliances and wide-planked wooden floor. Herbs bloomed in pots on the windowsill. Peaches shared a bowl with the mail on the long farm table. “This is really nice. Homey.”

  Meg pulled down two wineglasses. “Well, it’s not your average hotel.”

  “You’re telling me,” Lauren said with feeling. “When I was on my book tour, I was grateful for peanuts in the minibar.”

  Especially on those days when she couldn’t summon the courage to leave her room.

  She pressed her hand under her rib cage. Breathe in, two, three, four . . .

  Her mother wanted her to live at home again. As if being together under one roof would magically return them all to the time when her father was alive, when their family was safe and secure and whole. If Mom had her way, Lauren would never go back to school, never run another errand, never go anyplace where armed men could take her hostage ever again. Barbara Patterson needed to believe that it was over. She wanted to pretend that everything was all right. But her anxious looks every time Lauren left the house pressed on her heart like a bruise.

  Lauren got it. Mom had already lost Dad. She didn’t want to lose Lauren, too.

  But Lauren couldn’t live at home. She couldn’t write. She couldn’t breathe. She felt her world gradually shrinking to the walls of her bedroom, still decorated with the wallpaper border she’d picked out at thirteen, frozen forever on the cusp of adolescence. Swaddled by familiar surroundings, it was too easy for her to give in to her mother’s fears, to sink into the stultifying comfort of childhood. To crawl under the covers and never come out again.

  She’d thought that things would get better once she was back at school. That she would be better. But she’d found, to her shame, that she couldn’t handle living alone, either. She had trouble focusing on her dissertation, difficulty sleeping in her tiny apartment. Every creak and car horn sent her bolt upright, gasping for breath.

  Her faculty advisor suggested counseling and then a leave of absence. Her fellow graduate students were sympathetic and then impatient.

  The last time a total stranger had approached Lauren on the street, her friend Brandon had rolled his eyes. No offense, he’d said, which was what someone always said when they wanted to say something offensive. But we’ve all heard it before. Not everybody wants to relive your fifteen minutes of fame over and over.

  Her life had been divided in two, Before and After the robbery, and it felt sometimes as if everyone she loved was on the other side of an unbridgeable chasm with the girl she used to be.

  Lauren watched Meg dig in a drawer. At home, she took care of her mother and Noah. At school, she took care of herself. She still wasn’t used to being waited on. “I don’t want to put you out.”

  Meg dug in a drawer for a corkscrew. “You’re not.”

  “It’s not your job to look after guests.” Or me, Lauren thought. She paid Meg to be her publicist, not her babysitter.

  “Not usually. I’m helping out today while Mom runs wedding errands with Kate and Taylor.”

  Lauren had met Meg’s eleven-year-old niece Taylor. But . . . “Kate?”

  Meg glanced over from opening the wine. “My brother’s fiancée. They’re getting married in two weeks.”

  Meg had two brothers, Lauren remembered.

  Before the robbery, she’d always imagined she was a good listener. A useful skill for a clinician. Even more useful for a crisis negotiator. Anyway, it had kept her and seven other people alive. But she realized she knew next to nothing about Meg’s personal life. Maybe she was a little intimidated by Meg’s easy assurance.

  And maybe she was becoming as self-absorbed as Brandon accused her of being.

  “Is that your brother the fisherman?” Lauren asked.

  “No, that’s Matt. Luke’s the cop.”

  “Oh.”

  Meg lowered the wine bottle. “Should I have mentioned it before? Do you have issues?”

  “Issues,” Lauren repeated blankly.

  “With cops. Because of . . . You know. The bank thing. The shooting.”

  Lauren flushed. “Oh. No.” She tried to make a joke. “I’m anxious, not paranoid.”

  Meg’s brow creased in concern.

  Lauren sighed. “The police have a job to do,” she said and tried to shut down the memory of Ben’s face as they’d swarmed over him on the floor, jerking his arms, cuffing his hands behind him. The smells of flop sweat, urine, and blood.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s natural for them to see things in black and white. Us versus Them. Me or Him.”

  “
And that’s not how you see it,” Meg said.

  Lauren smiled crookedly. “I must. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m alive.” She took a gulp of wine, swallowing the taste of betrayal. “Anyway, I’m grateful to the cops for doing their job that day. That doesn’t mean I’d sleep with one.”

  Meg’s eyes widened.

  “No offense to your brother. I didn’t mean him,” Lauren added hastily. Crap, that came out wrong. “Not that I’d sleep with your brother, either.”

  “I’m sure that’s a relief to his fiancée,” said a flat, deep voice behind her. Jack Rossi’s voice.

  Lauren’s stomach sank. Her cheeks burned.

  She turned and there he was, Jack Rossi in uniform and in the flesh, dark and lean and oozing pheromones on the other side of the screen door, having obviously heard every word.

  Double crap.

  * * *

  JACK GRINNED, ENJOYING her blush. My point, sweetheart, he thought.

  And then wondered why he was keeping score.

  He wasn’t interested in playing games anymore. He was thirty-eight years old. Ready to settle or at least to settle down. He wanted calm, companionship, stability. Kids. Not some Goth wannabe with painful piercings and her whole life ahead of her.

  She was . . . interesting-looking, though. Not deliberately sexy like the girls from his neighborhood, with their fake nails and fake hair and breasts served up like apples on a plate. Her plain black tank top showed off her arms and the delicate bones at her throat. Her eyes were smudged, her lips bare, like a woman after a night of sex.

  She caught him looking and smiled back crookedly, her eyes dark with rueful awareness. His dick shifted from neutral to first. Yeah, definite spark of awareness there.

  He inhaled carefully.

  That doesn’t mean I’d sleep with one.

  “Jack. Come in.” Meg gave him her public relations smile, friendly and sharp. “What can I do for you?”

  “Meg.” He shut the screen door behind him. Nodded to both women. “Luke told me you had an animal trap.”

  “If we do, it’s in his cottage.” Meg tilted her head. “Do you have a problem?”

  “Not me.” The island grapevine operated just fine without any input from him. If Dora Abrams wanted to tell the neighbors she had possums or intruders or even ghosts under her house, Jack figured that was her business. But since he was asking Meg for a favor, he owed her some kind of explanation. “I didn’t want to bother Taylor. In case she was home alone.”

  Meg’s smile warmed. “She’s shopping today with my mother and Kate. But I’m sure I can find it for you.”

  “Thanks. If you want to tell me where to look—”

  “No, I’ll get it. Have you met Lauren?”

  “Lauren . . .” He let the word drag out.

  “My client, Lauren Patterson. She’s staying at the inn.”

  So now he had her last name. He smiled. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Patterson.”

  “You, too, Chief Rossi.” Her tone was wry. Aware.

  There was that jolt again, like a shock from a live wire. It had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of gut-level response to any woman other than Renee. Except for his time in the service, they’d been together since high school. One woman in twenty years. Like he was imprinted on her, the way he’d read baby ducks attached themselves to the first thing they saw coming out of the egg.

  “Great,” Meg said briskly. If she caught the vibe in the room, she didn’t let on. “Well, I’ll let you two chat while I dig up the trap. Can I get you anything? Cookie? Wine?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Jack said.

  He didn’t drink on duty. Not anymore.

  He stood there, not saying anything, while Meg bustled out. He’d always found the silent routine worked pretty well in getting other people to talk. Suspects. Women.

  Lauren Patterson. He’d heard that name before. Where had he heard that name?

  It wasn’t like he was interested in her personally, he told himself. He was the chief of police. It was his job to know what was going on.

  She regarded him over her glass of wine. She had pretty hands. Short, dark painted nails. Twists of silver curled around three fingers and the thumb of her left hand. To match the ear cuff?

  When the silence stretched on too long, he asked, “So how long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just got here a couple days ago.”

  “Nobody waiting for you at home?”

  Lauren shook her head.

  “Kids? Family?” he persisted. Husband? Boyfriend?

  “A mother and a younger brother. Noah’s a high school senior this fall.” She leaned back against the counter, which did nice things for her breasts under the thin ribbed tank top. “You?”

  “No kids.”

  He’d supported Renee when she said she wanted to wait. I am not your mother. Or your fucking sister-in-law, pumping out a kid every two years. I have things I want to do with my life.

  Yeah.

  Turned out one of the things she wanted to do was his partner, Frank.

  Lauren was still watching him, still waiting, doing her own version of the silent routine. Where had she learned that?

  “Two parents,” he offered. “Two brothers, one sister.”

  “And you’re the oldest.”

  “Good guess.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. You have that whole overdeveloped sense of responsibility thing going on. Plus you don’t cut yourself any slack.”

  She sounded like one of those talking heads yapping on The View. And yeah, he had definitely seen too many hours of daytime TV during his months on leave.

  “You don’t know me well enough to judge,” he said.

  “I know you’re chief of police. That’s a responsible job. And you turned down a glass of wine because you were on duty.”

  Point to her, he decided. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” she asked, turning the question back on him.

  That was a cop’s trick. Or a shrink’s. Jack had seen one of those, too, during his leave. “You have a younger brother. Does that make you the responsible one in your family?”

  “Yes,” she said. No explanation, no excuses.

  He could respect that. The silence stretched. He shifted his weight. She studied her glass.

  Okay, this wasn’t an interrogation. Once upon a time, he used to be good at talking to women. Say something, dickhead.

  She beat him to the punch, looking up from her wine. “So, Jack Rossi, where are you from?”

  “Philly.”

  She gave him that three-cornered smile. “Like Rocky.”

  He suppressed a sigh. It was the accent. Or the fact that for the past twelve months he’d been taking out his aggressions on a heavy bag and it showed. His chest and arms were heavy with muscle. He was down a belt size, too. He wanted to tell her there was more to him than that, that he used to read books and listen to blue-eyed soul. But maybe that part of him was gone, along with his marriage and his collection of Hall and Oates CDs. Maybe she got off on muscle-bound guys in wife-beater T-shirts. So he told her what she expected to hear.

  “I worked a township just south of the city. Three generations of Rossis all living in ten square blocks, most of them cops, all of them baptized, married, and buried at Our Lady of Your Grandmother’s Gravy.”

  It was kind of like a police interview. You disclosed a little truth to get a bigger truth in return. The only difference was there wasn’t anything he wanted from her.

  Was there?

  “Gravy?” she asked.

  “Old school red sauce with meatballs,” he explained. “Cooked low and slow and served every Sunday.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  It had been. After he hit
bottom, his family had stuck by him. But it got so he couldn’t stand the talk around the station house, the looks around the dining room table, his father’s silence, his mother’s sighs. The way conversations broke off when he walked into the kitchen.

  “So what made you decide to exchange family and red sauce for North Carolina barbecue, Chief Rossi?”

  He rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. He preferred being the one asking the questions. “It was time for a change.”

  “I can understand that.” Her voice was soft. “Everybody has somewhere they’re going. Or something they’re running away from.”

  Their eyes met.

  Right on the button. Maybe she did understand.

  And maybe he needed another session with his shrink. Or the punching bag. This was not the kind of girl he should get involved with.

  What is it you want, Jack? That was the shrink’s favorite question. Is this the behavior that will get you what you want?

  Fuck, no.

  But he couldn’t deny that he was interested. Turned on. By Lauren Patterson. Jack frowned. Where had he heard that name before?

  Meg pushed through the back door, the trap bumping against her legs. “Sorry. That took longer than I expected.”

  He smoothed his expression. “No problem.” He took the heavy wire cage from her. “Thanks for taking the time.”

  Lauren smiled wryly. “I was just telling the chief the story of my life.”

  Meg glanced from one to the other. “Swapping hostage stories?”

  Lauren froze. “No. God, no.”

  “What?” Jack said.

  Meg grimaced. “Oops. Sorry,” she said to Lauren. “I thought he knew.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “Knew what?”

  Meg shrugged apologetically at her client before answering. “Lauren was involved in a bank robbery last year. She was taken hostage. She wrote a book about it.”

  Hostage. Last year.

  Shit. Lauren Patterson. He remembered the story now. Right about the time his personal life went down the crapper. It had been on the news and later the talk shows—the pretty psych student who’d talked the would-be robbers into releasing her fellow hostages, one spot of bright news in a dreary reporting cycle. Even as he sat alone in his rathole apartment, ripe with whiskey and resentment, the story had compelled his attention.