“Yes!”
Visions of hordes of troops jamming into the shop for an autographed copy of the latest Roger Brent thriller filled Andi’s head when she finally locked up and climbed into the Tahoe.
Darkness blocked any view of the sea but didn’t muffle its soothing murmur. She sat for a moment, keys in hand, windows rolled down to let in the breeze. She ached all over, but it was a good kind of hurt, the kind that came from seeing a job completed and marking it off her checklist well ahead of schedule.
Andi knew darned well who was responsible for making that happen. Goodwin swore all he’d done was let drop a hint that Mrs. Colonel Armstrong needed a few strong backs, and volunteers had poured out of the woodwork. She’d wasted her breath reminding him she was no longer Mrs. Colonel Armstrong. To Joe Goodwin and the rest of the men who had cheerfully sacrificed their precious afternoon off, once Special Tactics, always Special Tactics.
Sighing, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and punched in the number for Dave’s office. Caller ID must have tagged her, as he answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Andi. What’s up?”
“My bookcases. All of them.”
“They are, huh?”
“Don’t play innocent. I know you sicced Joe Goodwin on me.”
“Now that you mention it, I might have let slip that you could use a hand or two.”
“He brought half the squadron with him.”
“Did he? Good man.” Dave didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. “Where are you now?”
“Getting ready to head home. You?”
“Still at work. It’s been a bitch of a day.”
“Tell me.”
“Same old crap,” he related. “Too many operational requirements, too little funding. I’m heading up to Washington next week to defend next year’s budget submission to the House Armed Services Committee.”
Bathed by the breeze, Andi rested her head against the seat back. Whatever else they’d screwed up in their marriage, they’d always been able to talk about their work. The sadness of that, the emptiness of it, wormed through the guilty pleasure stirred by his voice.
“How about you?” he asked after a few moments. “What’s next on your checklist?”
“I’ve got to do battle with the city and find out what’s holding up final approval of my occupancy permit.”
“Anything I can do from this end?”
“You’ve done enough.”
Raising her head, Andi shook off her lethargy. Sharing her day with Dave like this was too comfortable, too insidious. She had to be careful she didn’t wind up leaning on him. She faced too many uncertainties in her life right now to add a rekindled relationship with her ex-husband to the list.
“Thanks for sending the guys over this afternoon. I really appreciate the help. But…”
She bit her lip, searching for the right words. Dave supplied them himself.
“But you want me to back off?”
“Yes. I told you last night I’m not ready to take up where we left off four years ago.”
“Me, either, seeing as we left off in divorce court. If we do this again, we do it right.”
“If being the operative word. Don’t push it, Armstrong. Or me.”
She was feeling cornered, Dave thought. Maybe a little confused. And he was sure he detected a touch of indecision under the irritation.
Good! He wanted to keep her off balance, give her something other than that damn bug to worry about. He didn’t want her to bolt, however, or surgically remove him from her life again.
“Message received. Consider me officially backed off three paces.”
“Make it ten.”
“Four…five…six…seven. Sorry, babe. That’s as far as I can go. You’ve got my ass against the wall.”
She’d had his ass to the wall before. On several memorable occasions, as best Dave recalled. Her quick indrawn hiss told him the erotic images had flooded into her head as well as his. He was reliving one particularly fond memory when she cut the connection.
“Gotta go. See you around, Armstrong.”
“If you’re lucky, Armstrong.”
FUELED BY CHEERFUL determination and a good night’s sleep, Andi marched up the sidewalk to the Gulf Springs municipal center at oh-nine-hundred the following morning.
The municipal center occupied a low one-story building with giant palmettos fanning the main entrance. The offices of the town clerk shared space with the police department, the volunteer fire brigade and the library.
The locked front doors put the first dent in Andi’s sunny mood. She checked her watch, folded her arms and tapped a foot. Three minutes passed. Five.
She checked her watch and tried the door again. Frowning, she skirted the palmettos. The black-and-white patrol car parked at the end of the building led her to a side door and the police department’s dispatch center.
A uniformed officer manned the center. More or less. He was tipped back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, perusing a dog-eared edition of Sportfisherman. Andi eyed the mound of stomach straining his dark blue shirt and wondered how he managed a hot pursuit.
“Mornin’, ma’am.” The magazine was laid aside. His feet drifted to the floor. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to the clerk who handles business permits.”
“That’ll be Bernice Dobbs. Just go round to the main entrance, first office to the left inside.”
“I tried the main entrance. The door’s locked.”
His glance cut to the wall clock above the radio console. “Should be open. Hold on, I’ll… Oh, wait. This is Thursday, isn’t it?”
Andi had to think a minute. The days had begun to blend together. “Yes, it is.”
“Bernice goes to the vet on Thursdays.”
“’Scuse me?”
“It’s that yappy poodle of hers. Has a problem with its anal glands. Won’t let anyone but Doc Anderson ream ’em out, but the doc only holds clinic here on Santa Rosa Island Thursday mornings.”
That was considerably more information than Andi wanted or needed.
“Is there someone else I can talk to about permits?”
“Nope, just Bernice. She’ll be along soon. How about a cup of coffee while you wait?”
This wasn’t the Pentagon, Andi reminded herself. Zealous employees didn’t come in at five or six in the morning to prepare for seven-thirty stand-up. Nor did she have a staff to delegate mundane tasks to like this one. Reining in her impatience, she accepted a mug of what looked, smelled and tasted like Alabama mud.
Ten minutes later a series of shrill yips echoed through the corridor linking the dispatch center with the city office.
“That’ll be—”
“Bernice.” Andi had figured that one out on her own. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.” The officer’s feet went back up on the console. The magazine flipped open. “We’re here to serve.”
Andi had always heard that dog owners often resembled their pets. Bernice Dobbs proved an exception to the rule. The poodle was small and skittish and bared its teeth when Andi walked in. Its owner was big, slow and flashed a smile that knew no strangers. Shushing her pet, Bernice ambled to the counter.
“Good morning. You’re here early.”
With some effort, Andi bit back the observations that she and her yippy pet were here late.
“My name is Andrea Armstrong. I spoke with you a couple of days ago about the occupancy permit I filed electronically with your office.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Armstrong. It’s still not approved.”
“What’s the problem now?”
Her leasing agent had already gone two rounds with the building inspector. After the first one, Wayne Jacobs had brought in an electrician to rewire the circuitry. The second had resulted in new panic bars for the rear exit.
“The inspector indicated some of the shop’s sprinkler heads aren’t up to code.”
“Are you sure? He di
dn’t say anything about sprinkler heads during his first two walk-throughs.”
Bernice shuffled to a computer terminal, booted up and clicked a few keys.
“Yep, that’s what it was. I sent Wayne Jacobs an e-mail yesterday to let him know.”
“This is ridiculous. How many walk-throughs does it take to get a business permit in this town?”
The clerk toyed with the keyboard, not quite meeting Andi’s eye. “Does seem like a hassle, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
Bernice worried the keys for another moment. When she lifted her gaze to Andi’s again, she cocked her head and seemed to be taking her measure.
“You might want to talk to Wayne about the hassle,” she said slowly.
“Why? Is he part of the problem?”
“Just talk to Wayne.”
ANDI CAUGHT THE LEASING agent at his office just off Main Street. He kept a phone wedged between his neck and shoulder while his fingers flew over his computer keyboard. Smiling an apology, he waved her to a seat.
“I have just what you’re looking for,” he said into the phone. “Three-bedroom, two-bath, with garage, only eight miles from the base. There’s another I want you to look at, too, a little farther out. I’ll e-mail you both listings. I’ve got pictures of the interiors on my Web site. Give me a call after you’ve looked them over. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Sure, I can do that. Talk to you in a little bit.”
Unwedging the phone, he flipped it shut and tossed it on the desk. “I’m glad you stopped by. You were next on my call list.”
“Let me guess. Sprinkler heads.”
“How’d you know?”
“I just came from Bernice.”
“She in already?” Surprised, he shot a glance at his watch. “She usually opens a little later on Thursdays.”
“Good Lord! Does everyone in town know about her poodle’s anal glands?”
His face split in a grin. He was a medium-size man with thinning strands of sandy hair and the engaging personality required to succeed as a Realtor.
“Everyone who does business with her,” he confided with a chuckle.
“She said I should talk to you.”
His grin faded. “I’m sorry about those damn sprinkler heads. I’ll get them changed out.”
“Why didn’t the building inspector find them the first two times through?”
Jacobs shifted in his chair and palmed the few strands combed across his nearly bald dome. “I warned you he was a son of a gun to work with.”
“Yes, you did. What’s his problem?”
“It’s a game he plays. Use up your patience, wear you down.”
“You mean he’s deliberately stonewalling us?”
“Not you. Me.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t slipped the bastard anything on the side,” Jacobs admitted.
Her jaw sagged. “He wants a bribe?”
“He’s never come right out and asked for one. Talbot’s too damn smart to put something like that into words. But, yes, that’s exactly what he wants.”
“Good grief! Why don’t you report him to the mayor or the town council or whoever he works for?”
“Report what?” Jacobs palmed his comb-over again. “That he’s overzealous in his inspections? That he spots deficiencies on his second or third walk-through he didn’t spot the first time around?”
“Gulf Springs is a small town, Wayne. If this guy is on the take, wouldn’t word get around?”
“I’ve heard rumbles over the years, but no one will admit to offering an outright bribe. That would make them as culpable as the person accepting it. Most just write it off as a necessary cost of doing business.”
“Then pass on the cost to their customers.”
“And, if pressed, they’ll tell you that’s how it’s done in the real world.”
Disgusted, Andi shook her head. Bribes and under-the-table deals weren’t unique to the civilian world. Just a few years back the Pentagon’s highest-ranking procurement official had pleaded guilty to peddling her influence on a major aircraft buy in exchange for a seven-figure salary when she left DOD. Yet the same official had mandated that the troops in the trenches couldn’t accept so much as a cup of coffee from a defense contractor.
Andi didn’t believe in double standards. And she wasn’t about to launch her bookstore with a bribe.
“I don’t want you to pay this guy a penny under the table, Wayne.”
“He could drag his feet indefinitely. You might have to adjust the schedule in that notebook you tote around.”
Andi suspected her notebook was fast gaining as much local notoriety as Bernice’s poodle’s anal glands.
“Just let me know when this Talbot character schedules his next walk-through. I want to be present for this one.”
CHAPTER 8
Andi stewed about the permit for most of the next few days but didn’t let the delay throw her too far off schedule. Wayne insisted the permit would go through one way or another. He’d also encouraged her to press ahead with the next items on her checklist.
The first was installation of the front counter she’d had rebuilt to her specifications. The carpenter delivered it along with the stands for the two used computers she’d purchased dirt cheap at a pawn shop.
That purchase prompted a call to the computer wiz recommended by Sue Ellen. The kid could write programs in his sleep—or so S.E. swore. The high schooler bopped into the shop after school sporting rings in both nostrils and baggy pants that showed most of his butt crack.
Despite Andi’s initial doubts, he took less than an hour to install and integrate the bar-code-scanning software she’d purchased. Now prospective customers could go to either terminal, click a button and search her entire in-store inventory—when she ordered it. She wasn’t about to ship in thousands of dollars’ worth of books until her permit came through.
But she could bring in a few pieces of furniture. She had a sofa and two overstuffed easy chairs in storage. They didn’t do her any good sitting in the rented climate-controlled unit. She might as well put them to work in her shop. When and if she moved into a permanent residence, she’d treat herself to new ones.
The sofa she placed near the front of the store, out of the glare of the sun from the plate glass windows but with enough natural light for customers to sit and read comfortably. The easy chairs fit into a spacious niche between the bookshelves designed for just that purpose.
Several potted palms and a leafy ficus added to the ambience, as would the bestseller covers Andi planned to enlarge to poster size. She’d purchased precut sheets of Plexiglas to use for mounting. Since she intended to change the displays often, she’d left the left edge of the Plexiglas open so she could slide the covers in and out easily. The other edges she would screw to the walls.
Her cell phone pinged while she was deciding where to mount the first square. The digital readout tagged the caller as Mary Esther Signs and Banners.
“Your shop sign is ready, Ms. Armstrong. When do you want us to bring it out?”
Today! Andi wanted to shout. Right now!
Swallowing her frustration, she scheduled the installation for the following week. No sooner had she terminated that call than she got another.
“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” Chief Goodwin said. “Roger Brent’s been out of town and just returned my call.”
With so many tasks occupying her mind, Andi had almost forgotten Goodwin’s promise to contact the New York Times bestselling author.
“Brent wants to know when your grand opening is. He might be able to swing by to sign books.”
Andi’s frustration made another sharp spike. “I haven’t set the date yet.”
“No problem. Brent said I should give you his e-mail address so you can coordinate with him directly. He also said he might be able to get his publisher to run some promo spots on radio and TV. Ready to copy?”
She snatched up a pen. “Ready.”
&nbs
p; When Goodwin reeled off the address, Andi thanked him once again. “I owe you for this, Joe. Big-time. You’ll have to tell me how I can return the favor.”
“If I’m in the field when Brent swings by, you might save me an autographed copy. You might also talk to your friend at the Department of Labor and tell her to cut me some slack on my youth camp.”
“You got it.”
The back-to-back calls spurred Andi to direct action. Determined to bring the matter of her permit to a head, she punched in a speed-dial number.
“Wayne, it’s Andi. I need this guy Talbot to get off his butt and schedule another walk-through.”
“I’m on the other line with him right now. Hold on.”
Tapping an impatient foot, she skimmed a glance around the shop. The empty shelves stood like silent sentinels, begging to be filled. The sofa cushions were plumped and ready. The computer terminals needed only the touch of a finger to blink awake.
Andi couldn’t believe how much of herself she’d already put into the bookstore. Or how eager she was to invest more. Not just money or hardware or furniture. This small shop in this little town was anchoring her in a way she’d never expected or experienced.
She’d moved more times than she could count, first as a military brat, then as an officer. As best Andi could recall, she’d never lived anywhere longer than three years. Most places it was less than two. Even this move to Florida had been intended as a stopgap measure while she battled her vicious little bug and figured out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
She’d decided to open her shop as a stopgap, more something to occupy her time and direct her energies than a long-term career choice. Until this moment, she hadn’t thought beyond the grand opening.
Yet now, with half of the pieces coming together, she couldn’t wait to get on with the rest. She wanted to watch her ideas take root. See her brainchild grow. Find out if she had as good a head for the private sector as she had for the military.
The shop had become much more than a stopgap, she realized. It was part of her.
“Okay,” Jacobs said, coming back on the line. “We’re on for two o’clock tomorrow.”
Ex Marks the Spot (Harlequin Next) Page 8