by Beth Duke
Sam considered this for only a second. “No,” he said. “I know Hugh Parker too well to allow that. I’ll drive you and Deborah. We’ll drop her off first.”
Violet’s stomach lurched, offering a taste of wine and guilt.
nine
RONNI
As soon as Halle was crunching her food I called Rick from my bed/office, all messy sheets, cracker crumbs, legal pads and laptop. I glanced at the drugstore foundation and mascara streaks on the pillowcases, vowing once again to improve my nighttime facial routine and devotion to household laundry.
“Hey,” he answered. “Took you long enough.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said. “Work and my social life leave me with about four hours to sleep if I’m lucky. Life’s good.” Great—like he wouldn’t see through my lonely, desperate, fake-cheerful routine. “How have you been?”
“Busy chasing assholes in Porsches, drug mules, idiots with no taillights and eating bank candy. We did have a chicken truck burst into flames the other day and that was exciting. Almost called KFC to pick up the whole barbecue before the fire guys showed up.”
“That’s horrible, Rick.”
“Actually, the fire was out before one feather was singed. I even talked softly to the chickens to calm them down.”
“You are my hero.” I paused. “I had no idea you were Trooper of the Year and all that stuff.”
“It was a slow year with no other likely candidates. I did what any Boy Scout would’ve done, and a reporter happened to see it. Good PR for the Patrol. You been Googling me?” I was pretty sure I heard a smug laugh.
“Just my usual is-this-guy-an-ax-murderer research. Girl’s gotta be careful.”
“Especially one as beautiful as you,” he answered. “So, are you buying me a rib dinner or not? I know a fantastic place in Oxford, and it’s on the way to something I’d like to show you. Saturday, about five, maybe? Wear jeans and bring extra clothes.”
“Are the ribs that messy?”
“No, we’re going on a small adventure. I want you to be prepared.” I could practically see him grinning through the phone. “You don’t work Sundays, right?”
“Are you stalking me?”
“Only in the most professional manner. I’ll pick you up at your apartment Saturday at five. I have to run. Be good.” Be good? He hung up before I could say another word.
I had three days to lose five pounds, get my hair highlighted, de-pimple my chin, clean the apartment, and find some cute jeans. Somehow I’d fit in a chapter or two of Violet’s book, which was truly starting to intrigue me. I had read and re-read what I’d written and found it as appealing as most novels I checked out of the library. Research had shown me the odds of getting it published were about like getting struck by lightning while standing in a basement thirty miles from a thunderstorm, but maybe Mr. Sobel’s niece would show me first-time-writer mercy and offer advice.
Saturday at 4:58 p.m. I was peeking through the living room blinds when a shiny black BMW pulled up next to Ruby. “Jeez Louise. Flashy car for a cop,” I told Halle. “Maybe Rick takes bribes from drug dealers. Maybe this is a huge mistake.” I swiped my sweaty palms on the overpriced jeans I’d squeezed into as the cat sensed a stranger and darted off to hide under the bed. Rick’s knock on the door matched the thudding of my heart.
He was wearing a dark brown button-down oxford shirt to match his eyes with the sleeves casually rolled up, jeans that looked like he’d ironed them, and he smelled like fresh-cut grass and a hint of lime. Heavenly.
“Hi, you,” he flashed the knee-melting smile and held out a bouquet of sunflowers. “You look great. Let’s put these,” he edged by me toward the kitchen, “into a vase and get going. I’m starving.”
“They’re so pretty, Rick, thank you. I love sunflowers, but you probably knew that. You seem to know more about me than you should.”
“Sunflower sticker on your car’s rear window. Keen police brain,” he replied, tapping his temple with an index finger.
“Very impressive.” I took out a clear plastic pitcher. “This is the best vase I have for those.”
“Perfect. Vases are too fussy for sunflowers, anyway.” He was looking around the apartment, and I was wishing I’d rounded up a few more dust bunnies.
I put the flowers on my little kitchen table and turned to him, surprised by how much he towered over me. Tall, dark, handsome, funny...a grown-up man with history. He was gorgeous. What was he doing with me on a Saturday night?
“Something wrong?” He cocked one eyebrow.
“Oh, no. I was just wondering...”
“I’m turning forty next month.” He leaned back against my kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “I have an ex-wife and two sons. They live in Tuscaloosa with their stepdaddy, a big, fat sloppy professor at Alabama. She found him ‘sophisticated’,” Rick spat the words. “Left me for all the sophistication in his bank account two and a half years ago. He’s an overpaid professional noxious gasbag with a constant assortment of condiment stains on his baggy shirts.” He fired a finger gun at the ceiling. “War Damn Eagle.” He was quiet for a minute, then added, “I was born in Birmingham and grew up in Gadsden. Joined the Marines at eighteen. Got out as soon as I could and chose the patrol because I like to drive fast. I love Jesus but I like beer a lot. I’m a neat freak. I have a weakness for old dogs, children...”
“...and watermelon wine,” I finished. “I’ve heard that old song. My mom and dad were classic country music fans. Some of it’s not bad.”
“French wine, actually, but I’m glad you have good musical taste. Still want to go out with me, Miss Johnson?” He held out his arm. “I promise you won’t have to help me across the street or wipe my chin.”
“Very funny. You are a newborn babe compared to the people I spend time with every day.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d think. Contrast can be helpful to my cause.”
“Your cause?”
“To win your heart, Ronni. I’ve been focused on that since I saw you walking in the bank’s parking lot. Would’ve dented your Honda myself if that kid hadn’t done it.”
I took his arm in mine and loved how he immediately tugged me closer. Rick felt solid—the most solid person I’d ever met.
He opened the door of his fancy car for me. I noticed it looked like it had been detailed with a toothbrush. The radio blared a 70’s song I didn’t recognize, and I hoped there wouldn’t be an oldies music quiz.
“Here,” he said. “Let me switch that.” We were instantly saturated in satellite radio top twenty; something with heavy bass by Jay Z. I wondered if Rick’s ears were bleeding from his attempt to entertain me. I reached over and turned the volume down.
“Let’s talk,” I said. “Did you serve overseas in the Marine Corps?”
He nodded. “Operation Desert Storm. I helped hang on to some oil wells. Not my favorite subject.” Rick grasped the steering wheel hard and sped up to ninety on the interstate. We’d be in Oxford within ten minutes at this rate.
I checked my seat belt and activated my imaginary brake pedal.
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”
“Do you have a blue light for this thing?”
“If we need one. I’m going kinda slow for it right now.”
“Uh huh.” He seemed to want to race every car we pulled aside, expertly weaving around traffic. I was trying very hard to appear nonchalant. Please God, I prayed silently, just get us to the restaurant.
By the time we arrived I was nauseated, shaky and grateful the menu offered a sandwich I could nibble while Rick devoured ribs caveman-style. He had a Coors Light and I managed to gulp three glasses of cheap barbecue-house wine to settle my nerves. They were worth every penny. Our eighty-year-old waitress, Cora, handed the check to Rick. He promptly presented it to me.
“Y’all must be married,” Cora said. She placed her hands on her ample hips.
“No, ma’am,” I answered. “I’m taking him o
ut to dinner to thank him for a favor.”
Rick grinned at Cora. “I helped her catch an evil teenaged villain who hit her car.”
“Oh, it’s you,” she replied, squinting through thick glasses. “Didn’t recognize you out of uniform. Tell you what, honey,” she grabbed the check from my hand, “this one’s on the house.” She winked at Rick.
I had the feeling Rick ate a lot of free meals along the I-20 corridor. When we were back in the car I said, “Friend of yours?”
“Cora broke down on her way to work last year. I changed a tire in the rain so she could make it in time for her shift.”
I began singing Abba’s ‘Super Trouper’ as he started the car.
“Yep, that’s me. Now for the fun part of the evening. Ever been to Lake Wedowee?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, hold on tight. I’ll have us there before you know it.”
“I believe you, Rick. Don’t you ever get a ticket? Cops can get speeding tickets, right?”
He laughed and floored the accelerator. “No, I don’t, and yes, they can.” I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was skydiving, bungee jumping or on Six Flags’ fastest roller coaster. Those were less nerve-wracking than his driving.
Rick steered into the marina’s gravel parking lot carefully—mustn’t get dust on the BMW—and parked far from the array of pickup trucks and boat trailers. He opened my door and asked, “You have your extra clothes?”
“Yes, but why do I . . .?”
“Just bring them. Trust me.” He extended his hand and pulled me out, dragging my purse and shopping bag along. “You do trust me, don’t you?” He leaned over and kissed my forehead, then tilted my face up to his. The late-day sun glowed around his head like a halo. I resisted the urge to tell him.
We walked hand in hand to a dock with several boats tied up. Rick waved his hand at a sleek, bronze-y metallic speedboat with ‘Catch Me, Copper’ emblazoned in white on its stern.
“Seriously?”
“Well, it’s copper colored, and I drive it fast, and I am...”
“A cop. I get it, Rick O’Shea. Nice boat.”
He helped me clamber aboard. “You’re probably going to get a bit wet. I’ll store your extra clothes under here.” He shoved my bag and purse under the dashboard and cranked up what sounded like a jet engine. “Hold on,” he said.
Like I hadn’t figured that part out. Rick untied the ropes and threw them on the dock. We exited the marina slowly, so I stopped white-knuckling the seat. That was a mistake. My head was snapped back as soon as he hit open water, and I found myself laughing and screaming ‘faster!’ as the boat shot across the lake. I didn’t even mind the spray ruining my carefully arranged hair. This was pure joy.
We arrived at a dock in front of an a-frame house on stilts, surrounded by pine forest. A huge black Labrador Retriever sat wagging its tail on the dock. Rick threw the bow rope to the dog, obviously trained to assist with boat parking.
“Hey, Darby,” he yelled. “Thanks.” The dog pulled mightily on the rope, digging in her paws and backing up until we were in position. She sat and thumped her tail on the dock, looking like she was grinning in triumph with the rope between her teeth.
“Is that your dog?” I asked.
“No, Darby belongs to the neighbors. She always hears the boat and waits for me.” He reached in his pocket and extracted a napkin full of barbecue scraps. “Good girl.” He tossed the treat to Darby, who ignored it until Rick took the rope to tie the boat. I climbed out as gracefully as I could and patted Darby, who had swallowed the meat whole and was looking hopefully at Rick.
“Is this your house?”
“It belongs to my family,” he said. “My dad built it when we were kids. My brother and I share it, trading off weekends. Mom and Dad hardly ever come out here anymore.”
Darby continued to stare soulfully at Rick, who shrugged and told her, “That’s all, girl. You can visit later.” The dog turned obediently and trotted off into the woods. Rick reached into the boat for my clothes. “Here,” he handed my purse and bag to me, “you can freshen up in the downstairs bedroom. It’s all set up and ready.”
“You think I’m spending the night with you?”
“Only if you want to. There are two bedrooms. I’ll be sleeping upstairs unless you want company.” He tossed a ring of keys to me. “I have to finish up with the boat. The door’s around back and the key with a red top fits it. Make yourself at home.”
I walked carefully, scanning for rattlesnakes. I’m not an outdoorsy girl. The door opened into a small kitchen of harvest gold and avocado green, prompting me to look around for The Brady Bunch. I crossed into a large living room with a stone fireplace and tall windows overlooking the lake. Rick was pacing back and forth on the dock with his cell phone to an ear, laughing and shaking his head.
I found a tiny apology of a guest bedroom downstairs. It had enough space for a twin bed, a small dresser and a thinner person to turn around. A chocolate brown quilted spread held light blue decorative pillows, and there were old family photos covering one wall. I had an easy time recognizing Rick’s grin in each of them, most of which featured freshly-caught fish. I was thrilled to find a private bathroom. I peeled off my wet clothes and regarded myself in the mirror. I needed makeup and hair styling immediately. Thirty minutes later I emerged in more comfortable jeans and a pink Alabama sweatshirt to find Rick slouched in a chair on the deck, feet up on the railing. The sun was dipping into a pool of pale coral and evening had fallen like coal dust on the treeline across the shore. He’d lit tiki torches at each corner and sat next to a plastic table with one beer, a plate of cheese and crackers, a wine glass and an open bottle of chardonnay. My chair was to its left. It took three tugs of the sliding glass door to make my entrance.
“Sorry,” he said. “That door sticks. Come sit and catch the last of the sunset. The bugs aren’t bad tonight.”
I poured myself a large glass of wine. “Cheers,” I said, clinking his Coors Light can. “This is beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s a nice view. Quiet tonight. Most people are away this weekend.”
“Any special reason?” I tried to remember if there was a race at Talladega or other state holiday.
“No, I had all the neighbors arrested so we’d have the place to ourselves.”
“I’m still catching onto your police humor,” I replied.
He chuckled. “Yeah, humor. There really is a roadblock near here tonight. It’s probably slowing folks down a bit.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?”
“I try. Have you decided whether you’re staying until morning? I need to know if I can open three or four more beers.” He raised his beer can, swishing it from side to side.
“I guess so, as long as I have my own room. Halle has plenty of food and water.”
“Halle?”
“My cat’s name is Halle Berry.”
“How cute. I’m thinking Kitty O’Shea would consider her a tasty appetizer.”
“I forgot about your bulldog. I’m a cat person.”
“And I am not, but I am cat tolerant when necessary. By the way, we need to leave here around ten tomorrow morning. Would you like to go mini-golfing in Tuscaloosa?”
I decided not to feign enthusiasm for mini-golf. “No, thank you. I can go home and write. I’m in the middle of a chapter.”
“You’re a writer? I thought you were a professional angel to old people.”
“That’s my day job, and I’ll need to keep it. I’m writing a book with little hope of publication.”
“I see. What’s it about?”
I considered my wine glass for a minute before answering, “The life of a wonderful woman named Violet. She was kind of an adoptive grandmother to me. The only grandmother I’ve ever known.”
“Your parents live in Birmingham, right?”
“My parents passed away a few years ago. It’s just me. No brothers or sisters.” I gulped wine, stressed a
s always by any discussion of my childhood.
“I’m sorry. They must have been very young.”
“Actually, they had me late in life.” My practiced line. Not, they adopted me after I was passed around by three foster families.
“Well, I’m sure they were wonderful people. I want you to meet my folks soon. I think you’d like them.”
“I’m sure I would. Are you mini-golfing alone tomorrow?”
“No, I had a call from my son Josh earlier. He and his younger brother are mini-golf enthusiasts. Want to see a picture?” He held out his phone, revealing two blonde, smiling little boys. “Josh is eight and Jeremy is seven.”
“They’re adorable,” I said. “It must be hard, being away from them.”
“It kills me, to be honest with you.” Rick stared at a bird flying low across the lake, tracing its path. “I want to tell you a story,” he said.
“Okay.” I wondered why he wouldn’t look at me. I was probably in for thirty minutes of how wonderful his kids are.
“A few months ago, I was standing in a corner of the bank, hidden like they want me. Maybe peeking through a fern. High-level surveillance near the end of a Friday shift.” He took a sip of beer. “In walks this girl. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a faded black t-shirt, so I know she’s not too concerned with impressing anyone. Gets halfway to the counter before remembering to take off her sunglasses. I caught a glimpse of her eyes as she said hello to the teller and they reminded me of a late-afternoon winter sky. She smiled as she slid a piece of paper through the window and laughed at some joke she made. In that moment...God, she was pretty.”
He paused, still looking at the lake.
“Anyway, the girl cashes a check and turns to leave. She notices this old couple fifteen feet away, trying to open the door. She sprints over and swings it wide and holds it for them. The old lady is leaning on the man, so she takes the lady’s arm and helps them all the way to the counter. Then she waits, introducing herself and talking quietly to the woman, while her husband finishes his business. A full three or four minutes. She takes the lady’s arm again and slowly walks them all the way to their ancient Buick, then stands and watches to make sure they pull out into traffic okay before walking to her own car.” Another sip, and he turned to smile at me. “A maroon Honda.”