by Lyla Payne
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you know. He’s at least as handsome as he is infuriating and that can be a lethal combination for some women. You always liked a challenge.” She goes pale as I go still. Her eyes say she’s replaying what she said and is starting to wonder if it’s okay to talk about my type of guy, since maybe it’s the type of guy who would kill you for shits and giggles.
I hate that there’s this thing between us that we can’t broach, can’t scale. I hate that I put it there, and I hate that I can’t say I’m sorry.
What I hate most of all is that right now, in this moment, I don’t tell her it’s okay to laugh about my shitty choices or maybe just about her joke about Detective Travis, which was at least halfway amusing. My lips skim back in a half smile, half grimace, and we go back to shucking corn in silence. The day seems a bit cooler now. Not so welcoming, and without the tinge of promise that brushed the edges of my awareness in the kitchen.
Blackness crowds around my heart, pushing closer, making it hard to breathe.
“I’m no good for anyone right now, Grace.” The words choke me, burning through the lump in my throat and threatening to turn it into a wash of tears. “Not Travis. Not you, not Jack.”
“Don’t talk like that. Look at me.” When I don’t, she drops the ear of corn and grabs my hands, squeezing my fingers so tight the pain distracts me from the raw nerves of my depression. Her gaze holds on to mine, daring me to look away, and in it I see determination and love. I see a woman who believes in me even though I don’t deserve it, have never deserved her, and instead of making me feel better, it kind of makes me want to die.
But not yet.
The baby moves, like he heard me, and I squeeze Grace’s hands in return. “I’m sorry for being such a lame-o. No one likes a pity-party-having-ass woman,” I quip, quoting one of the best movies not enough people have seen.
“God, I love that movie. We should watch it later.”
“Why, because seeing me cry three times a day isn’t enough for you? Pop in Beasts of the Southern Wild later if you want to make it an even half dozen.”
“I do enjoy a good sobfest now and then. And if you’re not done, you’re not done. No one’s going to rush you into saying you’re okay. Not in this house.” She gives me a smile.
It’s nice, but it’s more than that. It’s a promise that I can’t give back, though I do my best to not let her see the truth of that in my face. Distraction is the best tactic. “Dylan is handsome, though. You’re right. But that’s not why I invited him to dinner.”
Grace goes back to her ear of corn, brushing dirt off the exposed kernels before picking at the stubborn silks. “Oh, so you do know why you invited him to dinner.”
“Yes. He doesn’t have any friends here yet, and the poor guy eats most of his meals at his desk in the station. I think I invited him because it’s what Grams would have done.” I relent after she doesn’t reply for several breaths. “And because I like him.”
“I won’t go as far as saying I like him, but he’s been good to you. I’m watching him like a hawk, though.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty scary.”
“I’m amassing quite a lot of firsthand knowledge on possible ways to off a person.”
I flinch, hating to think of the near-death experiences Grace has been through since coming back to South Carolina. Or my own, for that matter. But Grace…I need her. Jack’s going to need her. “Yes, well, Dylan’s a cop, so I’m not sure that one really plays so hard in your favor.”
“Whatever.” She finishes the last ear of corn and glances down at her watch. “If you told him three, we’d better get moving. Beau should be here soon, too.”
“Things seem to be going pretty well on that front, now that the trial’s behind you.”
“Yeah.” Grace pauses. This time I’m the one who lets the silence go on, waiting for whatever’s coming next. Because it’s something. “So apparently my father isn’t dead.”
“Wait, what?” It takes a moment for the words to really sink in because they don’t make sense.
My Aunt Fe hardly ever spoke about Grace’s father, except to say that he had died before she was born. If there was a moment where Grams and Gramps struggled to be less than angelic, it was in those nine months of her pregnancy, at least according to my mother. But once Grace came home from the hospital they were all in love.
“How do you know this?” I demand.
“David called. Said a guy claiming to be my father showed up at our old apartment wanting to see me.” A dark shadow crosses her pretty features, a mass of guilt and worry. “I gave him the address here. I think he’s coming. Or maybe writing a letter.”
The last statement sounds more hopeful than convinced, and I have to agree. If he showed up in Iowa, the chances that he’ll show up here, in person, seem decent.
Now I’m worried.
“Grace, that wasn’t smart. We don’t know who this guy is I mean…he might not even be your dad. Why would your mom lie to you all these years?”
“Who knows why she does anything?” Grace frowns, her go-to response when it comes to her flighty mother. The woman left Heron Creek and never looked back. Sometimes I think she feels like her daughter betrayed her by loving this place so much.
Maybe if Grace had hated it, too, they would have been close.
Would have, should have, might have. Bullshit words, all of them.
“Anyway, I need to face this head-on, so let him come. He can’t be worse than everything else you and I have stared down over the past three months.” She pauses, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “I haven’t told Beau about it, though.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. We’ve just had so much weirdness—like, a decade’s worth of weirdness—in the short time we’ve been dating and…it just tempted me. Being normal for a few weeks.”
“Despite the ghost living in your bedroom.”
She stands up, brushing dirt off her dress before reaching down to pull me up beside her. “Yeah. Henry should be driving me crazy, and I guess he sort of is, but it would be strange not seeing him now, after all of these weeks catching him lurking in corners.”
“You haven’t figured out what he might want?”
“No. At this point I think he might just want to move in to the corner of the bedroom. Maybe pick out new curtains.” She grins, wicked. “I’m expecting a proposal any day now.”
The doorbell rings, distracting me from asking her again about the details of her psychic visit the other day. My hand darts out, closing around her forearm before she can leave to go answer it, and it’s not until she turns back, eyebrows raised, that I figure out what I mean to say. “You have to talk to Beau about your mom and your…dad, I guess. Before some random guy shows up here and you have to admit you didn’t tell your boyfriend that you talked to your ex-fiancé and gave a possible stalker—another one—your home address.”
“Yeah.” She looks away, Grace-speak for Never gonna happen.
“I’m serious. I know you two haven’t been dating that long, but I know you. You like him and he’s a great guy. Don’t sabotage it by keeping secrets. It’s not worth it.”
Gratitude flickers in her green eyes a moment before she offers me a tight nod and an even tighter smile. There’s acknowledgment there, and happiness that I’m giving her relationship advice even though I don’t feel I’m exactly equipped. Grace leans in and snags me in a hug, an atypical moment since she’s not the one who usually initiates displays of affection. “Love you, Millie.”
“Oof. Get off me, you oaf. You’re squishing Jack.” But I’m smiling.
As Grace hustles off to see if it’s my guest, her guest, or our guests at the front door, I hear a tiny, faint suggestion from the back of my mind. It wonders whether or not it’s really possible for things to turn out okay for our family in Heron Creek after all.
Chapter Nine
Amelia
By the time I grab the bag of empty hu
sks and the pot of corn, maneuver my swollen belly into the house, and get into the foyer, Grace and Mayor Beau look like they could use either a private room or a cold shower. They break apart when they hear my second throat-clear, my cousin with a wicked gleam in her eyes and Heron Creek’s mayor more than a little flushed. It’s hard to tell whether he’s embarrassed or turned on, but there’s a distinct possibility that he’s both.
“Amelia. You’re looking fine.”
“I’m looking like a house made out of sweat and hormones, but it’s sweet of you to say.” I pause, thinking quickly. “Then again, so are you, it would seem. Would you like a glass of sweet tea?” He nods, expression priceless as I head back into the kitchen, shaking my head. They can have a few moments of privacy this way to either pull their shit together or decide to go have a quickie and get it out of their systems.
Mayor Beau and Grace are in that relationship stage that I haven’t experienced since high school—the one when you can’t keep your hands off each other, thoughts out of the gutter, or clothes on in each other’s presence for more than five minutes. My high school boyfriend and I—my first love, I guess—stayed buried there for months, but in the end my parents were right about me not being cut out for the life of a military wife. Or marriage at seventeen.
Their reasons had been mostly about money, however, while mine had been concerns about being alone, raising children alone, and dealing with the emotional repercussions of never knowing if my husband would come home alive.
Dylan should be around any minute, and Mel and Will promised to stop by later, after they have lunch with his parents after church. It’s good for my mood, expecting people. Or it stops me from heading straight back to bed, at any rate, and hiding under the covers or staring at the spider spinning ill-conceived webs on my wall night after night.
When the doorbell rings a second time, Grace doesn’t answer it. She and Beau disappeared upstairs to check out her research project. She should have put that excuse in air quotes, but then again, maybe she didn’t have to.
To my utter dismay, the sight of Dylan standing on the porch sets off a funny flutter in my stomach. Not in the part stuffed three-quarters full of baby appendages but the part of me that’s all instinct and animal lust. It seems that even though my mind and heart are determined to keep on the straight and narrow, sure that it’s the right thing to do, other parts of me are interested in something less cerebral.
I take a couple of deep breaths, then tug open the door with a smile, hoping not to reveal my ongoing internal war between reason and hormones. “Dylan. I’m glad you came.”
“How could I resist the lure of a home-cooked meal?” he asks, mouth crooked in a smile that can’t seem to decide whether to go all out for me. Heron Creek’s newest resident—the only mystery currently among us, now that Hadley Renee’s tipped her psychotic hand—steps over the threshold. The smell of aftershave and shampoo waltzes in the air around him, threatening to make me the slightest bit dizzy. For his part, Dylan Travis sniffs the air. “It smells delicious, by the way.”
“Thank you. If you don’t mind joining me in the kitchen, I’ve got some moving parts still grinding away, and I’m afraid my cousin and her boyfriend have gone upstairs to…study.”
His laugh startles me. It’s rusty, a little flaky, but etches desire across my skin all the same. “You’re going to have to learn to see through excuses like that before the little one becomes a teenager.”
I laugh, too, trying to distract myself from the heat climbing into my face. He probably notices, but since my default is “sweaty mess” these days, it doesn’t have to mean anything. “You’ve got a point. Although, I’ll continue to hold on to the dream that my child will be better behaved by age two than my cousin is most days as an adult.”
“From what I’ve seen, that’s not an impossible dream. But Graciela’s got her own charms, apparently.”
“Apparently,” I reply, a little unhappy with his response. Grace has the ridiculous idea that men prefer me to her, but in my recently reformed opinion, the right kind of guys—kind, honestly intentioned, smart—have always preferred her. A quick glance sideways at Dylan doesn’t reveal anything of the sort, just a slightly anxious expression that says he might be worried I’ve taken his assessment of Grace the wrong way. “She’s special. In all kinds of ways.”
We cross into the kitchen and I nod toward the table. “Please, sit. Can I get you a glass of sweet tea? We have beer, too, or bourbon if that’s your thing.”
“I’ll take a sweet tea, please.”
“So you’re a Southerner,” I comment, looking forward to the chance to get to know the detective a little better.
“I am. But I think it’s allowed to enjoy copious amounts of sugar in other parts of the country.”
“Maybe.” I smile. “They don’t like it in the Midwest, though—my Aunt Fe’s one and only complaint after leaving South Carolina for Iowa.”
“I’m not sure Texas is technically the South, but I’ll let it slide.”
My nose wrinkles of its own accord. “Texas is not the South, my good sir, and take care saying so in the future. My Grams kept bars of green soap that fit perfectly between top and bottom teeth for infractions of the like.”
“I’m rather sorry to not have met the woman.” He doesn’t sit, leaning against the counter as I pour his tea instead. “I’m a military brat, so I’m not technically from anywhere. I graduated from high school in Texas, and call that home when I’m pressed.”
“There are worse things, I suppose. You could be a Yankee.” I hand over his tea, the glass already slippery from the blasted humidity in this house, and rearrange my features into an expression of abject horror. “Or worse, one of those Oregon tree huggers.”
“I mean, I have nothing against a good tree. In fact, you have some of the prettiest I’ve ever seen around these parts. But I mean, I’m not one of those,” he jokes, his tone overly defensive. “Thank you for the tea.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I help you do anything? I’m mostly worthless in the kitchen, but I’d feel better with busy hands than sitting and watching.”
I consider for a moment, surprised. For all of the wonderful things about Gramps, he wasn’t one to offer to help in the kitchen. Or anywhere in the house, really. And the thought of my former husband pitching in to help is laughable, even now. Like the rest of the pathetic remains of my life.
“You can set the table or watch the corn.”
“What does watching the corn entail?”
“Well, once the water boils you put the ears in and set the timer for three minutes. You watch them, then pull them out.”
“I think I can handle that, and at least if I screw it up the worst that can happen is that we don’t have corn with dinner. Which, while a tragedy, seems better than me breaking plates that have sentimental value.”
I study him for a moment too long, mesmerized by how long and dark his eyelashes are. They brush his cheeks when he lowers his gaze to the pile of corn. “You don’t do much of anything without considering all of the angles first, do you, Detective Travis?”
“Job hazard, I guess.” He shrugs, then rolls up his shirtsleeves, revealing sinewy muscles. He fills the pot on the stove with water, then turns the heat to high. “Had a bit of an interesting day after we parted ways the other evening.”
His conversational tone puts me at ease in a way I almost forgot was possible. I’m never relaxed with Grace. Whether it’s because she’s busy either almost dying or I’m fretting over how I’ve ruined everything, the outcome is the same. The library isn’t so bad, but even though I would never admit it to my cousin, it’s not easy sitting in the same chairs and working among the same stacks where the woman trying her best to kill my child—and me, since we’re still attached –did.
“Oh?” I reach up, pulling four plates out of the cabinet. Will and Mel probably won’t be here in time to eat since the chicken will be done in about ten minu
tes.
“Yeah.” He pauses, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “There was a robbery at the hospital. Whoever it was made off with some narcotics and assorted paraphernalia.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard.” Which is odd, honestly, since the size of Heron Creek makes it impossible not to know when people’s hemorrhoids crawl back up, never mind something like stolen drugs.
“You must not have read today’s paper.”
I shake my head. “Nope. It was on autopay out of Gramps’s account and got canceled. We keep forgetting to reinstate it. So, whodunit, Detective?”
The pot of water starts to boil. He drops in three ears of corn, sets the egg timer on the counter, then peers anxiously into the pot. I hide a smile as I gather silverware and napkins, then head for the kitchen table. Grams would have forced everyone outside, but it’s actually cooler in the house with the attic fan forcing a stiff breeze straight through the kitchen.
“We don’t know.”
“But the hospital must have security cameras. Even if it’s not a real hospital.” We call it a hospital, and there are nurses and doctors and stuff, but it’s basically a glorified urgent care. No one is having any sort of surgery in Heron Creek, other than maybe LASIK and whatever emergency can’t withstand the half hour drive to Charleston.
“It’s real enough to have saved your life a couple of times, so don’t knock it,” he retorts, pulling the first three ears out of the pot and dropping in three more. “And yes, they do have cameras. Pretty good ones, as it happens.”
I take the plate of piping hot corn, shoving it in the microwave in an attempt to keep it warm using its own steam while the rest cooks. The plates are set halfway around the table before I give up trying to figure out the point of his story. There must be one. My gut tells me Dylan’s not a wasteful man, not even with his words.
“The cameras caught…something. Coming in and out of the storage rooms. Through the door.” He pauses, a twist of disbelief and frustration on his handsome face. “It looks like a ghost.”