Carolina Blues

by Virginia Kantra

  “Great,” she said heartily. At least they’d reached the stage where she packed an overnight bag. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “You could stay.”

  She burned her mouth. Gulped. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re not due at the bakery until, what, ten? Eleven? Why don’t you take your time this morning? I can swing by later to drive you to work.”

  The hot coffee seared its way down. She cleared her throat painfully. “Actually, I asked Jane for the day off so I could work on my book. She’s got one of the catering gals covering for me.”

  “You’ve got your laptop with you.”

  “Ye-es.” She curled her hands around the warm mug. Where was he going with this?

  “So, stay.”

  Her heart beat faster. “For how long?”

  A corner of his mouth kicked up. “As long as you want.”

  She couldn’t read his eyes. What do you want? Do you want me to stay?

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He regarded her solemnly. “You want to go out for dinner tonight or should I bring something home for us?”

  “Home sounds wonderful.”

  A blush raced over her face. They were not playing house. A day on his boat did not equal an invitation to move in. Still, she was here, wasn’t she? On his boat. In his home. In his space.

  “I’ll pick something up, then.”

  He leaned forward. Cupping her jaw, he kissed her, a long, sweet, simmering kiss that brought her fully awake. Her blood hummed.

  “Is that what you’re bringing home?” she asked breathlessly when he raised his head. “Because, yum.”

  His smile kindled deep in his eyes. “It’s on the menu.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Enjoy the moment, she told herself after he left. Because, really, the moment was kind of perfect.

  She pulled on her clothes and went out on deck with her cup of coffee. Tiger mewed to join her.

  She eyed the kitten uncertainly. “Okay, but if you look like you’re making a break for it, it’s the cabin for you,” she warned.

  Released into the sunlight, Tiger sniffed around before jumping to curl on the padded bench.

  So he’d done this before, Lauren thought, reassured.

  But for her, this was all new. The setting. The feelings. She filled her lungs with the ocean-scented air. She loved the Pirates’ Rest, with its glimpses of sea and sound, the deep, wraparound porch, the sheltering garden. But this . . .

  A bird, its black-tipped wings as sharp as the angles of a kite, darted over the water, blazing in the sunlight. Atop the dunes, the tall sea grass plumes swayed and bowed like dancers in the breeze. The world around her teemed with life, the sky flushed with promise, the sea sparkling with possibilities as far as the horizon.

  She got her laptop and a second cup of coffee, setting up for the day. Settling in.

  Bring on the happy ending, she thought, and began to type.

  The sound of an engine roused her minutes—hours?—later. A car, low-slung, sleek, and white, purring down the unfinished road.

  Lauren raised her head as the car parked at the edge of the dock. A woman got out, greyhound thin and graceful in white jeans and a black T-shirt, her hair caught back in a sleek, dark ponytail, huge sunglasses flashing on her face. She marched toward the dock as if she knew where she was going. As if she had every right to be here.

  Maybe she did. But from what Jack had said, this was development property, not yet open to the public.

  Lauren slid her laptop to the bench and stood, shading her eyes against the sun. “Can I help you?” she called.

  The woman stopped. Angled her head. “I’m looking for Jack Rossi.”

  She had a husky, well-modulated voice, with a hint of accent—the swallowed L, the long aw in place of the o—that was somehow familiar.

  Lauren’s nerves prickled. “I’m sorry, he’s not here right now,” she said politely. “Can I take a message?”

  “Where is he?” Answering a question with another question.

  Lauren’s breath caught. “He’s at work. If you give me your name, I can tell him you stopped by.”

  “Sure.” The woman pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, revealing eyes like gold coins, hard and bright, in her honey-toned face. Her smile curved, shiny and sharp as a knife. “I’m Renee. His wife.”

  * * *

  JACK LEFT HIS office to pour himself another cup of coffee from Marta’s pot, Lauren’s words replaying in his head like a summer song on the radio.

  I love you, she’d said.

  Which was the sort of thing men said before sex and women said after. Even when they were sincere, you couldn’t always trust words said in the heat of the moment.

  They were still damn good to hear.

  “You are in a good mood this morning,” Marta said.

  Probably because he couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Nothing makes my day like filling out grant applications,” he joked.

  “He’s in a good mood every morning,” Hank said. “Now that he’s getting some.”

  Jack gave him a bland stare. He’d figured that once he hired a dispatcher, Hank would spend less time in the office. Especially since he and Marta couldn’t be in the same room without sniping at each other. But it seemed the retired sheriff’s deputy was around more than ever before.

  “Then you should try it,” Marta said. “Maybe sex would improve your attitude.”

  Hank grinned. “How do you know I’m not getting any?”

  “Please.” Marta snapped a file drawer shut. “I know everything.”

  “How are you coming with that monthly report?” Jack asked, changing the subject.

  “Finished,” Marta said. “I e-mailed it to you for your review. I read her book, you know.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take a look at it,” Jack said, preparing to escape into his office.

  Marta arched her brows. “You haven’t read her book yet? But you are together.”

  Hank snorted. “He doesn’t have to read her book to sleep with her.”

  “Okay, we’re done here,” Jack said.

  “You should show more respect,” Marta said to Hank. She smiled at Jack. “She seems like a very interesting young woman. I’m sorry she is leaving so soon.”

  “Janey said she was staying through the summer,” Hank said.

  Marta raised her brows. “Which is how long, another week? Two weeks before the kids go back to school. I talked to Tess Fletcher this morning. Meg is already scheduling Miss Patterson’s next book tour.”

  Two weeks?

  Jack forced himself to ignore the jolt to his system, the tiny clutch at his gut.

  With Renee, he’d been so damn sure he knew where they were going all the time. It wasn’t until she had betrayed him with his partner that he’d finally admitted he didn’t have a clue. He’d been wrong about her, wrong about them, wrong about everything all along.

  He didn’t know—he couldn’t know—where this thing with Lauren was heading. But everything suddenly felt all right.

  I love you, she’d said.

  Whatever the hell she’d meant by that, wherever they were going, they were together now. At the end of the day, she would be waiting for him on his boat.

  It was enough for him. For now. He had a grant application to write. The town council had found the funds for the dispatcher’s position, but they’d balked at buying the dashboard security cams he’d requested for the patrol vehicles. So he was stuck begging for money from the feds.

  The outer door opened and a woman walked in.

  He almost dropped his mug.

  She pushed her sunglasses up and smiled. “Hi, lover.”

  Renee. He waited for a blast of something—gladness, fury, resent
ment—and couldn’t find anything. “This is a surprise.”

  His voice was calm. Good.

  “Right? Of all the gin joints in all the world . . .” She grinned, inviting him to smile back, but he couldn’t find that, either.

  “What do you want?” he asked evenly.

  “Since you won’t talk to me on the phone, I decided to see for myself how you’re doing. What you’re doing with yourself these days.” She propped a hip on the edge of Marta’s desk, angling her body to best advantage. “Why don’t you show me around?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Come on, Jack.” She swept a look around. For a moment, he saw the department through her eyes: three desks jammed close together, the cheap veneer door to his office with the premade POLICE CHIEF sign, the narrow hallway that led to the cramped back rooms, the gun closet, and two small holding cells. “It’s not like it will take very long.”

  “We only give tours to the kiddies on Tuesdays,” Hank drawled.

  Renee glanced in his direction, her smile sharpening. “You must be Barney Fife.”

  Jack sighed. Renee didn’t take anybody’s shit. Ever. He used to admire the way she always brought a gun to a knife fight. Now it just made him tired. And wary. “Hank Clark, Marta Lopez, this is Renee Mancuso.”

  She angled her chin. “Six months ago, it was Renee Rossi.”

  “Except at work,” he said.

  Renee had never used his name professionally. There are too many damn Rossis on the job in this town, she’d said when they were married. It’s confusing.

  And he, poor sap, had gone along with whatever she wanted, determined not to act like the knuckle dragger she’d sometimes accused him of being.

  His coffee was suddenly bitter in his mouth. Whoops. Seemed like he had some lingering resentment after all.

  He set down his mug. He couldn’t imagine his family sending his ex-wife to find him. Especially Ma. Still . . . “Everybody okay back home?”

  “They’re fine. They miss you.” She laid her perfectly manicured hand on his arm. Looked up into his eyes. “I miss you.”

  “Good to know.” He realized how that sounded and winced internally. Not so calm, either. Shit. “I mean, I’m glad that everything’s okay. We really have to get back to work here, Renee.”

  “Of course.” She stood. “I can wait for you. On your boat?”

  Ah, shit. He kept his face impassive.

  “Or you could let me buy you a drink. Unless . . .” She widened those big golden eyes at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Maybe you don’t drink anymore.”

  She could have been concerned or testing or digging at him. With Renee, it could be all three.

  That had been the last straw, the final incident that cost him his cool and his reputation.

  All cops drank, coming off shift at four in the afternoon, at two in the morning, taking the edge off, diluting the stress of the job before they went home to their three-bedroom suburban houses, to their bills and their lawns and their dogs and their wives.

  The brass didn’t give a damn if you drank.

  But if you looked up from your beer and saw your bastard partner with your cheating wife sitting together at the bar, if you saw her hand move up his thigh and his hand close around her nape, if you hauled off and slugged him in a public place, precipitating a bar fight . . . Yeah, they cared about that.

  Particularly if your wife outranked you in the department.

  “Not at ten thirty in the morning,” he said dryly.

  “Coffee, then. Come on, Jack.” She leaned forward, exposing taut, tanned cleavage, shifting position and strategy with ease. “I drove eight hours to see you. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious to hear why?”

  Not particularly, he realized. But it seemed unkind to say so, especially with Hank and Marta listening. In fact, if there was going to be a discussion, he’d rather have it where no one was listening in.

  Which ruled out Jane’s.

  Gossip traveled fast on the island. If you sneezed before driving the length of the island, somebody at the other end would say “Bless you” as soon as you stepped out of your car.

  Maybe the Fish House, where the high-backed booths provided a little privacy. Somewhere quiet, somewhere dark, where Renee could say her piece and be gone.

  “I’ll buy you coffee,” he said.

  “My treat.” Renee hopped off the desk, her smile almost conciliatory. “Consider it a peace offering.”

  * * *

  MATURE ADULTS IN committed relationships did not freak out when one of their exes drove into town.

  She could be mature, Lauren told herself as she closed her laptop, as she fed the cat, as she checked her phone for the twelfth—or was it the twentieth?—time. Onshore, the shadows lengthened. A flock of pelicans sailed by, low against the golden sky.

  She’d told Jack she loved him. Love involved trust.

  Of course, he hadn’t said it back. But he was committed to her. Wasn’t he? I’m in this thing with you, whether it fits your theories or not, he’d said.

  Stay . . . As long as you want, he’d said.

  Lauren wandered back on deck, restless. The fact that he was also at least an hour late wasn’t a particular source of concern. Okay, maybe it was. A little. Only because he hadn’t called.

  She stared up the empty road, willing his cruiser into sight. Was he all right?

  Tiger mewed at her feet. Lauren scooped up the kitten, cuddling its soft fur against her cheek. Don’t overthink this. Don’t get stuck in your own head.

  Headlights flashed, pale against the fading sun.

  Her heartbeat quickened. She watched as the black-and-white SUV drew up to the end of the dock and Jack got out, moving stiffly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he came aboard.

  She leaned in to kiss him, a soft brush of lips. Stepped back to scan his face, the tension bracketing his mouth, the lines of tiredness around his eyes. “That’s okay. Bad day?”

  “Accident out on the highway. Bunch of kids going to the beach. Teenagers, three girls, two boys. The driver was texting, hit the median, and flipped.”

  Her heart squeezed. “Oh, Jack.”

  “Looks like we’re going out tonight after all. I didn’t have a chance to pick up dinner.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He scratched Tiger briefly behind the ears. “It’s over.”

  “I’m glad you were there to help them.”

  His hand dropped. “Yeah.”

  He walked past her toward the galley.

  She trailed after him. “How . . . how are they?”

  He bent to get a beer from the fridge. “Nobody died. Bumps and bruises mostly. Lucky for them, they were all wearing seat belts. The driver got it the worst when she hit the steering wheel. I had to stay with them ’til the paramedics got there.”

  “And how are you?” Lauren asked softly.

  He popped the cap. “Fine.”

  No, she thought, you’re not. Frustration and concern roiled inside her. “You had an exciting day all around,” she observed.

  He swigged his beer. “I’ve had better.”

  Lauren took a deep breath. Say something now? Or say nothing and let the silence eat at both of them?

  Say something, she decided. “Renee came by this morning looking for you.”

  “She found me.”

  Lauren waited. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “We can discuss it later.”

  He lowered the bottle. “There’s nothing to discuss. She came. I dealt with it.”

  “That’s very reassuring. But it’s not enough.”

  His eyes were very dark. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Of course I trust you. But you have to t
rust me, too. You should be able to share with me how you’re feeling.”

  “I just had to tell some parents their sixteen-year-old daughter is on her way to intensive care. I can’t be feeling the feelings all the time the way you do.”

  Ouch.

  “So you’re going to close down and keep everything to yourself.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  He was a guy, she reminded herself. Guys had a tendency to compartmentalize. She needed to be patient.

  “I understand you need to separate your emotions in order to do your job,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But a visit from your ex-wife . . . You need to talk to me about things that affect you personally.”

  “I didn’t say anything about Renee’s visit because it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  The words slapped, stinging color to her cheeks. Her mouth jarred open.

  Jack dragged a hand through his hair. “Oh, Christ. I meant, it doesn’t make any difference to me. To us.”

  “Wow.” She shut her mouth to swallow. Opened it to say, “We are now dealing with textbook levels of denial and compartmentalization.”

  “I’m not some patient you’re seeing at the free clinic, sweetheart. I don’t need you analyzing me. I don’t need fixing.”

  Heat and hurt swarmed to her face. Maybe she’d been guilty in the past of treating lovers like clients. Fixer-uppers. But not Jack.

  “I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to know you. I’m trying to be supportive.”

  “If you don’t know me well enough to believe I wouldn’t run around on you with my ex-wife, I don’t see much point to this conversation.”

  She had obviously hurt his pride. Trust, she thought. It was clearly a hot-button topic. “I’m not accusing you of sleeping with her.”

  “Good.”

  But she couldn’t stop trying, couldn’t stop digging. “Was that an issue for you before? In your marriage, I mean?”

  “You could say that.” He sipped his beer. “She slept with my partner.”

  “Oh.” For a man like Jack, loyal and principled, the combination of physical and emotional infidelity, the betrayal of friendship, vows, and honor, would be unthinkable, unanswerable. The worst kind of blow. Her heart hurt for him. “Oh, Jack.”