Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  I let the blind slip back and opened the door. “Hey, stranger.”

  He stepped inside, and I instantly understood the term pitter-patter. An inane elementary description of a racing heart. But the thing about clichés—they’re usually right on.

  He shrugged out of his blue jacket with the gold star emblem, and I hung it on the peg by the door. “You arrest any bad guys today?ˮ

  He studied my face with an intensity that used to make me think he was running my features through a known felon list that sent spiders scuttling over my skin. “Not yet,” he said. “But it’s still early.”

  There are moments in life when everything goes quiet. Nathan and I stood in my foyer and stared into one another’s eyes. There was nothing else. Just us.

  And then the neighbor’s dog barked and shattered the magic. “I’d planned to make a pitcher of iced tea,” I said. “You interested?”

  He followed me into the kitchen. “Sounds perfect.” He wore jeans, a navy polo shirt, and scuffed brown boots. His hair was shorter than I remembered.

  “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Shaved it for an op.” He smiled. His eyes twinkled as if they held some private joke.

  I didn’t pry, I knew him well enough to know he’d never confide details to an uninvolved civilian. “I was surprised when you called. Didn’t expect you to be in Savannah again so soon.” I kept my voice casual and hoped he couldn’t read my excitement. I filled a teapot with water and placed it on the stove to boil.

  He leaned against the counter. “I have a month of vacation accrued and thought I’d get to know Savannah a little better.”

  His presence took up my entire kitchen, the space, the air. I noticed the strength of him, his chest, his shoulders. Heat flushed my skin, crept up my neck and into my cheeks. His choosing Savannah as a vacation destination didn’t seem coincidental.

  His gaze swept my galley kitchen. No fancy coffee machine or eight-burner stove or Sub-Zero freezer. But his expression, cop flat, left no clue what he thought about the cozy two-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath carriage house attached to Mom’s house.

  “Hear you’ve been busy,” I said.

  He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

  “Willie called, said Cedar’s scheduled for extradition and will be arraigned next week.” I pushed a pile of Owen’s schoolbooks to the end of the counter. “According to Willie you chased Cedar for five months, as focused as a junkyard dog after a pork chop.”

  Nathan’s chuckle didn’t disguise his pride. “We found Cedar holed up in a hostel in the mountains of Machu Picchu.”

  “So I heard. I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed.” I measured out a cup of sugar, opened the cabinet, and placed two glasses on the counter. “I’d dreamed of the police dragging him from a Ritzy hotel in Asia, or maybe Australia, never considered a hostel.” I filled the glasses with ice. “How’d you find him?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “He used the name Jeddah Anderson. Jeddah was his great-grandfather’s given name. Anderson a family name on his mother’s side.”

  I considered the irony. “I guess the moral is—if you need an alias, chose one from the phone book.”

  My cell buzzed with a message. “It’s Erica, checking in with Owen. She’s adopted a self-inflicted godmother devotion that’s pretty heart-warming.” I typed a quick reply.

  —Baseball practice. Ck back after 5.—

  “She mentioned you two keep in touch.”

  The teakettle whistled. I rummaged through the cabinet for my stoneware pitcher and poured hot water over the tea bags. “Our relationship will probably never be what it once was, but after Owen’s kidnapping, I reassessed my priorities.” I exhaled the same way a delivery nurse tells an imminent mother to breathe and let the memory of those painful days recede. “I wasn’t much of a friend to Erica. I learned from Ben, a private investigator, about her three rounds of rehab. How did I not know? I should’ve been there for her.” I removed a tin of macadamia nut cookies, set out a few on a plate. “I asked her to meet me for a dinner one night and asked for forgiveness.”

  “How’d that go?” He reached for a cookie, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

  “Asked might be a stretch. It was more of an applied apology.”

  His wrinkled brow reminded me of one of the pug puppies Owen had his eye on.

  “I bought her a steak and we talked girl shop.”

  He finished off his cookie. “Girl shop?”

  “A little college football, the sorry state of fashion footwear, whether our waiter complied with the standards of smoking hot or merely hot. You know, all those dark, serious subjects women debate when they decide to let well enough alone.”

  His confusion cleared, and he nodded. “Guy talk, plus the shoes.” He opened his briefcase and handed me a box. “I didn’t trust Fed Ex with this.”

  I searched a drawer, located my box cutter, and slit the tape. “Mom’s jade box.” I ran my hand over the top. My fingers tingled as if the memories stored inside fought to be free. “Thanks for this. I’ll take it over later.”

  “How is she?”

  “Three more weeks of physical therapy and she’ll be back on the golf course.”

  He laughed, twisted a key off his ring, and handed it to me. “I kept this with me.”

  I accepted the key. His sensitivity to protect Mom’s secrets sent a warm rush through my chest. “I appreciate you delivering them.” I couldn’t help hoping the box wasn’t the only reason he’d stopped by.

  Nathan picked up a book from the stack I’d been sorting when he arrived.

  “Beth had movers pack up Spartina,” I said. “I guess the shipment arrived, because she sent me these books from Granddad’s collection.” The pile included works by Mark Twain, Hemingway, Dashiell Hammett, Michener.

  Nathan flipped through one written by Dashiell Hammett. “This volume is a signed first edition.”

  “They were gifts to Granddad from Mom and me. We’d hunt all year for first editions of his favorite authors.” My heart swelled with tenderness. “Beth sending them is really thoughtful.

  A cigar humidor sat beside the books. I peeled off the yellow sticky note.

  Remembered this was your Christmas gift to Grandfather a few years back. Thought you might want to save it for Owen.

  Love, Beth

  I opened the lid of the burlwood chest and flashed back to the Christmas morning Granddad opened this present. Memories flew faster than cascading water over a running rapid.

  Mom’s fruitcake baking in the oven, Elvis Presley’s pitch-perfect voice crooning I’ll be home for Christmas, and Granddad’s booming laugh filtering from behind the doors of his study. “I don’t know where to put my family memories of Noah now,” I said. “I feel like a divorced woman staring at her wedding dress.”

  Nathan touched my shoulder. “I heard someone say once—Memories are like bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.” He dropped his hand and the sudden loss of his warmth was like a blast of frigid air. A full-body shiver ran through me.

  He walked to the sliding glass door leading to a small garden. “How do you like living back in Savannah?”

  “This is home, where my roots are. I may not be a Barry, but on Mom’s side, I’m still four-generation Savannhian.”

  He removed a small box from his briefcase, this one wrapped. “I’d hoped to see Owen. I brought him something. It’s a signed Braves baseball. One of the guys on my team has a brother who plays outfield.”

  I accepted the present. “I’m sure he’ll love it. He’s hoping to be the team’s pitcher this season. Working hard on his curve ball.”

  “He’s adjusting to the move. That’s good.” Nathan swiveled Owen’s math book lying on the counter. “Erica mentioned you’re planning to homeschool.”

  “At least for the first year. Until we settle into our new life. I traveled so much over the past eight years, I have a lot to make up for. And I want
to take advantage of this time when I’m still Owen’s number one girl.”

  Nathan nodded. “You’ve got about five months left.” He glanced at the yellow sticky note on the Granddad’s humidor. “How is Beth?”

  “She checks in every few weeks. She has no family left except for her baby.” My voice gave away my elation. “It’s a boy.”

  His face scrunched into a help-me-understand expression. “You seem excited.”

  “Thrilled. Owen and I are planning to visit her in Colorado over the Christmas holidays.”

  “I didn’t realize you and Beth were that close.”

  “We weren’t. But we’re the only family she has left. Her mom suffered a fatal heart attack on their trip to Colorado. The night she left Savannah, Beth turned off her phone, removed the battery, and never switched it back on. When I asked her why, she said there was no one left to call.” I tore a paper towel from the holder and wiped tears from my cheeks. “I’m determined to change that.”

  Nathan sat at the kitchen table. I handed him his tea glass and placed the cookies on the table.

  “How’d the negotiations with the DEA end up?” he asked.

  I sat in the chair across from him. “I salvaged enough money that Beth will come out okay.”

  “Not you?”

  I shrugged, sipped my tea. “I’m not a Barry.”

  Disapproval came and went across his face. The sound of a leaf blower echoed through the window. The harsh sound contrasted with the quiet between us.

  He tapped the edge of table with his fingers. A steady rhythm, lost in thought. “According to Noah Barry’s will, half of whatever you have left after the DEA negotiations is legally yours.”

  “Granddad would have never named me as trustee if he’d known I was Juan Cabral’s daughter. Owen and I will start fresh. Beth and Calvin’s son is the rightful Barry heir.”

  He bit into another cookie. “How about the house you bought from Calvin?”

  “On the market. I priced it to sell.”

  “And you sold Spartina.”

  “Nope. Beth sold Spartina.”

  He contemplated me for an agonizing minute, and I forced myself not to fidget. He nodded. “A clean slate.”

  I pulled the jade box closer. Each panel on the box depicted a different season. Spring, with the promise of new beginnings, was my favorite. “Mom will make a full recovery and Owen’s happy and healthy. Those are the most important.” I reveled at the positives in my life.

  Nathan’s intense gaze shot something airy and light through me. He traced a knot on my kitchen table with his finger, and it seemed as though his touch trailed up and down my spine.

  “My boss says he made an attractive offer, but you haven’t committed.”

  I laughed then, a full-out, up-from-the-gut roll that left me breathless. “Sorry.” I waved a hand in front of my face. “The DEA confiscated a company I managed. I’m no longer bondable. I can’t work in a commercial bank or hold a financial broker’s license. Yet I have an attractive job offer for top secret government work.”

  Nathan squinted. “You cheat a bank, you go to jail. You cheat the US Marshal Service, you disappear.”

  “Touché.”

  “But seriously, you have good instincts and your financial background would be a valuable asset.”

  “Yeah, bad guys like their money.” I restacked a pile of Hemingway books. “Joining the service is a significant commitment.” I flipped the cover of The Sun Also Rises and pretended to study Hemingway’s dignified signature. I stole a look at Nathan’s face. “Are you advocating for me to join up?”

  “Absolutely.” He grinned. It hit his eyes first then moved to his lips.

  “I’ve promised to give my answer by Monday.”

  The atmosphere in the cottage turned heavy, as if the air had been cut off and the oxygen slowly vanishing. I had an urge to crack the kitchen window, let in the breeze.

  He leaned across the table and lifted a strand of my chin length hair and tucked it behind my ear. “I’m not the only one who got a haircut.”

  My body displayed all the classic symptoms of a high-school crush. Prickling spine. Nervous hands that wouldn’t still. Hairs standing on my arms when my eyes met his.

  He removed a large manila envelope from his briefcase. “These are the papers to transfer the Montevideo money. It’s a formality, but signing off would be appreciated. I also brought the agreement for the State of Georgia to designate Barry Island as protected land. The state agreed to your request for a perpetual clause for you and your heirs to have visiting rights ten days a year.” “

  “Great.” I reached for the envelope and peeked inside. “You include mailing instructions?”

  He finished his tea and stood. “I’d hoped you’d agree to take a ride. The documents require notarization.”

  “Now?” I looked down at my plain t-shirt and jeans. The outfit it had taken an hour to pick out after his phone call. But they wouldn’t work for dinner. “I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up.”

  “Take your time.” He ran a hand through his hair. A gesture I’d come to realize as his nervous tell. “Maybe you could show me around town, walk down River Street. We could have dinner.”

  My heart performed an Olympic worthy backflip. “Let me make sure I understand.” I tapped the envelope. “If I sign over thirty million to the United States government, I get a dinner date with you?”

  He flashed what could only be called a conquering smile and closed the distance between us. “That about sums it up.”

  I stepped into his arms. “Well, Marshal, no one can call you a cheap date.”

  A word about the author…

  Veronica began storytelling at a young age, somewhere around three, when a host of imaginary friends lived in her bedroom closet and encouraged her penchant for spinning tales.

  A career in marketing, twenty-years of world travel, and a large and boisterous southern family supply her with ample material for the mysteries and thrillers she loves to write.

  She lives on the Georgia coast with her husband and her faithful sidekick, a Standard Poodle named Jasper.

  http://veronicamixon.com

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