Hard Pressed

by Kate Canterbary

  Pushing off the bed, my palm flattened against my forehead to keep the pounding at bay, I went to the window. It was unusual to hear sirens unless there was a fire but the engine doors were shut. Then I noticed lights flashing in the distance. Three SUVs raced out from behind the station and through the village. My heart flipped and then my stomach followed suit. Knowing Jackson was in one of those SUVs and rushing toward something potentially dangerous had me wide awake.

  Since I was still dressed, I slipped on a pair of flip-flops, grabbed my phone and keys, and headed out. I wasn't alone. Sirens didn't blare at three in the morning without bringing the entire town to the streets. We were a nosy lot here in Talbott's Cove. And I couldn't go back to sleep without laying eyes on Jackson. I needed to know he was all right.

  I made my way toward the station, exchanging confused shrugs and yawns with my neighbors. No one knew what was going on but everyone had theories. Car accidents, domestic disputes, wild animals at the back door. All of it was plausible.

  Cindy lumbered over to me with a walkie-talkie clipped to the neck of her sweatshirt and her cane in hand, and held out a shawl. "Come on, now. Take this. You'll catch your death out here, dear."

  I accepted the shawl and linked my arm with hers. "Thank you," I said. "Do you know anything?"

  Her lips folded into a faint line as she shook her head. "Nothin'," she said. "But I know our sheriff was on patrol tonight, him and the other boys, too. He wanted all hands on deck."

  "Does he do that often?" I asked, scanning the crowd again.

  Cindy hummed to herself. "He's only been here a short time," she said. "I'm still learning his methods."

  In other words, no.

  "Don't pull that face," Cindy chided. "It took me twenty years to learn the last boss. I'm a slow study. Not like you, picking up new things like magic."

  "Magic?" I asked, laughing. "No magic here."

  "Don't be silly," she said, whacking my arm. "You taught yourself how to start a business and now you've been at it for how long? Six, seven years?"

  "Almost seven," I replied.

  "And don't forget about the baking. Good gravy, I've gained an extra love handle since you started visiting the sheriff. If you marry him, I won't fit into my bikini anymore."

  "I've given up on mine," I said with a laugh. I wasn't touching that marriage comment with a marble rolling pin. "No one's complained yet."

  "You've got yourself a good one," she said with a knowing grin. I started to joke about the firefighters lusting over her but she whacked my arm again. "Your sisters are boring and they wear too much makeup. What's with all the bronzer? It's just silly. Don't listen to them."

  I glanced at her, studying the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. "I try not to."

  "Don't listen to your mother either. She's just as bad with the bronzer and she has a twig up her rear end. I don't know where it came from since your grandmother is such a saint but it's lodged way up there," Cindy continued. "But that sheriff of ours, you go on and listen to him. He knows his mind and he knows you're one in a million."

  "I'm working on it," I said, bumping my shoulder against hers.

  Flashing lights tore open the night as a caravan of law enforcement vehicles drove through the village. "They're coming back," Cindy said. "I'm going to head inside and put things in order. Who knows what they'll need when they get here." She stepped forward, her arm still linked with mine. "Let's go. You can stay in the sheriff's office. He'd hate it if I left you out here in the cold."

  "Cindy, there's barely a breeze," I argued. "I'm fine out here."

  She flapped her hands, nearly putting my eye out with her cane. "He'd want you inside."

  Before I could respond, Jackson's SUV pulled into the parking lot with four deputies' vehicles immediately behind him.

  "Time for me to skedaddle," Cindy called. She shot me a baleful glance and hobbled away. "Come on in when you're ready."

  The crowd closed in as Jackson stepped out of his vehicle. He seemed well and unharmed, all limbs accounted for and no blood in sight. I gathered the ends of the shawl in my fist, holding it as tight as possible to keep me from falling apart with relief.

  Jackson flattened his hand against the backseat door while he conversed with the deputies assembled around him. They seemed to be strategizing, motioning between themselves and toward the public safety building. It was the wrong time to fixate on the way his uniform trousers hugged his ass and thighs but I was doing it anyway. His posture—strong and assertive with his feet spread and shoulders back—made me salivate. I wanted to go to him and fix everything right now. I also wanted to rip my undies off but that was nothing new when it came to Jackson.

  From behind me, I heard someone say, "It could be the Fitzsimmons boy."

  "That's what I thought," another agreed. "Nothing but trouble, that one."

  "He was never a nice boy," someone else chimed in. "Problems with him right from the start."

  "It's these parents nowadays," a fourth voice added. "Too permissive. Always wanting to be friends. In my time, we said 'spare the rod, spoil the child.' No spoiling in my house and my boys turned out just fine."

  "He's in rehab," an irritable neighbor said. It sounded like JJ Harniczek but I was too busy watching Jackson to turn around and verify my suspicions. "You should give the kid some credit. He's workin' at it, he's tryin' to kick the habit. Not easy shit. You think you're all so good and holy, why don't you save your judgment for your next talk with god, huh?"

  After a pause, someone said, "Maybe it's Lincoln. I love the guy but he's an angry drunk."

  "Nah, that's not true. I've never seen anything like that."

  "Everyone knows there are problems in that house. Always fighting, always storming out. He put his fist through a window a few years back. You remember that, don'tcha?"

  "It's not Lincoln," the irritable neighbor snapped. "You people need to knock this shit off. Might as well go back to bed so you can piss and moan in comfort."

  "Who can sleep with all this noise? And the lights? My god, do they need to make such a racket?"

  "Why won't they just open the door? What are they waiting for?"

  "I heard they found him at the Nevilles' inn. Didn't get inside the house or anywhere near their baby, thank heavens, but had weapons on him."

  "Those poor people. They've been through so much."

  "I couldn't go on, knowing one of the men who killed my entire family was still on the loose. Couldn't do it at all. The stress alone would take me."

  "Might not be loose anymore."

  "The sheriff's been spending a lot of time out there recently. At that inn. He's kept a good eye on that place. Probably saved that family from another tragedy."

  "I had my doubts about this sheriff but he's a good egg. Just hope he lasts."

  "Quiet, quiet, something's happening," someone hissed.

  The deputies closed in around Jackson while he opened the backseat door and reached in to collect the prisoner. They headed toward the station, Jackson walking with one hand on the prisoner's cuffed wrists, the other on his shoulder.

  The questions and murmurs continued around me but I stopped listening when Jackson's gaze met mine for a heartbeat.

  For that single second, everything was good and right and he was coming back to me and I'd fix everything.

  But he looked away, turning his hard gaze and equally hard jaw toward the station and all my doubts returned. Then he disappeared inside.

  The crowd lingered outside the station for a bit, trading theories and rumors as news trickled out from the Nevilles' neighbors. Some claimed the perpetrator was inside the inn, others insisted he was apprehended near the inn. It was said there was a cache of guns and knives found in the woods. It was also said there was a bag of rope and duct tape. There was talk of calling in the FBI, and then a hearty debate about keeping the feds out of our town.

  No one knew all the details but one thing was decided: Talbott's Cove was keeping Jackso
n Lau. Any doubts the townspeople might've harbored toward this out-of-state transplant sheriff were gone. He was ours now.

  And all I wanted was to call him mine.

  23

  Lamination

  n. A preparation consisting of many thin layers of dough separated by butter, produced by repeated folding and rolling.

  Jackson

  * * *

  I was dead on my feet. Hadn't slept in two days, couldn't remember my last meal or shower, and didn't know whose shirt I was wearing. My scruff was crossing into beard territory. I was shuffling along, coffee and adrenaline serving as my only sources of energy. There was no other description for my current state of existence.

  Even if I managed to drag myself home now that the dust was settling, I couldn't bear an empty house. Every room was scented with memories of Annette and I couldn't go there without walking out and heading straight for her. I wanted Annette's comfort more than anything. I wanted it but I wasn't certain I could have it, claim it as my own.

  I went on shuffling, pushing forward as best I could.

  Prior to settling in Talbott's Cove, I believed life here would be slower. Without the mad hustle of the city, it had to be. Small towns like this didn't experience ongoing cycles of crime and violence.

  To a degree, I was right about the pace of life. Instead of investigating assaults and homicides, my days were spent mediating neighborly disputes and fishing dogs out of wells. That change made all the difference for me. But this small town wasn't immune from anything.

  The team of FBI agents parked in my conference room proved that.

  They were busy collecting forensic evidence from the inn, poring over the logs of my recent visits with the Nevilles, and interviewing damn near half the town. They'd already transported the prisoner to a federal facility in Vermont, which was one burden off my small office. Talbott's Cove didn't have the type of high-security facility necessary to jail a suspect who'd twice slipped out of state custody.

  I passed the conference room on the way to my office, saluting the agents with a brief wave. Some of my residents disagreed but I was thrilled to have the feds here. No pissing contests from me. To my mind, they had a broader set of resources at their disposal to build the case against the Nevilles' attacker and they were best suited to handle the matter.

  A call came through just as I dropped into my seat. In the two days since apprehending the attacker, my phone hadn't stopped ringing. Between reporters thirsty for details and state officials offering assistance or insisting I make Talbott's Cove my home for the long haul, I'd talked myself hoarse. I appreciated the wave of support from outside the town but it was the local backing that truly mattered. I hated that it took the thwarting of a deadly attack to rally the Cove around me as sheriff but I wasn't complaining.

  "Sheriff Lau," I answered.

  "Listen up, sheriff, because I'm only going to say this once," boomed Brooke Markham's voice. "Get off your ass and go to her."

  A surprise laugh burst from my lips. "Excuse me?"

  "I told you to listen," she chided. "Honestly, if you weren't Grade A man meat, I'd be done with you right now."

  "I see," I replied, not knowing what else to say. In need of a prop to occupy my hands, I reached for my lukewarm coffee.

  "Actually, you don't see a damn thing," she said. "You don't realize that you and Annette are rowing at different speeds and instead of moving forward, you're turning in a circle. That doesn't mean you need to stop rowing, bro. It means you need to match her pace, let her build up the strength and stamina to meet you at your level. Stop focusing on her shortcomings and start acknowledging her progress."

  I sipped the coffee. It tasted like dirt. "Thank you for this insight, Brooke."

  "No. No, that's not how this is going to pan out," she said. "You're going to fix this shit."

  On a sigh, I leaned my head against my palm. "How would you recommend I do that? If you haven't noticed, I'm in the middle of a major investigation here."

  "My sources tell me the FBI has it under control and they'll be packing up by the end of the day," she replied. "You did your part, sheriff. You caught the guy. Now, go get the girl."

  "Brooke, I admire your tenacity and loyalty to Annette—"

  "You want to talk loyalty?" she interjected. "I'll tell you a little story about loyalty. Annette is my best friend in the whole world. She's my sister, maybe not by blood but by every other standard that matters. Believe me when I say I'd kill for her."

  "Don't tell me that," I said, groaning.

  "It's true," she cried.

  "You still shouldn't tell me that."

  "I'm just saying, I'd do anything for that girl. But her actual sisters? They're miserable, jealous cows. They went to her shop the other day and had full-on baby tantrums because they heard you two were together."

  "Why would that matter to them?" I asked, sitting up straighter. "Why would they be unhappy with her?"

  "Like I said, they're miserable, jealous cows," she replied. "They know you're prime rib and they don't want Annette to have you. They said shitty things about her being pathetic and desperate for chasing after you, and how she needed to get out of the way because you needed someone with a decent tuna noodle casserole recipe. And that, my friend, is why you heard Annette telling her mother you two aren't in love and getting married and having all the babies."

  I slapped my hand on the desk as I pushed to my feet. "That's horseshit," I snarled. "Her sisters? Her sisters said this?"

  "And this brings me back to my original point about loyalty," Brooke said with a cluck of her tongue. "I know I can call her on her worst day and she'll still show up for me. There's nothing I won't do for my girl and that's the reason for this call."

  Pausing, I turned to gaze at the village outside my window. The sun shone at an angle that obliterated my view into Annette's shop but I still watched, waiting for a glimpse of her. I hadn't allowed myself that much since storming out the back door and now I couldn't look away. I was drawn to her like a force field, a magnetic pull I hadn't been able to ignore since my first morning in this seat. What made me think I'd ever be able to resist it? Resist her?

  I couldn't and I didn't want to. I loved Annette all the way through and back again. I loved her warmth and the joy she found in things as simple as a beautiful blueberry or finding someone the right book. I loved her sweet and her fire, my very own Fireball shot. I loved the way she poured herself into her baking and her bookstore and her friends. And me. I loved that way she gave herself to me and asked nothing in return.

  But that was the catch, wasn't it? She asked nothing in return. She expected nothing. Either she didn't know how to demand it or she didn't think she deserved it, and I'd failed to right that wrong in the most critical moment.

  I wasn't about to fail again.

  "Tell me what to do."

  A throaty laugh came across the line. "Very good. Let's get started with short-term tactical responses and move on to longer-term strategic solutions. You'll want to write this down."

  24

  Partially Set

  v. To refrigerate a mixture until it thickens to the consistency of unbeaten egg whites.

  Annette

  * * *

  Brooke: Let's go to The Galley tonight.

  Annette: Can't. I'm banned for life.

  Brooke: No one has ever been banned from The Galley, certainly not you. Meet me there around 7, okay? Don't make me drink alone.

  Annette: I love you but I'm not suited for mixed company. Maybe wine at your place?

  Brooke: I want to be around people tonight.

  Annette: And I wanted to try out a cream pie recipe tonight.

  Brooke: Wait, did you talk to Jackson?

  Annette: Not yet. Why?

  Brooke: I mean…

  Annette: Yes?

  Brooke: Never mind. I've spent too much of life in the company of frat boys.

  Brooke: Don't even think about ditching me. I'll go to your plac
e and drag you out of the kitchen.

  Annette: Understood but please be aware you're buying the drinks tonight.

  Brooke: You got it, babe.

  Before leaving to meet Brooke at The Galley, I flipped through my calendar and counted the days since my last visit. Forty-two. I should've been able to estimate that without tapping my fingertip against each uniform square but I couldn't believe so much time—and so little—had passed since that night.

  I remembered the chin-quivering ache that sent me in search of liquid pain relief. It'd seemed like a real, palpable hurt, something I could wrap my hands around. And maybe it was. Looking back on it, I could barely reach those feelings of sadness, loss, humiliation. They were there but they weren't the same as the rough stab of regret I experienced every time my thoughts wandered to Jackson.

  I should've handled things differently. I knew that now. It was possible I knew it in the moment but I'd been rubbed raw by the interaction with my family and didn't say the right things. Rather, I ran in the opposite direction of the right things and now I was busy charting my way back.

  There were no plans, no recipes for fixing things with Jackson. I'd spent the past couple of days paging through cookbooks and browsing foodie blogs to find the pastry that said "I'm sorry and I want to fix things but I'm also scared and don't know how."

  Food was magical like that. With a single dish, one was able to say a million different things. Welcome home. Congratulations. Marry me. Happy birthday. My condolences. Feel better. I'm sorry. I love you.

  I'd tested a few recipes last night in the hopes of stumbling onto the perfect combination of heart, comfort, and sweet. Chocolate zucchini cake, banana bread, éclairs. None of them were quite right and I couldn't go to Jackson until I had it right. Until I'd folded my love for him in with the dry ingredients and knew he'd be able to taste it in every crumb.