ON DEAN'S WATCH

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Well," Edna said, leaning in close but not lowering her voice, "she does need the money. And she sleeps with her daddy's shotgun beside her bed and she knows how to use it, so I feel sure she's safe."

  Gossip was another pastime Reva's employees enjoyed. And two strangers in Somerset? This was definitely juicy gossip. Reva decided not to tell them she'd met one of the strangers last night. It would too soon become a part of the gossip, and she preferred to keep a low profile, when possible.

  "Perhaps we should have a word with the gentlemen this afternoon," Frances suggested. "Just to be sure everything's on the up-and-up."

  Reva smiled as she cleaned and chopped the okra in front of her. No matter who or what Dean and his friend were, she had to feel a little bit sorry for them.

  "Maybe one of them will come calling on Reva," Edna said with a sly smile. "Evelyn said they were handsome young men, though one of them has a bit of a potbelly. Nothing horrible, like that rascal Rafer Johnson," she added quickly. "Just a healthy sign that he's been eating."

  "He's probably married," Frances observed wisely.

  Edna scoffed, "Then why would he move to town in the company of another man?"

  The two older women's eyes met, and they were silent for a long moment. "You don't think…" Frances said in a soft voice.

  "Surely not," Edna said, and then she pursed her lips.

  "Two attractive men, living together, suspiciously silent about why they're here and who they are…"

  "When did they arrive?" Reva asked, knowing the answer. If Dean had been telling the truth, that is.

  "Last night," Frances said.

  Reva laughed. "Why don't we give them a chance to settle in and meet everyone before we make any rash judgments?"

  "She's right, of course," Edna agreed. "And there is the possibility that the one who doesn't have a potbelly might come calling on Reva."

  "No, thank you," Reva said sharply. Men like Dean didn't come calling, and even if they did, he wasn't her type. She didn't have a type!

  "Would you prefer the man with the potbelly?" Frances asked. "Is that why you won't date Sheriff Andrews? I know he's asked for permission to call on you several times, and you always refuse. I had no idea you were looking for a man with a little more meat on his bones. Sheriff Andrews is not a small man, by any means, but he's certainly not soft in any way. If you'd like, we can keep taking him food at the station until he grows a nice little round tummy of his own—"

  Reva laughed. "No! Please, no. Why can't you ladies just accept the fact that I don't want any man to come calling on me?"

  "It's not natural," Frances said.

  "I wish I had a man." Edna sighed. "I miss having someone to talk to in the evening, since my John passed away."

  "I miss the sex," Frances confided.

  "Well," Edna said with a wicked smile, "your Billy Joe never was much for conversation."

  The two women laughed, and Reva quietly excused herself from the kitchen.

  The women who worked for her had changed all her notions about growing older. They had fun, they enjoyed life. Oh, they battled arthritis and they moved more slowly than they used to, but they embraced life and enjoyed every minute.

  But try as they might, they had not changed her mind about men. Potbelly or no, Reva was finished with the opposite sex. She didn't need a man, didn't want one, which was why she'd sent every small-town Romeo packing during her three years in Somerset.

  She leaned against the wall in the hallway just outside the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron and closed her eyes. Would they ever give up their efforts as matchmakers? Her life was good now. Settled. She was content. She didn't want to go back, not a single step. Since she had horrible luck with men, she was better off without one. A man would turn everything upside down, and as for love, there was no such thing. She'd believed herself in love once, but it had been as elusive and fragile as a soap bubble. And when that bubble had burst, she'd been terribly lost.

  Never again. Absolutely, positively, never.

  Edna and Frances continued to share their suppositions about the men who'd rented a space across the street. As their ideas grew more and more outrageous, Reva almost felt sorry for the newcomers.

  * * *

  He didn't like this; he didn't like it at all.

  The cars had begun arriving before noon. They parked on the street in the shade of ancient trees, as well as in a gravel parking lot on the far side of the house.

  Miss Reva's was more popular than he'd imagined.

  People milled about in the yard, studied the flowers, rocked and swung on the wide front porch. They came and they kept coming. He couldn't see the side parking lot nearly well enough to suit him. Eddie Pinchon could drive up to the side door and Dean wouldn't see a thing.

  At fifteen minutes to one, as the crowd continued to grow, Dean made up his mind. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on. No one else at Miss Reva's was so formally dressed, which meant he'd stick out like a sore thumb, but he couldn't conceal his pistol if he left the jacket behind.

  He didn't run, but his trip down two flights of stairs was fast. He was ready to make his escape, but his landlady, Mrs. Evelyn Fister, stepped into his path without so much as batting an eyelash. He had to put on the brakes to keep from mowing her down.

  "Mr. Sinclair," she said sweetly, "where are you off to this afternoon?"

  "I thought I'd grab a bite to eat," he said, moving to step around her.

  She was quicker than she looked to be and moved with him, so that she remained between him and the front door. "My kitchen is fully stocked. If there's anything you can't find there—"

  "I thought I'd eat out," he interrupted.

  She blinked, twice. "Out? Where? There's a bakery downtown, Louella Vine's place. The sign out front reads Somerset Bakery and Deli, but everyone calls it Louella's. She's a good cook, I suppose, but all you can get there are sweets and sandwiches. Why, you have to drive all the way to the interstate to get anything decent."

  "What about the place across the street?" he asked. And why wasn't Reva Macklin's restaurant considered decent?

  His landlady laughed. "Sonny, you don't just drop in at Miss Reva's. You have to have a reservation. Let's see, you might be able to get a space for next week. That's not too long to wait. In the summer and the fall, when the tourists swarm all over the place, you need your reservations at least a week in advance."

  Reservations? Somerset was a one-traffic-light town. It was barely a blip on the radar. Everyone knew everyone else, and you had to have reservations to get into Reva Macklin's restaurant?

  "I can see you're confused," Mrs. Fister said with a tight smile.

  "A little," Dean confessed.

  "Well," Mrs. Fister said as she took Dean's arm and led him onto her own front porch, "it's rather interesting." From the porch, they could see the crowd that continued to arrive. The patrons were dressed in various ways. Shorts and T-shirts, colorful sundresses, the occasional prim Sunday dress, jeans and neatly pressed button-up shirts. "When Reva came here a few years back, she was determined to make that old place a success. I'm not sure why she chose Somerset, but I suspect it had something to do with the price of the house. We're a bit off the beaten path, and real-estate values have been dismal the past thirty years or so."

  "I can imagine."

  "In the first year, Reva managed to build a respectable business. Nothing spectacular, not at first, but the woman does know how to cook." That last was said with pride from a woman who obviously thought this the greatest compliment. "It was the newspaper article that really got things rolling."

  "Newspaper article."

  "Some hotshot from Nashville came through and ate at Reva's, and he ended up writing an article about the experience. A few months later, there was the magazine article … Better Homes and Gardens. That was almost two years ago, and since then you can't get a seat at Miss Reva's unless you have—"

  "A reservation
," Dean finished.

  Mrs. Fister consoled him by patting his hand. "You can walk on over there and ask to be put on the waiting list. They do occasionally have a no-show." She cut him a wary glance. "Not often, but now and then. You might get lucky."

  A quick look around would be enough. If Eddie Pinchon was there, Dean would recognize him. All he needed was a moment or two to eye all the patrons.

  Dean walked across the street well aware that his landlady watched. This was why he hated stakeouts in small towns; not that he'd ever participated in a stakeout in a place anywhere near as small as Somerset. It was impossible to hide in a town like this one.

  Yet at the same time … it was the perfect place to hide. Was that why Reva Macklin had come here? Was she hiding?

  An older woman with her hair in a tight bun greeted him at the door as the couple she'd been speaking to walked into the restaurant. She held a small book in her hand. "Good afternoon, young man. May I have your name?"

  Sonny from his landlady and now young man. Dean was beginning to feel like a twelve-year-old. "I don't have a reservation," he said.

  The woman pursed her mouth and glanced down at her list. "Well, that is a problem. Would you like to make a reservation for next week? I believe we have a seat available on—" her eyes rolled up momentarily as she pondered "—Wednesday and Friday."

  Dean started to tell her to forget it. He could mill around, look at the patrons, watch those who arrived at the side parking lot.

  And then the smell hit him.

  He took a deep breath. "What is that?"

  The lady lifted her pert nose and inhaled. A smile broke over her face. "Fried chicken, stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, fried okra, fried squash, stewed apples, broccoli and rice, creamed corn, green beans and fudge pie." She leaned in close. "I made the pies today. And the stewed apples."

  "Next week will be fine," Dean said as his stomach growled. "Wednesday."

  She turned a few pages in her book and poised her pencil above a new page. "And your name?"

  "Dean Sinclair. I'm staying across the street."

  The old woman's head lifted slowly, her eyes sparkled, and she did not pencil in his reservation for the following Wednesday. "Well, now, isn't that interesting."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Reva no longer needed to act as hostess at one of the tables in her restaurant. The ladies who worked for her took care of that duty, joining the guests for a meal and telling them all about the history of the house and the town. That was just as well, since Reva had always been more comfortable behind the scenes. People loved her restaurant, and the food she served was always well received. These days she made a tidy profit from her cookbook, as well as the restaurant.

  But no one could eat this way every day and not pay a price.

  The guests were being seated when Edna burst into Reva's second-floor office. "There you are. Thank goodness!"

  Reva could not understand Edna's excitement at finding her; she was always in her office at one o'clock.

  "I hate to ask it of you," Miss Edna said graciously, "but could you possibly take my seat this afternoon? I have table two."

  Reva rose, setting aside her menus for the following week. "Are you all right?" Edna rarely missed a meal. She was one of those lucky people who could eat like this every day and show no ill effects. Her health was fabulous, with a cholesterol count the envy of many younger women, and she never gained a pound.

  "I have a bit of a headache," Edna said softly. "Nothing to be concerned about, but an aspirin and a short nap sounds pretty good right about now."

  "Of course." Reva did not consider herself as entertaining as her employees, who knew so much about this area and its history. Still, there had been a time when she'd performed hostess duties six days a week. She'd always done and would continue to do whatever was needed to make this place a success.

  "Lovely." Edna took Reva's arm as she left her office. "I did squeeze one extra customer in," she said absently as they walked down the stairs. "He looked very hungry, and I just couldn't make myself turn him away."

  "An extra?"

  "There was plenty of room," Edna whispered. "Table two is really the largest of all the tables, you know. Well, except for table four, which can seat as many as thirteen, as you well know. Still, table two is certainly large enough for one more hungry young man."

  But … an extra? Edna was usually such a stickler for the rules. If you have no reservation and there's no space available, you eat somewhere else, thank you very much.

  "Be nice to him," Edna said as they neared the room where table two was located. "He's our new neighbor." With that she released Reva's arm and very quickly disappeared out the front door.

  Well, crap.

  Reva stood in the doorway and watched as two young waiters placed heavy platters and bowls laden with food on the large lazy Susan at the center of the oversize round table that usually seated ten. Today it was set for eleven. She quickly sized up the patrons.

  Three seated couples were obviously tourists. They ranged in age from about thirty-five to sixty-five. Sandals, shorts, T-shirts and the surprised way they stared at the wealth of food being deposited on the table gave them away. A family of three, regulars who drove up from Alabama at least once a month, smiled in anticipation as the food was placed before them. Sharon Phillips and her husband, Doug, sat on either side of their only child, shy, nineteen-year-old Tracy.

  The tenth guest, the man Reva had very nearly accosted with a Bradford pear limb last night, was seated next to the chair that had been left empty for her. He wasn't ogling the food as the others were.

  He was looking at her.

  Oh, Edna would pay for this! This was a blatant, annoying and absolutely unnecessary attempt at matchmaking. The extra guest was handsome and hungry, and it was certainly no mistake that he'd been seated next to her. Headache, indeed. Reva resigned herself to enduring the meal without ever taking her revenge. How on earth could she scold a woman old enough to be her grandmother?

  She crossed her fingers and prayed that Dean wouldn't recognize her. It had been dark last night, and her hair had been tucked up under a cap. Even though she shouldn't feel guilty—the man had been snooping on her property—she would feel better if the subject never came up again.

  "Good afternoon," she said, smiling as she entered the room that had once been a music parlor. A few antique instruments were used as decoration in the room, as well as a few pieces of the original furniture. One of the waiters stood nearby the large round table, in case a platter or bowl was ever in danger of being emptied.

  "Reva!" Sharon Phillips smiled widely in welcome. "What a treat. Why, we don't see you often these days."

  "I'm afraid Miss Edna has a headache. I'm not nearly as entertaining as she is, so I hope you will all bear with me." Reva lowered herself into her chair. Dean sat to her left; one of the tourists, a woman with bright-red hair, sat at her right.

  The patrons filled their plates as the lazy Susan turned slowly, stopped for a moment and then moved on only to stop again. Reva suggested that everyone at the table introduce themselves as the food drifted by. She took a little bit of everything herself, as the dishes spun slowly past, very purposely not looking at the man beside her. She didn't look even when they reached for the biscuits at the same time and his hand brushed hers. Briefly. Very, very, briefly. And still, there was a spark she could not deny. No! There could be no spark of any kind.

  As she'd suspected, the three couples were all on vacation. Two were retired, and the other couple was taking two weeks to drive through Tennessee and Georgia. Her Alabama regulars introduced themselves and raved to the others about the food and Reva's cookbook.

  And then it was his turn.

  She had avoided looking directly at the man at her side, but it was impossible to ignore him. He looked out of place in his dark suit and striped tie and spotless white shirt. Reva had a feeling it did
n't matter what he wore; Dean was not a man to be ignored. He had a solid, undeniably strong presence. There were moments when she had to force herself not to look his way.

  She told herself he was probably married. Handsome and nicely built, he was not the kind of man who was normally unattached. Women swarmed over men like this one like bees on honey. There was no wedding ring, though, she noticed almost absently, but that didn't mean anything. Not really.

  She had a feeling he was not often truly uncomfortable; he was the sort of man who insisted on being in complete command of his life. But this afternoon he was tense, wound so tight he looked as if he was about to explode. Everyone else was smiling, chatting, enjoying themselves.

  If he was so uncomfortable, why was he here?

  "Dean Sinclair," he said. It quickly became clear that he didn't intend to share anything else about himself. Reva found that rude, since the others had all mentioned where they were from and what they did when they weren't on vacation, but Dean seemed to think the mere mention of his name sufficient.

  Fine with her.

  But of course, it wasn't fine with anyone else.

  "Where do you live, Mr. Sinclair?" Sharon asked.

  He glanced at the woman who had asked the friendly question. And hesitated. Reva found herself watching him as she awaited his answer. Good Lord, the man was more than a little gorgeous. He had one of those square jaws that looked as though it had been sculpted in stone, a perfectly shaped nose, nice lips … and killer blue eyes, slightly hooded. Last night she had not been able to tell that his eyes were blue—they'd been standing too far apart, and it had been to dark. Thanks to the dark and the distance, apparently he had not recognized her. Thank goodness.