Sandpiper Cove

by Irene Hannon

  He repeated her question into the phone.

  “Yeah. Who’s asking?” The gruff-voiced man didn’t sound any too friendly.

  “I’m with Lexie Graham. The police chief in—”

  “This order’s for Lexie?” The man’s tone did an about-face. “When do you need it?”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “It’ll be waiting.” The line went dead.

  “I take it you’re a friend of Frank’s.” He handed her back the phone.

  “More like a longtime customer. Back in high school, I used to hang out at his place with my friends if Charley’s was closed.” She slipped the phone back onto her belt.

  “He sounds like a grouch.”

  “It’s only an act. Under that crusty exterior, he has a heart of gold.”

  “A reminder not to judge a book by its cover, I suppose.”

  “Yeah.” She shifted in her seat. “So . . . do you have any idea what happened to Clyde?”

  “No. He was semiconscious when I found him halfway between the woods and the shed. I’m guessing he heard or saw strangers and tried to get to his swinging door. The vet thinks someone might have thrown a rock at him.” His voice hardened.

  “Any other damage?”

  “I don’t know. That wasn’t my priority.”

  “I’ll do a quick sweep tonight, but darkness hides a lot. I’ll come back in the morning and do a more thorough search.”

  “Fine with me. But I’m not optimistic. They haven’t left any clues up until now.”

  “If people commit enough crimes, they eventually make a mistake.”

  She fell silent, and Adam didn’t attempt to keep the conversation going. What was there to talk about beyond the vandalism? They had nothing in common. While she’d been going to pizza parties with her friends and checking out colleges and planning for the high school prom, he’d been on the street laying the groundwork for a prison sentence.

  Holding Clyde close, he tried not to let that bother him as they drove through the foggy night.

  But he couldn’t shake the heavy cloak of regret that weighed him down.

  Ten minutes later, she pulled into a parking lot beside a small, rustic building that sported a neon sign. “What kind of soda do you like?”

  “Sprite. Regular. But I can drink water.”

  “With pizza?” She gave him a get-real look. “Sit tight.”

  Ten minutes later, she was back. After stowing the flat box and a brown bag on the back seat, she retook her place behind the wheel.

  A savory aroma filled the car, setting off a rumble in his stomach.

  Even Clyde lifted his nose and sniffed.

  When had he last had a decent piece of pizza? The cardboard-crust stuff they’d served in prison didn’t count . . . and before that? It had to be years.

  This treat would be worth every penny it siphoned out of his budget.

  “Your car’s coming up, but I’d suggest we leave it for now and get Clyde home.” Lexie waved a hand toward the opposite shoulder as she guided the cruiser down the dark highway. “I can have an officer ride back with me after we’re finished to pick it up.”

  “I don’t want to put anyone out.”

  “Part of our job is helping citizens in emergencies. This qualifies. Besides, you live in Hope Harbor—and in case you haven’t figured it out by now, we take care of our own.”

  Yeah, he’d noticed that.

  Except he wasn’t one of them. He was an outsider who lived on the fringes of the small community.

  But if she was willing to help him out tonight, he’d accept her generosity—for Clyde’s sake. “Thanks.”

  She acknowledged his acceptance with a nod and continued past his car . . . past the mist-enshrouded town . . . finally turning off 101 to follow the gravel one-lane road that led to his cabin.

  “Stay put. I’ll get your door.” She set the brake, slid out of the car, and circled around to his side.

  As soon as she opened the door, he released his seat belt and swung his legs out, trying not to jostle the dog. Clyde shifted in his arms, emitting a tiny whimper.

  “It’s okay, buddy. We’re home.”

  He stood as smoothly as he could with forty-three pounds of limp fur in his arms, then started toward the door, Lexie on his heels and . . .

  Wait.

  Lexie on his heels?

  His step faltered.

  No woman had ever visited his cabin—and living alone, with only a dog for company, didn’t give a man much incentive to keep his space neat and tidy.

  What kind of stuff had he left lying around?

  “Where’s your key?” Lexie stopped beside the door.

  Uh-oh.

  Another concern took priority.

  His arms were full, and he didn’t want to set Clyde on the ground.

  “It’s, uh, in my pocket. I’ll need to set Clyde down and—”

  “Which one?”

  “Front right. But I can—”

  Without waiting for him to finish, she slipped a couple of fingers into the pocket he’d indicated, wiggled them around until she snagged his keys, and pulled out the ring.

  The maneuver took all of four seconds.

  Four up-close-and-personal seconds.

  But if the cozy contact had any effect on her, it wasn’t apparent. She seemed cool and calm as she inserted the key in the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

  What else could he do except walk through—and try to beat back a raging surge of testosterone?

  “I’ll grab the pizza and do a fast circuit of the cabin and shed.” She closed the door, leaving him alone to grapple with his hormones.

  After settling Clyde into his basket next to the double bed that was tucked into a corner of the one-room cabin, he stood and took several long, slow breaths.

  Get a grip, Stone. You’re acting like an adolescent.

  Forcing his lungs to keep expanding and contracting, he gave the place a cursory scan. The bed was made—sort of—and there weren’t any dirty dishes in the sink. A bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee didn’t create much mess at breakfast. The basket of dirty clothes over by the wall, waiting to go to the laundromat, wasn’t too offensive. At least there was no underwear strewn around.

  The small wooden table held the most clutter.

  He gathered up the loose sheets of paper, pencils, rulers, and sketches as Lexie reappeared in the doorway with their dinner.

  “You can put that here.” He bent to brush off the table with his palm.

  No.

  Bad move.

  He should wash his hands, after all he’d been through with Clyde tonight.

  “Let me, uh, wipe it down first.”

  He set the papers aside, moved to the sink, and scrubbed his hands with a bar of soap. Then he dampened a paper towel with hot water, scoured the top of the scratched wooden table, and pulled out one of the two chairs.

  “Thanks.” She dropped into it, set the pizza down, and began unpacking the brown bag. “Frank threw in some plates and napkins along with our sodas.”

  That was helpful. He had only two chipped dinner plates, no soda, and paper towels that did double duty as napkins and dishcloths.

  He took the chair across from her, staring as she flipped up the top of the flat box.

  Wow.

  That was a pizza.

  “Dig in.” She helped herself to a piece.

  He didn’t need a second invitation.

  The first bite was a taste of heaven. So was the second . . . and third . . . and every mouthful that followed.

  This was the best pizza he’d ever eaten.

  “I’ll have to tell Frank he has a new fan.”

  As he claimed his third piece, he surfaced from his gastronomic euphoria long enough to notice Lexie’s amused expression.

  He counted how many slices were missing from the box.

  Four.

  Meaning she’d only taken one—and part of it was still on her plate.


  Had he chowed down in record time . . . or was she a slow eater?

  “Take as much as you want.” She picked up her can of soda. “No matter how hungry I am, I can never manage more than two or three pieces of Frank’s supreme. It’s super filling.”

  For her, maybe.

  He could easily down three-fourths of the pizza.

  But he didn’t want to make a pig of himself.

  Better slow the pace. Give some of the food he’d ingested a chance to reach his stomach and take the edge off his hunger.

  “It’s also amazing.” He took a more measured bite of the piece he’d picked up.

  “I agree. So tell me about this place.” She swept a hand around the cabin. “I know it belongs to some guy from Eugene who used to come out on weekends. How did you end up here?”

  “Reverend Baker lined it up for me. The owner’s job took him to Europe for a few years.” He wiped his lips on a napkin. “I signed a lease, and I pay rent. It’s legit.”

  A flicker of distress sparked in her irises. “I didn’t mean to suggest it wasn’t. I was just making small talk while you finish your dinner.”

  Small talk.

  Yeah, he’d heard of that.

  But it wasn’t one of his skills.

  Classy, cultured people—like this woman—probably perfected the art of chitchat early on . . . about the age he’d been learning to dodge his old man’s vile temper and pilfer cash from unattended purses.

  One more indication he was out of his element with this woman.

  “Sorry.” He picked up a stray mushroom and put it on top of his pizza. “Most of the people in uniform who’ve asked me questions in the past had an ulterior motive. I’m not used to being on the other side of the law.”

  “But that’s where you’ve been since you came to town, as far as I know.”

  Was that a question . . . or was he overreacting again?

  Best not to take any chances.

  “That’s where I’ve been—and it’s where I plan to stay.” He met her gaze straight on.

  “I assumed that.” Her eyes were steady too. “And it’s one of the reasons I’m especially angry you’ve been hit by vandalism multiple times.”

  “My location makes me an easy target.”

  “I think it’s more than that.”

  Some of his appetite evaporated.

  It was one thing to know deep inside that he’d never escape his past; it was another to be constantly reminded of it.

  He picked up his can of soda, the aluminum crinkling beneath his fingers. “I can’t change my history.”

  “None of us can.” Her features contorted for a brief moment before she composed her face. “But people who are trying to follow the rules have a right to live without fear. Tell me what happened tonight.” She dug a notebook out of her uniform pocket.

  He surveyed her plate. For someone who’d claimed to be hungry, she hadn’t eaten much. Did a single piece of pizza even qualify as a dinner?

  “There isn’t much to tell. We finished up at work a little early, and I got home about five. I called Clyde. He didn’t come, which set off a red alert. He never wanders far from the house and shed, and he’s always waiting for me at the end of the day. I didn’t see any sign of vandalism, but I was getting bad vibes. Less than a minute later, I found him. I called the vet and took off. You know the rest.”

  “Is there anyone in the area who could be trying to settle a score with you?”

  “No. Other than going to work and church, I keep to myself—and everyone I’ve met has been friendly.”

  She furrowed her brow and took another piece of pizza.

  He did too. Despite his flagging appetite, it was too good to waste.

  But when Clyde whimpered a moment later, Adam sprang to his feet and crossed the room in a few long strides.

  “Is he all right?” Lexie rose too.

  He bent down. Clyde had already drifted back to sleep.

  “I think so. The vet gave me a list of signs to watch for over the next twenty-four hours, and he hasn’t shown any of them yet.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and rejoined her. “I can keep a close eye on him tonight, but I may need to call BJ in the morning and see if she can spare me tomorrow.” The loss of a day’s wages would hurt, but what choice did he have?

  “There might be another option.”

  A slight nuance in Lexie’s tone put him on alert. She sounded kind of . . . nervous.

  Not an emotion he’d have expected from this strong, in-charge woman.

  “Like what?” Caution colored his question.

  “Well . . .” She wiped a smear of tomato sauce off her hand with her napkin, giving the task more attention than it deserved. “My son loves animals. So does my mom. They have nothing on their agenda tomorrow. I called them while I was outside, and they’d be happy to watch Clyde while you’re at work.” Her offer came out a bit breathless and unsteady.

  Kind of like how he felt as he mulled over the unexpected suggestion.

  Why was the police chief’s family willing to watch his dog? Wasn’t she worried about having an ex-con in her house? Exposing her son to someone with his background? Offending her neighbors?

  Hard as he tried to absorb this surprising turn of events, it wouldn’t compute.

  “Why?” The question was out before he could stop it.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not . . . most people don’t . . . no one’s ever . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “I told you earlier—here in Hope Harbor, we take care of our own.”

  “I’m not one of your own.”

  “You live here. You work here. You go to church here. You’re one of us—and you belong.”

  An odd tightness gripped his chest as her firm but gentle assurance seeped into his soul.

  He’d never belonged anywhere. Never been wanted—by anyone.

  The temptation to accept was strong . . . but her kindness was more than he deserved.

  As if sensing his imminent refusal, the chief spoke again.

  “My son would consider it a treat. A dog has been on his wish list for months. This would be the next best thing.” She linked her fingers on the table and watched him. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to take a day off.”

  He’d love a day off—but not without pay. Even if BJ balked at docking him, he couldn’t take money for work he didn’t do.

  “For the record, there aren’t any strings attached—or ulterior motives.”

  As Lexie tossed his earlier comment back at him, heat crept up his cheeks.

  Don’t labor over this, Stone. Be grateful and take the help.

  “All right. Thank you.” His acceptance came out stiff.

  “You’ve just made a little boy’s day.” Lexie stood. If she noticed his lack of graciousness, she gave no indication. “What time do you want to come by?”

  “I’m supposed to be out at the farm by seven thirty.” He rose too. “Is seven too early?”

  “No. I’m always up by six. And I doubt my son is going to get a lot of sleep tonight once he knows for sure a dog is coming to visit tomorrow. He’s already a bundle of energy; now he’ll be hyper.”

  An alarm bell rang in his mind.

  Hyper kid.

  Injured, gun-shy dog.

  Maybe not the best combination.

  “Umm . . . your son is about four, right?” From the bits and pieces of town scuttlebutt he’d picked up, it sounded as if she’d come home to Hope Harbor three or four years ago with an infant in tow.

  “Almost five.”

  “Clyde won’t be up to playing—and he’s very cautious around strangers. Based on his scars, I think his original owner abused him. This might not be the best fit.”

  Her eyes softened. “I’ll have a long talk with Matt tonight—and my mom’s a diligent supervisor. She’ll keep a close watch on everything. Clyde will be in safe hands. Trust me.”

  A police officer was asking him to trust her.

&nb
sp; Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

  Why did his world suddenly feel out of kilter?

  “Hey . . . it’ll be fine.” She touched the knuckles he’d clenched around the back of his chair.

  His chest tightened again as he focused on her graceful fingers, warm against his skin.

  “Okay.” He choked out his assent.

  She broke contact and walked to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  A few seconds later, the lock clicked. A minute after that, an engine started. Gravel crunched. Car lights swept across the cabin.

  Then everything returned to normal.

  Except his heart.

  For in the deepest, darkest corner, an ember of hope sprang to life . . . and the shadows that had filled his life for as long as he could remember receded a tiny bit.

  Hands braced on the table, Adam lowered himself into his chair. Was there a chance this town might actually live up to its name? Might he find hope here . . . and a new beginning?

  Given his history, that would be a miracle.

  But for the first time since he’d walked out of the prison gate eighteen months ago, he allowed himself to believe in that possibility.

  4

  “When’s he gonna get here, Mom?” Matt hopped from one foot to the other in front of the kitchen window, leaning sideways to catch a glimpse of the street.

  “Not for a few minutes. Come and eat your breakfast.” Lexie added a dash of cinnamon to her son’s oatmeal.

  “I want to watch for him.”

  “Watching won’t make him get here any faster.” Her mom walked over, took his hand, and towed him toward the table as Lexie set the bowl in his place.

  “I want to be ready.”

  “Matt.” Lexie telegraphed a silent warning.

  He stuck out his lower lip . . . but gave up the fight and climbed onto the chair.

  “Besides, you’re more than ready. You’ve been up for an hour.” She poured him a glass of juice and stifled a yawn.

  “Tired?” Her mother patted her shoulder as she passed.

  “Short night. Someone in this house didn’t drift off until almost midnight.”

  “I remember those days.” Grinning, her mother lifted the empty coffee mug Lexie had set on the counter while she finished making Matt’s oatmeal. “Want a refill?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Can I go look out the window again?” Matt wiggled around on his chair and gave her a hopeful glance.