First Comes Love

by Heather Heyford

  “What can I get you?” Alex’s eyes ground into Danny.

  “Newberry Police,” said Danny, with a nod to the logo on Alex’s chest. “Thanks for your service. You guys rock. I’ll take one of those dogs and a Coke.” He handed Alex a twenty and, when Alex gave him his change, stuffed all of it into the NPD donation jar.

  While Danny squirted mustard on his hotdog, the EMT from next door popped his head around the corner.

  “How’s it going, Officer? Hey, we’re coming up a little short of our goal over here. Need every pint we can get. If you got a sec when your shift is up, we’d sure appreciate it.”

  “No can do.”

  Danny looked up at Alex in surprise, then walked off, taking a bite out of his dog.

  “Just thought I’d ask.” The EMT saluted Alex and left.

  “I’m not eligible. It hasn’t been six weeks yet since my last donation,” Alex hollered, looking at Danny’s back, hoping he’d heard.

  And then, to his immense relief, Cartwright from Traffic Safety and Han from Narcotics appeared. “Great timing,” said Alex, ripping off his vinyl gloves and tossing them into the trash on his way out of the booth. “You mind getting them oriented?” he asked Zangrilli. “Something I got to do.”

  Maybe he could still catch Kerry.

  He darted among kids with balloons on strings, thirtysomethings pushing strollers and dogs on leashes, looking for a sleek, golden brown crown of hair in the crowd.

  What the hell was he doing? For years, the mere thought of Kerry O’Hearn had sent his blood pressure soaring off the charts. Chalk it up to the jealousy that overcame him, watching Danny boy with her. Apparently, it’d awakened some latent caveman macho gene.

  There she was, standing among a cluster of folks listening to the guitarist on the stage.

  “Kerry,” he panted, embarrassingly out of breath for the short distance he’d run. Or maybe it had nothing to do with running.

  She and Chloé looked him up and down. “You look really hot and sweaty,” said Chloé.

  “Is it any wonder? He’s been out here working in the hot sun all day,” Kerry said.

  “I was just wondering.” He suddenly realized he didn’t know what he was there to ask her.

  “Yes?”

  And then the judge and her mother walked up carrying Ella and eating ice cream cones.

  “Hello again,” said her mother. “Kerry, Ella wanted ice cream. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Why should she mind?” grumbled the judge.

  Alex saw his chance slipping away. Then he spotted a wine booth over Kerry’s shoulder. “Would you like to go to the wine fest with me next Saturday?”

  Genius. What was a wine fest to Kerry? Her family owned wineries.

  Kerry paused, for once speechless.

  Her mother and father stopped licking their cones and waited with bated breath for her response.

  Chloé, as always hanging on her mother’s every word, squinted up to see what she would say.

  Only Ella was indifferent to everything but licking her chocolate cone.

  “I have a moratorium on dating,” she said regretfully.

  “Oh, go ahead,” her mother interjected. “Have some fun for a change. I’ll watch the girls for a couple of hours.”

  The judge gazed steadily at his daughter, awaiting her decision.

  She sucked in a breath. “Okay.”

  Alex raised his hand in farewell and began walking backward. “Pick you up at three.”

  “You don’t know where we live,” said Chloé.

  “Right,” he said, holding up a finger. “I’ll call you.”

  Chloé peered up at her mom. “Does he have your phone number?”

  “Is she always so logical?” asked Alex.

  “’Fraid so.”

  Chloé cupped her hand around her mouth and yelled Kerry’s number to Alex and everyone else within twenty yards.

  “Got it,” said Alex as he backed smack into a wall. At least, it felt like a wall. He turned and came face-to-face with a Herculean man in a do-rag and a studded, black leather jacket munching pink cotton candy on a stick.

  “Oops.” Chloé clapped a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t hide the amusement in her eyes.

  The patch on the guy’s jacket identified him as a member of the most notorious motorcycle gang in the Pacific Northwest. “Careful,” he growled.

  “Sorry. My bad.”

  “Mommy, did you see that?” Chloé giggled.

  But Alex didn’t care. He was too busy mouthing Kerry’s number over and over under his breath as he headed toward the parking lot, grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter Twelve

  At home in the shower, needles of water stinging his shoulders, Alex envisioned the long, empty evening stretching out ahead of him. That’s what he had come to Newberry for, wasn’t it? Solitude and stretches of free time in which to write.

  Turned out, he had underestimated just how difficult writing an effective blog was. How much self-discipline it took to walk past the TV, past the tempting stack of unread books on the end table, and stop reading about wines and birds on the Internet and start contributing to the body of knowledge.

  He wrote until the sun went down, then went to the kitchen for a snack, only to find nothing that interested him. All he had were half-empty jars of condiments and a gallon of milk.

  He drove back to town and loaded up his cart with the biggest stockpile of groceries he had bought since he’d moved to Newberry. He got crackers and nuts and chips. Swiss cheese and cheddar cheese and green apples for slicing and good, marinated olives.

  It was after ten when he finally headed home, the trunk neatly packed with brown paper bags, when he spotted what looked like a boy standing on the shoulders of another up against a window of the elementary school.

  “12-28 Suspicious Persons.” Alex whipped the wheel in a hard right, jumped the curb, and raced across the field.

  The shock on the boys’ faces when they saw the car zooming across the field toward them would have been comical if Alex didn’t recognize them. Travis lost his balance and tumbled off Tyler’s shoulders to the ground. But in a flash, they were on their feet again and running in opposite directions, in the same strategy that had enabled them to evade Zangrilli.

  Alex leaped out, leaving his door hanging open, and tore toward Travis. “Newberry Police. Stop!”

  The boy ran straight into a chain-link fence.

  “Keep your hands right there where I can see them.”

  Travis turned around and raised his arm to shield his eyes against the glare of the Taurus’s headlights.

  Alex turned him around by his arm. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you out here again this time of night.”

  Panting for breath, Travis swallowed.

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  Next to them, the older boy materialized out of the dark.

  His strategy had worked.

  “Show me your hands,” yelled Alex.

  Tyler raised his hands high in the air. “Don’t hurt him! It’s not his fault. I take the blame.”

  “What’s your fault? What were you up to?” asked Alex as he led him by the arm over to his brother.

  “We just wanted something to eat.”

  “If you’re hungry, go home and eat.”

  Neither boy spoke.

  With sudden realization, Alex glanced up at the building. “Does that window go to the cafeteria?”

  Tyler sniffed and nodded.

  He studied the boys hard. The light from his headlamps carved out the hollows of their cheeks, their clavicles. He turned and started walking them toward his car, one hand on Tyler’s shoulder in case he got any ideas about running again.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “At lunch.”

  “What’d you have?”

  “Thum of Thara’s thandwich,” lisped Travis.

  “My friend gave me his chips again,” said Tyler.r />
  “What happened to your own lunches?”

  But they were back at his car now and his radio was squawking.

  “Detective Walker. What’s your location?”

  “Elementary school. Two juveniles detained for breaking curfew.” He didn’t mention the attempted break-in.

  If he were still in Portland, he would request transport for the boys and then be on his merry way. But here in Newberry, the number of available officers was already strained to the breaking point. Not only that, Alex felt drawn to these two hapless kids.

  “Where are we going?” asked Tyler, clutching the seat as the car jolted over the curb onto the road.

  “To get you two something to eat.”

  Alex took his foot off the gas when he realized he didn’t know which way to turn. “Where’s the nearest McDonald’s?”

  “McDonald’s?” asked Tyler quietly.

  Every town had a McDonald’s, didn’t it? Then again, come to think of it, he couldn’t picture one in Newberry.

  “Where do you get fast food around here?”

  Again, they drew a blank.

  “Shoulda figured,” muttered Alex. He hopped out, locking the boys in the car. “Be right back. Don’t touch anything, you hear?”

  Opening his trunk, he called the station, told them he was on his way, and asked for someone from Child Protective Services to meet him there.

  Then he rummaged through his grocery bags and carried an assortment of food back to the front seat.

  “Let’s see here. We got sour cream and chive—”

  Travis reached for the bag from Alex’s hands and ripped it open, snatching chips out of the air before they hit the car seat and shoving them into his mouth.

  “Crackers, Tastykakes—” He handed those to Tyler, who tore into them almost as enthusiastically as his little brother.

  “—and,” he opened the carton of juice for them, “this. I just cleaned the car, so don’t spill it.” Orange juice didn’t exactly go great with chocolate, but what the hell. It would take the edge off until CPS could get them a decent meal.

  Five minutes later, he accompanied the boys into the station, where Chief Garrett was waiting.

  He sat the boys down on a bench and pulled the chief aside.

  “These are the kids from Allen Street I picked up a few weeks ago.”

  Chief gave him a skeptical look. “Curfew violation’s hardly breaking news, even in a town like Newberry.”

  “It’s the house that’s newsworthy. Last name’s Pelletier. What do you know about them?”

  From down the hall, Chief studied Travis, swinging his legs, munching chips, and Tyler, swishing orange juice in his mouth. “Mom has a successful computer business. Greg’s in banking.”

  “Not asking what they do. I mean, who are they as people?”

  “Go to church. Belong to the country club. Where’d you find the kids tonight?”

  “Trying to break into the school cafeteria.”

  The chief’s jaw tensed.

  “Mom invoked her Fourth Amendment right to refuse to let me in the house.”

  A fragile-looking woman with hair the pale straw color of sauvignon blanc breezed into the station. “Hi there.” She smiled at the boys. “My name’s Ms. Bartoli.”

  Once Alex and the chief brought her up to speed, she herded the boys into an interrogation room.

  Chief Garrett had gone home to his wife. Now that he’d filed his report, Alex was free to go, too. But he decided to wait at his desk to talk to Ms. Bartoli.

  Twenty minutes later, he heard the door open and strolled out to the hallway.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’d say they’re definitely underweight. They’ve got nits. And the older one has a black hole in one of his molars all the way down to the gum. He says it hurts. They claim they’ve never been to a dentist.”

  Alex stroked his chin, suppressing his agitation. “What’s next?”

  “CPS will notify the parents. I’ll take them to the hospital to get checked for malnutrition and signs of physical abuse.”

  “What about the head lice?”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. Any child can pick up lice at school.”

  His hands curled into fists. “They’re hungry, dammit. When kids who come from a house like that, in the most affluent section of town, are hungry, there’s something wrong.”

  “According to them, there’s food in the refrigerator, all right. But they’re not allowed to touch it. It’s Mom’s after-workout food, Dad’s steak. Nothing for them. They never eat together as a family.”

  Alex flashed back to a time when he, too, experienced hunger. He’d pulled on the cereal cupboard with all his strength, but the padlock his mom had put on it wouldn’t budge.

  His face grew warm. “Then how—?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get them a decent meal on the way.”

  “Then what?”

  Ms. Bartoli raised a brow. “Intact, two-parent home? Pillars of the community with spotless records?”

  “This is the third time they’ve been found out on the streets at night,” spat Alex, his frustration creeping into his voice. “They were breaking into the goddamn school cafeteria because they needed food. If that’s not neglect—”

  “We’ll do the best we can,” she said, calmly slipping into her jacket.

  Alex stood steaming at the glass door of the NPD and watched the boys walk out of the station to Ms. Bartoli’s minivan. Over the course of his career, he’d seen more despicable acts of violence than he could count. Shootings . . . knifings . . . beatings. When it was grown-ups waging war against each other, he could deal. But when defenseless kids got the shaft, that got his blood boiling.

  He took a deep breath. Whatever happened next, it was out of his hands. He had done his job. He didn’t have to worry about Tyler and Travis anymore. There was a system in place for kids like them. He was free now, free to go back to his place and enjoy a decent dinner. Anything he wanted, plus a nightcap.

  Thing was, his appetite had vanished.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What do you think?” Alex asked.

  Kerry took another sip of her wine. “It’s good.”

  “Good? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  She and Alex strolled between vendors’ tents under a cornflower-blue sky on the day of the Newberry Wine Fest. With her kids in the care of her parents, she had resolved to enjoy this rare chance to relax.

  “What do you want me to say? I like it. It’s nice.”

  Alex brooded into his wineglass.

  “What do you think?”

  He let the wine wash over his palate, then held up his glass and studied the legs. “It’s smooth yet restrained. Like there’s something important beneath the surface, but it needs to be thoroughly explored to really get it.”

  She smiled tightly and scratched the back of her neck.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “You want to know? I’ll tell you. I grew up hearing all these fancy descriptions of wine ever since I can remember, and I still haven’t, as you so eloquently put it, ‘got’ it.”

  He blinked. “Are you saying you’re not a fan of wine? Because that’s what you were drinking the night I first saw you, at the Turning Point.”

  “Wine is, and always has been, part of my life. I like wine the way I like the smell of lasagna in the oven, huddling in my team sweatshirt at football games in the fall, and little girls in pastel Easter dresses. Life would be less rich without all those things. I just don’t worship at the wine altar like some people do.”

  “I thought—”

  “That because I’m from the Willamette Valley and related to the Friestatts, I must be some kind of wine snob who knows everything about it? I know. That’s what everybody thinks.”

  “No, it’s just that . . . okay, maybe I did make that assumption. But you have to admit, it’s a
n easy one to make.” He took another sip.

  This was turning out to be the worst waste of a babysitter ever. It had been so long since Kerry had been on a date, she didn’t even know how to behave on one. She almost felt sorry for Alex, even if he was a cop. “But that doesn’t mean I hold anything against those who do. I don’t judge. So. Tell me what it is you like about wine.”

  Alex made a huffing sound. “That question’s about as broad as a barn door.”

  “Well, obviously wine means something to you, something profound. I can tell by the way you drink it. Plus, you brought me here,” she said with a nod to the rows of white tents that filled up the town green.

  Alex considered. “I like that wine is a living, breathing thing. That it’s sensitive to its environment and the kind of handling it receives . . . how long it’s allowed to rest on the lees, whether it’s aged in oak or steel. The mystery of how grapes grown in exactly the same spot turn out different from year to year, depending on the weather. That it continues to change all the time, even after its bottled. For instance, this wine we’re drinking today would have tasted different if we’d opened it last week, and it’ll taste different again next week. Next month. Next year.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it’s just that I’ve never had that so-called wine epiphany. When you try something and it hits you between the eyes like pow, that’s it. You want to know what I really think?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “I’m not sure there’s really any such thing as a wine epiphany.”

  She studied Alex’s hand, cupping the bowl of his glass. They weren’t like Danny’s hands, slim and white and aristocratic; hands suited to an artist. Come to think of it, winemakers were artists, in a way.

  Nobody in Newberry understood why Kerry had broken up with Danny Wilson. She knew that for a fact because for years after she had left town, her old friends and acquaintances still had quizzed her mother and brothers about it. Even now that she’d moved back home, they asked her, point-blank. It was almost as if the town took their breakup personally, and still held it against her.

  Sometimes not even Kerry herself knew why. She’d always liked Danny well enough. But when he kissed her, and even the first time he had tenderly made love to her, the night before he went off to UC Davis to learn about wine and she went to the U of O, it was rather . . . clinical, as if her soul had left her body and was hovering above it, observing. Not that it was unpleasant. She had found the physiological aspects mildly interesting, if that counted. She just felt a little . . . cheated after all the fuss and frenzy she had heard and read about sex ended up falling flat.