ON DEAN'S WATCH

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Reva's not the same person she was seven years ago."

  Alan snatched the photograph of Reva from the wall and waved it at Dean. "This is the woman you're talking about, Dean. Yeah, she cleans up nice. She's got herself a good gig here in Somerset and she's not about to blow it by showing the people here what's she's really like. But this is her." He shook the photo at Dean. "She was an eighteen-year-old cocktail waitress when she met Eddie, working in a sleazy bar thanks to a fake ID. She moved in with Pinchon two weeks after they met. She was never charged with a crime, but you know damn well if she was living with Eddie for almost two years, she didn't stay clean."

  Dean's heart sank. "She's changed…"

  "People don't change," Alan said in a calmer voice. "You know that as well as I do. Reva Macklin was Eddie Pinchon's woman for a damn long time. She's the mother of his child. If he comes here, she'll shelter him and feed him and take him into her bed without a second thought. She'll fall for his pretty face all over again, if she ever fell out, and she'll protect him from anything and everyone. She'll hide him from us. She'll put herself between us and Pinchon, and I don't have to tell you which side she'll be on."

  Dean didn't want to believe it, but he'd seen the scenario play out that way too many times.

  "You're thinking with your johnson, bud. Don't feel bad. We've all been there."

  Alan didn't mean to be harsh. He was a friend, and he'd been through a few crises of his own. He certainly wasn't accustomed to watching Dean Sinclair have second thoughts about his job. Dean didn't make mistakes; he didn't follow his gut over logic, or lust after a woman because she smelled like strawberries. All his life, he'd been the one to think things through thoroughly, to compose a mental list of pros and cons before making an important decision. And he always thought with his brain, not his johnson.

  "I tell you what," Alan said in a calmer voice. "I understand how you feel. Patsy left you high and dry, what, three months ago? Drive to Nashville and have yourself a hot time. You can be back here by sunup, and I promise you, everything will look different. Everything. Especially Reva Macklin."

  Dean took the picture from Alan and studied it. Yeah, it was her. Brasher, younger, wilder, but it was Reva. He had seen her smile a couple of times today, but not like this. Not wide and free and … joyous. The girl in the picture was full of unbridled joy.

  Maybe Alan was right, and Dean was drawn to Reva because she was beautiful and sexy and he was alone. Did he need a woman in his bed so badly he'd see something that didn't exist so the truth wouldn't get in his way? He didn't think so, but he couldn't be absolutely sure. He couldn't trust himself, not with this.

  He gave up on the idea of telling Reva everything.

  But he didn't drive to Nashville.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Familiar sounds and smells drifted from the kitchen, but this morning a new element had been added to the chaos that was Reva's everyday life. Sporadic sounds of hammering, creaking wood and occasional mutters that might be curses also found their way to her office.

  Reva lifted her head when the door to her office opened. Tewanda stepped into the room, closed the door and leaned back with a wide smile on her face. Tall, dark and regally gorgeous, Tewanda had a tendency to reinvent herself every six months or so. Her hairstyle and clothing changed dramatically with each incarnation. At the moment she was in a brand-new tailored stage. Her black hair was cut close to her head, her slacks and shirt were fashioned in an almost mannish style that only accentuated her curves. Nothing Tewanda could do to herself would ever make her fade into the woodwork.

  "There's a good-looking man on the third floor and he's playing with your banister."

  "Only you could make that sound wicked," Reva said, setting aside the checkbook to give her friend and employee her full attention.

  "Sweetie, that man definitely has wicked possibilities."

  The last thing Reva needed to think about was Dean Sinclair's wicked possibilities.

  "How's everything in the kitchen?"

  "Miss Edna and Miss Judith are arguing over how much pepper to put in the squash casserole, and Miss Frances keeps slipping out of the kitchen to sneak up the stairs and take a peek at your young man."

  "He's not my young man!"

  "That's not what I hear," Tewanda said suggestively.

  Reva sighed and leaned back in her chair as her friend walked closer and propped herself on the edge of the desk. "He's not mine, and he's not exactly young, either."

  "Young is relative," Tewanda said wisely.

  Tewanda had the perfect life, it seemed. Her husband of more than ten years adored her and took her frequent fashion changes in stride. They had three beautiful, well-behaved sons. Terrance was the youngest of the Hardy boys. Nothing rattled Tewanda, not even Cooper, who spent the night at her house often.

  Sometimes Reva felt a twinge of jealousy as she watched Tewanda go about her perfect life. I don't want an adoring husband, Reva insisted silently, but I would love to be able to provide that kind of home for Cooper. A stable man who'd be a good father figure, a man she could have more children with, a brother for Cooper, maybe a sister or two. Deep inside she knew that would never happen.

  "He is cute," Tewanda said in a lowered voice, "but I swear, Reva, that man of yours is not well acquainted with a hammer. I only watched for a couple of minutes, I promise but it was kinda like watching Russell struggle with his math homework."

  Russell was Tewanda's eldest child. A few months ago he had insisted that the fourth grade was just too hard.

  "Dean is new at this," Reva said. "Give him a chance."

  Tewanda pursed her lips and hummed. "Already defending the man, I see. Well, well. Sheriff Andrews is not going to be happy about this new and interesting development."

  Reva sighed. "The sheriff has nothing to say about my life!"

  "But he surely would like to." Tewanda waggled her eyebrows.

  Reva looked down at the checkbook again. She'd much rather balance her checkbook than talk to Tewanda about Ben Andrews or Dean Sinclair. "You'd better go check on the squash casserole," she said. "I have checks to write that need to go out with today's mail."

  "Fine," Tewanda said as she stood and headed for the door. "Brush me off. Send me away without a satisfactory report. When you need someone to keep Cooper overnight so you can entertain your handyman wanna-be…" She paused, then turned to grin at Reva. "Shoot, you know you can call on me. Anytime."

  "I'm not—" Reva began.

  "Don't argue," Tewanda interrupted. "I'd say it's about time you showed a little interest in seeking out male companionship. It's just not natural to live for years without a man in your bed."

  Reva lifted her chin. "How do you know I've lived for years without a man in my bed? I might have a very exciting love life away from the restaurant."

  Tewanda grinned widely. "First of all, you're blushing beet-red. You don't lie well, at least not to me. Secondly, this is Somerset, sweetie." She raised a hand to her chest. "If a man had been anywhere near you, I would have heard about it. Face it, there's nothing exciting about your life, and the only love in it is for Cooper. And thirdly, speaking of your adorable son, in all the years I've known you, Cooper has never said a word about there being a man in your house. Until this morning when I walked the boys to school, that is. I understand your Mr. Sinclair came over for dessert last night."

  Reva rested her forehead on the desk. What she'd said to Dean last night had been true. There were no secrets in a small town. "Strawberry shortcake, that's all it was. I swear."

  "Mmm-hmm," Tewanda said as she walked out the door, closing it softly behind her.

  Reva finished writing out the checks. She went over the menus for the next week and glanced at the possible recipes for her new cookbook. Her first cookbook had been selling very well, and people were already asking for more.

  Every now and then the sounds from the third floor distracted her. Was
Dean really that terrible at being a handyman? Maybe Tewanda had been exaggerating. No man was bad with a hammer.

  Was he?

  When she couldn't stand waiting anymore, Reva slipped out of the office, turned left and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible. Her shoes were flat and soft-soled, and the long skirt of her cream-colored dress swished quietly.

  Unfortunately it was impossible to be completely quiet when a number of the steps had a tendency to squeal.

  She caught sight of Dean staring at her through the railing. He sat on the floor of the third-story hallway, hammer in hand, and watched her approach.

  "Who's skulking now?" he asked with a smile.

  "I guess that would be me," Reva said as she finished the climb without attempting to be quiet.

  "Usually when I hear creaking steps, I glance up and see a gray head peering around the corner," Dean said.

  "Miss Frances." Reva sat on the top step. A couple feet of space and white slats marred by peeling paint separated her from Dean Sinclair. "I just wanted to warn you, customers will start arriving son, so you'll have to take a break until this afternoon."

  Dean glanced at his watch. "It's not even noon. You serve at one, right?"

  She nodded. "People come early to walk in the gardens or explore the house or just sit on the porch and rock. Hammering and cursing kind of ruin the atmosphere."

  "I didn't think anyone would be able to hear me," he explained. "Sorry."

  "Sounds carry in these old houses. Don't worry about it." She glanced beyond Dean. "If I can get the third floor in good shape, make sure the railing is solid and safe and remodel the rooms, we can open this area up for customers, too. I was thinking of making a couple of the old bedchambers into sitting rooms or small parlors. I could even entertain small parties up here once everything is finished."

  Dean carefully laid his hammer down on the floor. He didn't look the part of handyman, though he did try. His hair was cut too precisely. The jeans and boots were too new. The T-shirt, advertising the downtown hardware store, didn't sport a single stain or rip.

  And his face … he should have a five-o'clock shadow to make him look less respectable.

  "Are you hostessing a table today?" he asked.

  Reva shook her head.

  "Good," Dean said in a lowered voice that sent chills down her spine. "Have lunch with me."

  * * *

  It was after one by the time Reva climbed the stairs to the third floor again. The dull roar of conversation, the clink of silverware on plates, the occasional trill of laughter, all were muted here at the top of the house.

  Dean took two heavy plates from Reva's hands and carried them into the bedroom where a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses already waited. He felt a moment of awkwardness, but dismissed it quickly. There was no bed in this bedroom, just an antique dresser, a few old cans of paint in one corner, a piece of strangely shaped furniture Reva called a fainting couch, upholstered in faded burgundy velvet, and the small table where he and Reva would have lunch.

  It was the perfect opportunity to feel her out, to see what she might have to say about Eddie Pinchon. What Dean really wanted was to talk about other things and make Reva laugh, but that wasn't why he was here.

  Why did he have to continually remind himself that he was in Somerset on business?

  The plates were filled to capacity. Roast beef today. More vegetables, fluffy biscuits.

  Once the plates had been deposited on the table, Dean held out Reva's chair. For a moment she seemed to be surprised by the gesture, but finally she sat. Dean took the seat across from her.

  They spent a few minutes talking about the food and the weather, and then there came that moment everyone dreads. It was a first-date kind of awkwardness, an uncomfortable silence that begged to be broken.

  "So," Dean asked to end the silence. "Have you always been in the restaurant business?"

  Reva lifted her head and gave him a decidedly suspicious look. "For the past six years."

  "How did you get into it?"

  She smiled, no longer openly suspicious. "Shortly after Cooper was born, I went to work for an older man who had a small restaurant that was on its last legs. Donald had expected his sons to go into the family business with him, but they had plans of their own. He'd had a round of bad managers and was about to lose everything. He hired me and let me run the place as I saw fit, and I was lucky enough to make the business profitable again."

  Dean scooped up a forkful of corn pudding that was so good it should be illegal. "I don't think luck had anything to do with it."

  Reva smiled. "Donald made me a partner. The business expanded, and eventually we sold and made a very nice profit. I took that money and came here."

  Here, when she could have opened a successful restaurant anywhere in the world.

  "And before that?" he asked. "What did you do before Cooper was born?" This was Reva's opportunity to come clean, to tell him who she was, what she had been, explain how she had changed.

  He'd known her two days, and still he expected her to explain. There were two kinds of people in the world. The honest and the dishonest. To Dean's way of thinking, there was very little, if any, middle ground. Shea accused him on occasion of being inflexible. He preferred to think of himself as sensible and uncompromising.

  "What about you?" Reva asked, playing with her carrots as she ignored his question. "Have you always been in law enforcement?"

  He nodded. "I suppose."

  "You look like a cop," she said. "The way you carry yourself, the sharpness in the eyes. I'm sorry, Dean, I know you're looking to make a change in your life, but I just can't see you as a handyman."

  Neither could he. "I can change," he said. "People can change, you know. They can turn their lives around, become someone or something else. All it takes is a little motivation." Something like a kid. Had that been Reva's trigger for change?

  "I suppose," she said in a soft voice.

  He took a few more bites, and so did she. An uncomfortable silence settled between them again, and then Reva asked, "Did you always want to be a cop? When you were a kid, as you got older, did you always know who you were? Who you would be?"

  "Does anyone ever really know?"

  "You just seem so … so certain of yourself. I never was," she confessed. "I've always questioned every decision, every turn in my life, wondering if I was doing the right thing. But you, you look like the kind of man who never made a mistake."

  "Everyone makes mistakes."

  "I suppose." She fidgeted a little. "You still haven't told me anything about yourself. Come on. I told you all about my adventures in the restaurant business. What can you tell me about Dean Sinclair?"

  "I don't want to talk about myself," Dean said. "I want to know about you. Where you come from, what you like, what you want from life. Tell me all about Reva Macklin. I want to know everything."

  A few minutes ago she had blushed prettily and smiled. Now her face went white. "There's nothing much to tell. Do you like the squash casserole? I think it might have too much pepper."

  "It's fine," he said abruptly. "Everything's wonderful."

  Reva laid her fork on the table, pushed her plate away and stood. "I really should check on the customers," she said, her voice too fast. She didn't look at him, but kept her eyes on the table, on the floor.

  "I'm sorry." Dean stood. "I shouldn't have—"

  "Finish your lunch," Reva said as she hurried to the door, all but running away from him. "I'll see you later."

  She tried to appear calm, but the creak of the stairs told him that she was still running when she hit the first floor.

  * * *

  What on earth had she been thinking? There was no room in her life for a man, any man. She'd known that all along, but Dean had driven the point home when he'd started asking questions. If she got involved with him or anyone else, eventually the question she dreaded hearing would be asked.

  What about Cooper's father?

&nb
sp; Tewanda had been right; she was a terrible liar. Keeping secrets was one thing, telling an out-and-out lie was another entirely. She blushed, she stammered. No lie detector device was necessary. So what would Dean Sinclair, or any other man say when he asked about Cooper's father and she told him the truth?

  Cooper's biological father was a murderer serving life in prison. Eddie had definitely had more than one personality. How else could she explain the fact that he could be charming as hell one minute and a raving lunatic the next? He'd hidden the lunatic from her for a long time, but when she'd discovered that side of him…

  Reva shuddered as she walked past the hardware store. When Dean had started asking questions, she'd run from him, hit the sidewalk and started walking. Fast and determined and away from temptation. No matter how much she thought she might like Dean, no matter how attracted to him she might be, she knew nothing could come of it. Nothing.

  She stepped into Louella's, naturally drawn to food at a time like this. Reva didn't eat when she was upset, but there was something comforting about the smells of a bakery or a well-run kitchen. Sure enough, a tantalizing aroma teased her. Louella had made something with cinnamon in it. Reva wasn't hungry, but she could certainly use a cup of coffee and a quiet place to sit.

  Two other customers were having lunch in the small café, a man and a woman she didn't recognize. They sat together in a far booth and ate sandwiches. Tourists, most likely. Those who worked in the downtown area usually ate early, between eleven-thirty and one. Louella's lunch rush was over.

  Louella stepped up to the counter and gave Reva a wooden smile. "Why, good afternoon. What can I do for you?"

  "Coffee," Reva said.

  "I'm rather surprised to see you out and about at this time of day," Louella said as she poured a cup of coffee.

  "I needed a breath of fresh air," Reva explained.

  A moment later she had her cup of coffee, fixed just the way she liked it. Cream and sugar. She paid, then took a small table so that her back was against the wall and she could face the window. From here she could see everyone passing on the street. Not that she actually expected Dean to chase her down. Though if any man would, it was Dean Sinclair. He didn't look like the kind of man who gave up easily.