“Thanks, Padre.” I accepted the glass and took a sip, savoring the luscious warmth that shimmied down my throat.
“Happy birthday, Jane.” Smoothly slipping between me and Dom, he pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek. I say chaste because that’s what it no doubt looked like to the casual observer. However, I’m not the only rascal who knows how to linger just a bit too long, and judging by Dom’s narrow-eyed glare, he was not all that casual an observer. I suspected the padre’s attentions toward me were motivated more by a desire to tweak Dom than any serious attraction to yours truly.
And before you get all snippy wondering how I could even think of a man of the cloth in those terms, let me assure you “Padre” is just a nickname, one I personally bestowed on Martin McAuliffe. You see, the first time I met Martin, he happened to be impersonating a priest.
Hey, I never said the guy was a candidate for sainthood. I knew precious little about the padre’s background, but I was fairly certain he possessed one of those pasts normally associated with the word mysterious. Maybe checkered. Okay, probably closer to felonious. The fact is, I didn’t want to know. Knowing might place me in the position of having to choose between my personal code of honor and my friendship with someone I’d come to care for.
Now, don’t get all excited. I mean care for in the sense that Martin and I had been through some intense stuff during the twelve short months we’d known each other. We’d even faced a pretty dangerous situation together. More than dangerous if you want to know the truth. We’d come darn close to buying the farm, not far from where we stood at that moment, as a matter of fact.
Well, a thing like that is bound to bring two people closer together, right? In a purely, you know, friendly way. It’s only natural. I certainly didn’t harbor girlish fantasies about the padre or lie in bed thinking about him or wondering how good a kisser he was or anything like that.
Are you buying any of this?
Martin and Dom exchanged curt nods. From the way Dom frowned at my glass of tequila, I could tell he wished he’d thought of it first.
And yeah, he was engaged to be married to Bonnie, but as you can probably tell, our relationship was complicated. And no, I don’t mean that kind of relationship, which ended eighteen years ago when we signed our divorce papers, a divorce I’d regretted almost immediately. Dom and I had remained platonic friends while he married those other women and had the kids I couldn’t help feeling should have been mine.
The complicated part was our lingering feelings for each other. At least that’s what I would have said a year ago—heck, even six months ago. Lately, however... not so much. As far as I was concerned, Bonnie could have him with my blessings. And he knew it.
At the moment, Dom’s fiancée was scowling at him the way he was scowling at my tequila. Reading his mind. I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t holding a drink.
Martin turned to her. “Chief Hernandez, you’re looking particularly fetching this evening.”
Her brow furrowed for a split second before she schooled her expression and murmured a barely audible, “Um, thanks.” Like her fiancé, Bonnie had no use for the padre. For the past year she’d been looking for an opportunity to catch him red-handed at something—I don’t think she much cared what, as long as he ended up in the pokey. I just prayed he didn’t get careless or underestimate her.
He didn’t say anything about my outfit, for which I silently thanked him.
Bonnie said, “I’m going to get a glass of wine.” She turned on her heel and marched off, leaving Dom to figure it out and hurry after her.
Martin did not look sad to see them go. “Have those two cute kids set a wedding date yet?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
“They’ve been engaged for, what, a year?”
“Fifteen months,” I said. “With a brief break in the middle.”
“What are they waiting for?”
Good question. I suspected Dom was the one dragging his feet, and wondered how long it would take his fiancée to run out of patience. I shrugged. “I don’t know and I couldn’t care less.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “So tell me. How does it feel to be middle-aged?”
“I’m not—”
He stopped me with a raised palm. “I seem to recall you mentioning that middle age begins at forty. Does this ring a bell?”
It did, darn it. “That’s right, rub it in,” I said, painfully aware that my ex-husband’s fiancée was seven years younger than I. “And anyway, you have three years on me in case you forgot, Padre. Or are you going to claim it’s different for men?” I finished my shot of tequila and looked around for somewhere to deposit the empty snifter.
“It’s different, all right.” He eyed me appreciatively as he took the glass from me and set it on an antique piecrust table. “From what I can tell, women age better than men.”
“Huh. Good save.” I felt my face heat even as I reached up and yanked out my hair elastic, releasing the bedraggled ponytail and trying in vain to finger-comb the tangled mess. Martin nudged my hand away and set to work fluffing my hair, running his fingers over my scalp and pretending not to notice my shivery response. He didn’t seem to care who saw him playing hairdresser, either.
Yep, that’s right, this Harley-riding, priest-impersonating, no doubt criminally connected bad boy had a gentlemanly streak.
For the record, there was nothing wrong with the way Martin was aging. He was athletically built, his sandy hair was all present and accounted for, and those blue eyes... well, let’s just say if I didn’t know he was the bastard child of one of Irene’s stepsons, I’d wonder what Paul Newman had been up to the night he was conceived.
“There are advantages to being a decrepit forty-three year-old,” he said. “Such as being called Grandpa.”
He left that hanging there until my brain caught up with his words. “Wait, what? Grandpa?” I said, loud enough to turn heads. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”
I’d never seen him grin like that. “Lexie’s due in September.”
Lexie, as you might have guessed, was Martin’s daughter, the product of a brief high school romance. I’d attended her wedding the previous May. I suppose I should have anticipated the prospect of her making Martin a granddaddy, but when you’re a single woman—okay, a single middle-aged woman—still pining for a baby of your own, you don’t tend to think of your age peers as grandparent material.
I threw myself at the padre and treated him to a rib-cracking hug, squealing with delight. “You’re going to be a grandpa! I can’t believe it.” I pulled back and took in his euphoric expression. “I’m so happy for you, for all of you. How’s Lexie feeling?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “Well, mostly fine. A little queasy once in a while.”
“Boy? Girl? Do they know yet?”
He shook his head. “Not for a few more weeks. They’re talking about doing it the old-fashioned way, waiting until the birth to find out.”
I punched his shoulder. “This is such great news.”
I flashed on Martin McAuliffe cradling an infant, a mental picture that should have appeared totally incongruous. Instead it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and not just because I knew he’d done his share of burping and diaper changing as a teen dad—a surprising revelation that had come directly from Lexie’s mom—but because I knew Martin. I knew there were dimensions to him I never would have imagined when we first met.
All around us, the party was in full swing. A waiter paused to offer us mini crab cakes perched on little squares of fried cornbread and adorned with avocado cream and pickled onions. I knew Maia wasn’t responsible for the food tonight, but I hoped she was taking notes. The chow at this soiree was to die for.
The padre’s smile was pure silk. “That’s a sound I usually associate with something else.”
It took me a moment to realize he was referring to the ecstatic groan I emitted after popping the delicacy into my mouth. I was accustomed t
o his suggestive remarks, which could reliably be counted on to make me blush like a schoolgirl. This seemed to be his sole purpose in saying them, considering he never took the flirtation any further. My flustered reaction was a source of entertainment, nothing more.
This time, however, I did not blush. Nor did I avert my gaze or roll my eyes in embarrassment. In fact, I never broke eye contact with Martin as I masticated my crab cake in thoughtful (an astute observer might have said dangerous) silence, swallowed, and daintily patted my lips with my colorful cocktail napkin, which I’d just noticed was emblazoned with the words The Big Four-Uh-Oh!
To hell with these men who seemed incapable of figuring out what they wanted. First Dom and now Martin. Enough was enough. I was in no mood.
I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray, downed the contents in one long pull, and shoved the empty flute at the startled waiter. Not that I needed Dutch courage to give voice to my exasperation, but, well... maybe I did, just a little.
I got in Martin’s face. “You’re all talk.”
His eyebrows jerked up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I lowered my voice, having no desire to fuel the indefatigable Crystal Harbor rumor mill. I gave his chest a nice hard poke. “Just what I said, Padre. You are all talk and no action.”
He glanced around and murmured, “What prompted this?”
“Oh gee, it couldn’t possibly be the fact that here I’ve reached the big four-uh-oh—” I flung my wrinkled cocktail napkin at him “—and the only men in my life are clueless dolts who can’t even figure out what they want, much less how to go after it.”
Martin leaned down and spoke in a near whisper. “And it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that you’ve reached the big four-uh-oh still hung up on a guy you divorced eighteen years ago.”
I couldn’t help noticing that he was the one getting flushed, for a change. Interesting. “I’m not talking about Dom,” I said. “Well, not only about Dom. And I am not still hung up on him.”
“Tell me another one,” he said. “You’ve been mooning over the guy nearly half your life, Jane. You still have all his old love letters, every birthday card he gave you since middle school. I mean, what self-respecting divorced woman keeps her freeze-dried bridal bouquet in a glass display dome?”
Okay, for the record, yes, I’d held on to the bouquet, but it’s not like I’d built a shrine to the thing in my living room. I’d kept it securely boxed up in a corner of the attic. And as for how the padre knew about the existence of all this pitiful memorabilia, it goes back to that mysterious past I mentioned earlier. The most advanced locks and security systems did little to slow him down. Believe me, I’ve tried. I didn’t doubt Martin McAuliffe knew the contents of my house better than I did.
“Obviously it’s been a while since you last snooped around my place,” I said. “All that stuff is long gone. Flowers, letters, everything. I put it out at the curb.”
Which, believe it or not, was true. I didn’t blame the padre for looking dubious, considering my history.
No, not my history of abusing the truth, my history of pining for my ex-husband. Which I’m not sure is any better, but whatever. Give me some credit.
People around us began to take note of our heated conversation. Before Martin could challenge my claim, I seized his arm and carved a path through the throng of partygoers.
“Where are we going?” he asked, as I propelled him back toward the entrance hall.
“Upstairs, where we can get a little privacy.”
I recognized the impish light in those too-blue eyes. I was in no mood.
Have I mentioned that? That I was in no damn mood?
“To talk,” I barked. “And I advise you to think long and hard before you utter whatever naughty remark just popped into your head, because I guarantee you, you will regret it.”
“This is a new and intriguing side of you, Jane,” he said, as I forcefully hauled him past a grinning Sophie, my goggle-eyed parents, and Norman Butterwick, a tall, dapper fellow well into his nineties. The padre managed a quick hand-shake with the old man. “How’s it going, Norman?”
“I’m delighted to be here,” Norman said, “simply delighted. My word, wherever is Jane taking you?”
“Upstairs,” Martin said, in a voice that carried. “For privacy, she says. To ‘talk,’ she says.” And yes, he added jaunty air quotes.
I gaped at him. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I was past caring who heard, which was just as well because I’m pretty sure everyone in the whole dang building heard.
Howie Werker, a detective buddy of mine, called out, “It’s about time!” This statement was met with enthusiastic applause. Well, from everyone but Dom, whose sullen glower was anything but enthusiastic.
“Amen to that.” Sophie toasted us with her drink. She’d graduated from beer to something amber-colored on the rocks.
Sexy Beast was nestled in the crook of her other arm. He squirmed now, demanding to be set down. The instant she complied, he raced after the padre and me as we headed up the carpeted stairs.
The ground floor was the Historical Society’s public face, reserved for meetings and the occasional private celebration. The onetime bedrooms on the second floor had long since been converted into the Society’s utilitarian offices. I’d planned to drag Martin into one of them, close the door, and have a long-overdue conversation sprinkled with antiquated but perfectly serviceable words such as intention and commitment.
Once we stepped into the upstairs hallway, I realized the flaw in my plan. I’d expected the offices to be deserted on a Saturday evening. However, from a nearby open doorway I heard the unmistakable voice of the mayor-elect and current president of the Historical Society, Nina Wallace. She appeared to be talking on the phone. I lifted SB and held him close, hoping to keep him quiet. He gave my ear a thorough licking.
“Oh, well, that’s so sweet of you to say,” Nina gushed. “I’d be lying if I claimed I was surprised by the outcome of the election. The good people of Crystal Harbor were more than ready for a change.”
Sure they were, once Nina had poisoned their minds with lies, exaggerations, and innuendoes calculated to turn them against Sophie Halperin, who’d fulfilled her mayoral duties with honor and distinction.
I felt the padre’s warning touch on my shoulder. What did he think, that I was going to storm in there and give her what for? Did he have so little regard for my impulse control? For my ability to respond to toxic individuals in a mature and reasonable manner?
You can stop snickering.
He needn’t have worried. I had no desire to explain to Nina why I was skulking around the administrative floor, but more than that, I had no desire to talk to her. Period. I’d promised Sophie I wouldn’t cause a fuss about the dirty campaign her opponent had waged, and I kind of almost always keep my promises.
As much as it irked me, I conceded defeat and turned back toward the stairs. My cathartic confrontation with the padre would have to wait.
Martin halted my retreat, touched a finger to his lips, and cautiously peeked around the doorframe of Nina’s office. He gave a thumbs-up and yanked me down the hall. As I hurried past her office, I glanced inside and saw she had her back to us but had begun turning toward the doorway, perhaps alerted by the squeaky old floorboards. If so, she declined to investigate.
She continued to bend the ear of whoever was on the other end of the line. “My first official act will be to redecorate the mayor’s office. I mean, have you seen the place? Sophie deserved to be booted out for her decorating taste alone.” Her trilling laughter spiked my blood pressure.
Good grief, when Sophie had become mayor, she’d declined to spend a nickel of the town’s money redecorating her office, which was already pleasingly outfitted in pale earth tones with brass and marble accents. I could only wonder what changes Nina had in mind and how much they were going to cost. This was a woman with expensive tastes.
Th
e doors to the other offices were closed. There was no way to tell whether any of them were occupied. I caught Martin’s eye and shook my head, indicating it was a lost cause.
Naturally he failed to take my lead, instead casting a critical eye at our surroundings. Clearly, his burglar’s instincts had been aroused.
And no, I can’t say with absolute certainty that the padre’s professional résumé included a section on breaking and entering. Call it an educated—and we’re talking PhD level here—guess.
I trailed him down the hallway, hissing, “Let’s get out of here, Padre. I don’t want her to—”
He shushed me and approached a door at the end of the hallway that looked different from the others. Its lower edge was about six inches higher than the carpeted floor and rested on what appeared to be the first riser of a stairway.
It made sense that this old house would have an attic. The wealthy farmer who’d built it two centuries earlier no doubt employed a live-in servant or two, and they would have slept up there.
Martin tried the doorknob. Locked.
“Come on.” I tugged on his arm, peering down the hall toward the open doorway of Nina’s office, willing her to remain inside. “Let’s go.”
He produced his wallet and extracted a credit card, whispering, “Since when are you afraid of Nina Wallace?”
“I’m not afraid of her, I’d just rather not— Padre! No!” Suddenly I realized what he was up to. I’d seen that so-called credit card before. It was a cunning fake. I watched him slide it open to expose a set of little lock picks. “You’re going to get us arrested.”
“Did you really throw away all that stuff?” In the time it took him to whisper this, he’d picked the ancient lock and opened the door, which squeaked on its hinges. Before I had a chance to object, he pulled me onto the staircase and shut the door behind us.
Utter darkness enveloped us, disorienting me and making it difficult to get my bearings. The two drinks I’d had didn’t help. Sexy Beast yelped and I realized I was squeezing him too tightly. I relaxed my grip.
I heard the jingle of keys. A second later, a small, bright light skidded off the walls, and I realized Martin had turned on the tiny flashlight he kept attached to his key ring.
Preserving Peaches Page 2