"Uh . . . Sheriff?"
He turned back. "Ma'am?"
"Is that new lady still in town? That Emma Sands?'"
"Yes, she is."
"Is her little girl as adorable as they say?"
A crooked smile tugged at Elvis' lips. "Yeah, she's a cutie."
"Where are they from?"
"New Orleans, I think."
Mrs. Steadman stepped out into the yard, closer to him. "Is it true she really calls everyone that French word—that sher-ree?"
"Pretty much."
"And does she actually know how to work on cars?"
"Yep. She gave Ruby Kelly's car a tune-up. When I left the boarding house this morning she was doing Jenny Suzuki's."
"My." Mrs. Steadman couldn't have looked more enthralled if he'd said Emma Sands performed brain surgery.
"Imagine that." After looking at him consideringly for a moment, she said, "Wait here."
She disappeared into the house, but was back within moments to extend a piece of paper to Elvis. He looked down and saw it contained her name and phone number. "Will you give this to her and ask her to give me a call?" she asked shyly. "There's something the matter with my Chevy that maybe she can fix."
What was he, her messenger boy? Elvis almost shoved the paper back into her hands, but then stopped himself. Just an hour ago she probably would have crossed the street to avoid having to talk to him at all. He shrugged and pocketed the slip of paper. "Yeah, sure."
"And tell her I could watch her little girl while she looks at it. It'd be fun having a female to fuss over for a change."
* * * * *
That evening he stopped by his mother's house. He was barely through the back door before she. too, started in on the subject of Emma Sands.
She poured him a cup of coffee in an Elvis Presley mug and sat down across the table from him. "So tell me about the new woman," she demanded, sliding the plate of Oreos closer to him. "This Emma Sands. Is she really the walking wet dream I keep hearing about?"
Elvis looked at his mother. Good God. Here he was, thirty-two years old and just as conflicted in his feelings toward Nadine as he'd been as a teenager. Why couldn't she be like other people's mothers? "She's . . . pretty," he replied cautiously.
"And? And?"
"And built, okay?" He looked down at his mug and grimaced with distaste. "Good God, Mom, if I have to drink out of a damn Ervis Presley cup, couldn't you at least give me one of the ones where he's not a fat slob and a lousy dresser?"
She was easily diverted as he'd known she would be. Snapping upright, she ordered, "Don't you insult the King, Elvis Aaron!" Neither, however, was she stupid. "And don't try to change the subject. What is it about this woman that's got all the guys drooling?"
"Streaky blond hair. Big brown eyes. Really great tits." Then he scowled. "All what guys?"
Nadine's eyebrows rose. "Relax, baby," she advised, reaching across the table to stroke her son's large hand. "It's just some of the older gents; no one for you to worry about."
Elvis' big shoulders shifted. "Who says I'm worried? And what older gents?"
"Bill Harris. Rick Magoody."
"Goddammit, Mom!" His mug slammed down on the tabletop, sloshing coffee. Those particular "gents" were two of her old clients. "Have you been turnin' tricks again?"
"Oh, certainly," she retorted sarcastically. "And suffer the embarrassment of being arrested by my own son? Spare me." Her eyes, the same brilliant blue as her son's, met his bitterly. "You made it abundantly clear, the day you were elected sheriff, that I was no longer in business."
"So what're you doing discussin' Emma Sands with the likes of Bill Harris and Rick Magoody?"
"I am still allowed a social life, I trust? Paying my bills doesn't give you leave to take away my rights to that, too, does it?"
Elvis slid his good hand off the table and onto his chair, sitting on it to keep from reaching for her throat. God, she made him crazy sometimes. "No, ma'am," he said through his teeth, "that was never my intention when I turned over my life savings to you."
And because that was exactly what he'd done, she relented. The truth was, there was no retirement plan in her line of work and she was going to turn fifty in a couple of months, which was a little long in the tooth for turning tricks. Elvis had presented her with a large cashier's check the same day he'd put her out of business, and he'd never once thrown it up to her in order to control her movements. It was just... he could be so damn rigid sometimes. And she hated knowing that he was ashamed of her. She understood it, but she hated it.
She nevertheless softened her attitude. "I simply had dinner with them, okay? Bill took me off-island Tuesday night, and last night Rick took me out to The Razorback."
"Yeah, okay, I'm sorry," he apologized. "I jumped to conclusions." He looked away uncomfortably. The black velvet Elvis painting hanging on the wall down the hallway reminded him of a subject he'd meant to raise. "So, when are you leaving for Graceland?"
Nadine's mouth formed a little moue. "Well, I really wanted to be there on the sixteenth of August. Such a sad, sad day."
God, give him strength. The anniversary of Elvis Presley's death. She'd have the damn flag flying ai half mast on that day, something she never bothered to do for presidents or veterans or Martin Luther King. "But . . . ?" he questioned in resignation.
"But the vacation calendar was already booked up for that date at MarySue's workplace," Nadine retorted. "So our pilgrimage will have to be a little earlier. We've got a flight out on the fourth of July."
"MarySue must get a couple of extra days off because of the holiday, huh?" Nadine's best friend worked the afternoon shift down at the Anchor.
"Yeah, so we might as well get an early start." Nadine pushed back from the table and bussed their cups to the sink. Glancing at Elvis over her shoulder, she added wryly, "Call me silly, but I have this niggling feeling that my presence won't be sorely missed at the annual parade."
"Oh, I don't know, Mom." The corner of Elvis' mouth quirked up. "Who the hell is everyone going to talk about if you're not there?"
* * * * *
Ruby and Emma were talking about Elvis.
When he'd walked into the cafe a moment ago the two women had both looked up and fallen silent, momentarily forsaking the conversation they'd been holding at a table in the corner. They watched him as he stood by the cash register waiting for Bonnie to pour his coffee-to-go. His expression contained its usual austerity as he looked down at the shiny chrome napkin holder on the formica counter, staring at it with the sort of unfocused intensity that people give objects when they're concentrating on inward thoughts.
Emma found her gaze traveling over him from the top of his thick black hair to the scuffed toes of his cowboy boots. "Have you ever in your life seen a body nicer than that one?" she demanded in a low voice, allowing herself to double check the long length of his back from the immense shoulders that stretched his khaki shirt to the narrow waist and the tight little butt hugged by the worn denim of his jeans. She fanned herself. "I'm tellin' ya, chere, there's just somethin' about that man that makes my toes curl."
"Elvis?" Ruby looked at her in surprise. "You think he's sexy? "
"Oh, my yes. Don't you?"
"No." Ruby tried to study him objectively but couldn't get past the scar or the prosthesis. "I think he's. . . well, okay, maybe not creepy exactly, but—I don't know—intimidating, I guess."
"What—his size, the scar, the hook—what?"
"Yes." Ruby nodded. "Exactly." She watched him the same way someone else might observe a snake poised to strike, half fascinated, half repelled.
Emma had noticed the same attitude in other islanders. "The way everybody treats that poor man like Leonard the Leper Boy," she said, "it's something of a wonder to me that y'all could bring yourselves to elect him sheriff."
"I don't see where one thing has to do with the other," Ruby retorted, shrugging a pink-uniformed shoulder. "He was some hotshot big-city detective, and She
riff Bragston trusted him. In my book that qualifies him for the position. On the other hand, his mama practiced the world's oldest profession until he himself put a stop to it; I can still remember the days when he used to fight at the drop of a hat; and he's scary looking. I want him to keep my town safe. I don't want to socialize with him."
"But that's so unfair, Ruby." Emma was genuinely puzzled. "He's not responsible for his maman's career choices, and he's obviously outgrown the need to settle a situation with his fists. Certainly you don't hold him accountable for the explosion that maimed him, do you?"
Ruby considered her for several silent moments. "It probably is unfair," she finally conceded, "but it's the way I feel, Emma. Partly, I suppose, it's fear. Things don't change rapidly here. Not the way we think; not the way we view things."
"Oui, it's a small town; I think I understand what you're sayin'. Except . . . fear, Ruby?"
Both women watched Elvis accept the steaming cardboard cup from Bonnie and dig change out of his front pocket. He said something in a low voice as he extended the money, took a sip of his coffee, and then walked out of the diner. Ruby turned back to Emma.
"Port Flannery isn't a comfortable place to have a different point of view in," she said. "There are certain accepted . . . convictions here. But even if I had any desire to fly in the face of public opinion, Emma, Elvis himself probably wouldn't allow it."
"Oh, come on, now," Emma protested.
"No. I mean it. He has that damn-your-eyes attitude that makes you doubt he'd even trouble himself to meet you halfway."
Emma's wavy hair slid against her cheeks as she shook her head. "Isn't that funny, chere? I don't get that impression at all. He seems lonely to me. And he's so gentle with Gra—" She broke off. "Where is Gracie?" Her eyes darted around the cafe, panic rising instantaneously when she didn't immediately spot her baby.
"She's got herself a little fort over there under number seven." Ruby gestured toward the table closest to the kitchen door and Emma sagged back in her seat. Gracie was sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath a table, over which someone—presumably Bonnie—had haphazardly thrown a cook's apron, forming a little private space; and she was quietly singing to herself while she removed rocks and shells from the ever-present sand pail and arranged them around her in patterns on the floor.
"I should probably clear her out of there and straighten that table before your lunch crowd starts arrivin'"
"Oh, don't worry about it, hon. The rush isn't gonna get underway for a good half an hour yet, and that table's always the last to get filled anyway." Ruby got up and wandered to the windows overlooking the square. She pulled back a crisp navy-checked curtain and stared out at something across the common.
Finally she turned away and came back to the table. "You know, Elvis did have the ability at one time to start a lot of engines to humming," she said in a thoughtful voice as she resumed her seat. Chewing the skin around her pinky fingernail, her eyes met Emma's. "I'd forgotten all about that."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I forgot how handsome he was as a kid. Back when he was in high school." She shrugged. "I mean, I was already married and pregnant with Billy 'n' everything, but this town is small, and he was always a reliable source of entertainment. Fact is, with the face he had back then and that build and being so bad and all ... well, let's face it, Emma, that's a combination that's damn near irresistible to your average high-school girl. I bet most of 'em dreamed nightly of dropping their bloomers for that boy, and a high percentage of 'em probably would have, too, at the first encouraging word from him."
Emma grinned. "I'll bet he encouraged like mad." And good for you, kid, she thought, recalling the isolation that was imposed on him as an adult. I hope you got to screw your brains out.
"No, that's the funny thing. I think it was a rare event when he took anyone up on her offer."
"A high-school boy who willingly passes up the opportunity for sex?" Emma scoffed. "Get outta here."
"He was loaded with pride, even then," Ruby said. "That damn-your-eyes attitude I was talking about?" Her shoulders bunched and fell. "I think the so-called good girls were willing enough to have him roll 'em around under the covers. I imagine what they weren't willing was for him to come knocking at the door and tell daddy he was there to pick up Father's little Princess or Kitten or whoever-the-hell for that night's date."
"And so ... he denied himself?" Emma shivered. "Man. If he had that kind of control as a teenager, can you imagine what he'd be like in bed now?"
"Emma!"
"Well, I'm sorry, Ruby, but as I said, there's just somethin' about that man!"
"To each her own, I guess." Ruby shook her head. "Personally, I just don't see it."
Chapter 5
She should burn these damn tapes. Emma hit the eject button on the VCR, pulled the tape out, and put it back with the others in the bag on the shelf. Night after night, compulsive as any alcoholic presented with a full bottle, she found herself viewing the cursed things, and it wasn't healthy.
She knew it wasn't healthy. Yet, she couldn't seem to prevent the compulsion that drove her to watch them over and over and over again. She kept thinking if only she viewed them often enough, carefully enough, if only she could dissect them frame by frame if necessary, she would finally understand how she had failed to see that a man she had considered to be all that was gentle and good was in actuality a monster of depravity.
Then she could forgive herself for her blind and unquestioning faith in such a man.
Dear God, what a coil.
She could feel the walls closing in on her and looked around wildly. She desperately needed to breathe some fresh air. Going to the window she threw it open, and bracing her hands on the wide sill leaned out and inhaled, dragging the evening air deep into her lungs.
It wasn't enough. Bon Dieu, it simply wasn't enough. She had to get out of here, if only for a few minutes. Except— she glanced over at Gracie who slept, with her knees tucked under her and her bottom thrust up, in the middle of the bed—she couldn't leave her daughter unattended.
Minutes later she was knocking on the door of room G across the hall and down a couple from her own. When Elvis opened it and looked down at her inquiringly, she immediately reached out and grasped his bare forearm in both hands.
"Elvis, I'm jumpin' out of my skin," she told him with breathless earnestness, "and I think only you can help me out here."
He felt her nails digging into his skin, looked down and saw her—all flushed skin, imploring eyes, mussed hair, and gorgeous breasts rising and falling in agitation beneath a sapphire ballet top—and went very still beneath her hands.
"I know it's a giant imposition," she rushed to say before he could turn her down flat. "We don't really know each other that well. But, cher, the walls are closing in around me and I have got to get out for a while. Gracie's sound asleep, though, and I can't leave her unattended. . . ."
Well what'd you think she was gonna say, man, he wondered in self-derision. Elvis, I'm hornier than a bitch in heat and only you have exactly the right equipment to scratch my itch? Jesus, Donnelly, get a clue before you embarrass yourself. He extracted his arm from her grasp. "You want me to baby-sit for you?"
"Please." She couldn't read a thing in his expression and her words almost topped over themselves in her desire to convince him before he refused her request outright. "You don't have to actually do anything," she assured him earnestly. "Gracie's a sound sleeper; you could read or watch TV or whatever it is you were doin' here before I interrupted. But, the thing is, she likes you, so she won't be scared if she should wake up to find me gone and—"
"Okay."
"—I thought of you right away because she'll be safe with you." She broke off. "Okay?"
"Yeah, sure, why not?" Beneath the faded black T-shirt, his wide shoulders rose in a silent shrug.
"Just let me grab my book and I'm yours."
Emma snuck a quick peek around his room while he col
lected a hardbound book, which had been left open and turned facedown on the wide arm of an old overstuffed chair. Marking his place with a finger, he closed the book and turned back to her. "Ready," he said. "You going down to the Anchor?"
"The Anch—? You mean the tavern down on the harbor? No! Oh, non, Elvis, I think I have given you the wrong impression, entirely." Bon Dieu, what sort of women did he customarily consort with, that he'd automatically assume she'd come racing over here all in a lather to ask him to watch her bebe for her while she went out and belted back a few emergency drinks? "It's not excitement or company I'm in need of cher," she assured him, "just a bit of fresh air or open space or something. I thought I'd go sit in that little gazebo on the Green for a while."
Which is exactly what she did, he observed a few moments later as he stood to the side of her window, watching her cross the square and climb the shallow stairs to the gazebo. She sat down and his view was then limited to her lower half. He saw her pull one of her heels up onto the bench and observed her long fingers link together in a grip over her shin. She rhythmically kicked out her free foot.
Turning away, Elvis slowly wandered around the room for a moment, hand and prosthesis tucked palm-out into his rear pockets as he visually inspected the Sandses' effects spread out around the room. They were so ... girly. . . . Alien to him and exotic, in spite of his having grown up the fatherless only child of a very feminine female. His visual inspection of little-girl stuff and the feminine trappings of a grown woman eventually brought him over to the bed, where he stood looking down at the sleeping baby. A tender smile curved the hard corners of his mouth.
God, she was such a sweet little thing. Just a tiny bump under the smooth expanse of the covers, little butt sticking up and tousled head turned to one side. As he watched, she murmured in her sleep and untucked her arms and legs from beneath her, stretching and turning onto her side. Her thumb crept into her mouth and her lips pursed to suck several times before falling slack. Sliding from her mouth seconds later, the thumb glistened damply in the dim lighting as her fingers loosely curled on the mattress next to her head. Elvis reached out to hesitantly stroke a rough-tipped finger gently over the smooth, sleep-flushed skin of a baby-round cheek. Unnecessarily, he then straightened the blanket, tugging it firmly up over her shoulder.
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