Copper Lake Encounter

by Marilyn Pappano

  A woman who didn’t mind being picked up. That was a novelty. Between personal safety concerns and independence, it had been a long time since he’d gone out with a woman who let him pick her up and deliver her back home. “Six o’clock?”

  “I’ll see you then.” She ducked into the car to set the plate in the passenger seat with her purse, and then she straightened again. “Thank you. You Gadney males certainly know how to make a woman feel welcome.” Rising onto her toes, she gave him the same peck on the cheek she’d given Granddad and then quickly stepped back, got in the car and drove away.

  Ty swore he could still smell the sweet fragrance of her perfume long after she was gone. He gave a rueful shake of his head. With the certainty of a man who’d been through it before, he knew he was going to fall hard.

  But he could handle it. As long as he wasn’t falling alone.

  Chapter 4

  After another fast-food dinner, Nev showered, put on her red satin men’s-style pajamas and then curled up in bed with her laptop. Tweeting for her clients was easy; she used a program that allowed her to schedule the messages, and then all she had to do was follow up on comments. She made comments on a half dozen social media pages, answered a few dozen emails and proofed prospective menus for three parties before sending them on to the hostesses.

  Most of her clients were simply busy people who found it easier to delegate some of their duties online rather than deal with an assistant in their lives on a daily basis. Two were TV news anchors, and she worked regularly with a half dozen bestselling authors. Some clients didn’t care if she identified herself as their assistant; others preferred that she duplicate their voice and sign off on letters or projects as them.

  It wasn’t a bad job. All she needed office-wise was a high-speed internet connection. She could work in her pajamas or at the kitchen table while YaYa updated her own internet presence. It paid her bills and allowed her to put some money aside for the day when she would eventually, please, God, get married and move from her mother’s house.

  All of her friends in Atlanta had apartments or condos of their own, and though they complained when money was tight, they all loved the independence and the privacy. Nev valued her privacy, too, even if it was just one room, but she had never seen the appeal of living alone. She liked cooking for someone other than herself. She liked knowing there was almost always someone else in the house. She didn’t have to eat alone. There was someone to share a conversation with, a discussion, a laugh.

  Finished with work, she was about to sign off when her fingers hesitated. Instead she clicked her favorite search engine icon at the top of the screen and then typed in Anamaria Duquesne Calloway.

  A list of links popped up, mostly to the local newspaper: projects, social events, a mention in an article involving the death of a local man. She clicked it, but an error message was the only thing that opened. She tried it again, and then she went to the newspaper’s website and tried to access it from there without luck.

  “Tomorrow,” she murmured as she shut down the computer and reached for the television remote. If the article wasn’t available then, she could go to the newspaper office or the library. Part of her job involved research; she knew how to find what she wanted.

  As the TV screen came to life with the opening scenes of a favorite old movie, the phone rang. “Hey, YaYa.”

  “Hey, sweet girl.” When she paused, the same song playing on Nev’s television came through the phone. “You watching Blazing Saddles, too?”

  “I am. ‘I get no kick from champagne.’” Nev crooned a line from one of the songs in the movie. “How was church today?”

  “Oh, Nevy, you should have seen the hat Rachelle wore. It looked like a bowl of fruit salad spilled on a slice of watermelon. It was so big that it made her head look three times too little.” Envy underlay YaYa’s voice. She loved to criticize her friend’s taste in everything, but if she’d seen the hat first, she would have bought it in a heartbeat. “She posted a picture of it on her Facebook page and her blog. You should go in and tell her politely that it’s not a good style for her.”

  “I would never do that, YaYa, and you would chastise me if I ever did.”

  “Well... She’d just delete the comment, anyway. How was your day? Did you learn anything?”

  Nev’s gaze settled on the TV screen without really registering the action on it. She was fairly certain the house in last night’s dream was Ty’s house, and Anamaria Calloway had lived there as a curly-haired girl. Could it have been her in the dream? But the woman was a mother now. Why would Nev be dreaming about a stranger twenty or so years ago? And why would she be in the dream herself?

  “I found a sweet potato pie that’s even better than yours.” Nothing would distract her grandmother more than to suggest someone was better at something than her.

  “Huh-uh. No way, girl. That recipe came from my great-grandma.”

  “Sorry, YaYa. This pie was incredible.”

  YaYa snorted. “I won’t believe it unless I taste it for myself. You get it at a restaurant?”

  Oops. If Nev didn’t want to discuss the dreams with YaYa, she really didn’t want to discuss Ty. “No-o. I met a lovely gentleman at church this morning who invited me to have dinner with him. The pie was made by a friend of his.”

  “A lovely gentleman, huh? Too old to be of any interest, I guess.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that’s no way to describe a hot young hunk.”

  No, the hot young hunk is his grandson. “I’d guess he’s a few years older than you.”

  “Aw, Nevy...I love that you’re kind to us old folks and treat us like we matter, but you ain’t going to find a husband that way. Weren’t there any young men at church? Couldn’t you have gone to a restaurant where you might have met a young man?”

  Feeling just a little guilty for not mentioning Ty, Nev smiled to keep it from coming through in her voice. “What would I do with a young man here? I came to visit, not take up residence.”

  “The right man would pack up and move to Atlanta to be with you. Or—” Hesitation was so out of character for YaYa that it caught Nev off guard. “Or you might move there to be with him.”

  Move? The thought had never occurred to her. Heavens, she’d lived her whole entire life in the same house. “YaYa, what would you do if I moved away?” What would she do? Marieka might wind up living somewhere else—New York, Chicago, L.A.—but Nev? If she’d given it any thought, she would have said she would live and die right there in her small part of Atlanta.

  “I’d instant-message you all day long. Or we could Skype. We could still share our coffee every morning, even if you were ninety miles away. You could take that job of yours with you. It’s not like you meet your clients face-to-face more than once or twice a month. And who knows? When you have a baby, I might just pack up and move there, too. Being a long-distance grandma is one thing. Being a long-distance great-grandma...uh-uh. Not for me.”

  “What about Mama?”

  “She wouldn’t want to move. She’s too set in her ways.”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant, sweet girl. Your mama would still have Marieka.” YaYa didn’t add, Since your daddy died, that’s all that matters to her. Nev knew.

  “Well. This is all very interesting—” and eye-opening “—but if I haven’t met the right guy in the twelve years since Daddy started letting me date, I’m not likely to meet him on a short visit out of town.” Though an image of Ty was quick to form in her mind, standing in that cool modern kitchen of his, leaning against the counter, tall and muscular and too handsome for words to do justice.

  “Time’s not important. Feelings are. Now go watch your movie. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow. I love you.”

  Nev softly echoed the words before hanging up
.

  * * *

  My daddy loved old-fashioned records, thick vinyl discs from the ’50s and ’60s that he played on a turntable in the living room. One day he was listening to Jimi Hendrix when Marieka lost her temper over something and started chasing me through the house. She skidded into the bookcase that held the turntable and put a gouge in the record. After that, every time Daddy played “House Burning Down,” the needle got stuck, repeating the same few seconds of music over and over.

  I feel like I’m stuck, too, in this dream. I’m at the river again, at the tree. The sun is shining, and Lord, it’s hot. Sweat beads at my temples and on my arms and trickles down my spine. I tug the fabric of my skirt away from me and look down, surprised not by its wild jumble of color and pattern but by the fact that it’s long and loose and swirling. I’ve always worn fitted clothes. Dressing to flatter my figure, YaYa says. Marieka agrees with her. Covering excess pounds doesn’t hide them, she says.

  The river’s flow is sluggish, with only an occasional ripple where the water moves over a submerged obstacle. I think about pulling my skirt up and wading in to sit on a thick branch that dips down below the surface, letting my feet dangle, letting the sun bake my skin. I kick off my shoes—cheap rubber thongs—and gather handfuls of fabric as I walk gingerly down the slight slope of the bank. My foot is outstretched, so close to the water I can feel the dampness, when noise, a crackle of twigs, catches my attention.

  There is a figure coming along the path from the north. The sun is glaring in my eyes, so I can’t make out any features, but I know it’s a man. The brisk, no-nonsense way he moves, the purpose, the emotion wafting—no, too kind a word. Emanating from him.

  I shield my eyes with my hand, but he remains a blur. My heart rate shoots up, and I slip when I start to climb up the bank, landing hard on one knee. I scramble to the spot where I left my shoes, but they’re gone and he’s closer and something inside me is frantically whispering, “Run, run, run.”

  I do. I run. Grit bites into the soles of my feet, and the skirt tangles around my legs. I grab it, lifting it above my knees, and envy Marieka as my legs pump and my heart pounds. Sweat pours from me, soaking my scalp, my clothes, and then with a clap of thunder, I realize it’s raining. The sun has disappeared behind black clouds, the wind whips the skirt from my hands and jagged lightning sears my eyes, making me stumble.

  I risk a look behind me. I don’t see the man, but I feel him. Anger and rage pulsate from him. He wants to stop me, to hurt me, to destroy me. Desperate, I run faster, knowing I can’t sustain the pace for more than a few minutes. If I could have gone the other way, to the house with the beckoning light...

  As regret rushes through me, I become aware of the change in surface beneath my feet. I’ve reached the paved path. The park isn’t far ahead. If I can make it there, if I can make it to River Road, I’ll be safe.

  But fatigue is dragging at my legs. My chest hurts, and every gasp is a burning stab in my side. I fall, curl into a ball, hide my head beneath my arms and wait for him to strike, but no blow comes. All I feel is heat, and when I force my eyes open, sunlight seeps around my arms. My snug-fitting dress is dry, and my high-heeled sandals pinch my toes.

  Slowly I lift my head. The storm has passed. I’m alone on the trail, the tree a few yards from me. The sun is shining.

  Lord, it’s hot.

  * * *

  Nev didn’t do well without a good night’s rest, and the dreams coming at dawn left her so unsettled that she might as well not have slept at all. She made a cup of coffee in the tiny pot in the bathroom and dressed, and then she sat down with her computer to check her clients’ social media pages. She had an email from YaYa that opened to a large picture of Miss Rachelle in a hat that did, indeed, look like fruit salad on watermelon. It was huge, neon-bright and fussy enough to give any upper-class British woman a serious case of envy.

  Appreciative of the laugh to start her day, Nev stowed the computer and headed out to find breakfast. Taking advantage of the unseasonably cool morning, she walked to McDonald’s, only a block to the east. YaYa was finicky about the fast food she would eat, but she did like an Egg McMuffin, and so did Nev.

  She settled at a table for two with her breakfast and a newspaper and tried to disguise the fact that she didn’t like to eat out alone. Fate took care of that after only two bites of her muffin when a voice drew her out of the front-page article on back-to-school needs.

  “Do you mind if I join you? All the other tables are full.”

  She looked up—and up, until she locked gazes with a tall, muscular woman, pretty though not in the usual way. She wore khakis and a yellow polo shirt, a gold badge clipped on her belt and a gun on her hip, and her unmanageable hair was restrained in a tight braid with little loose hairs along that length that made it look as if it was bristling.

  Ty’s ex-girlfriend. Crap.

  What was her luck that on only her second full day in town she would meet this woman?

  “Um, sure. Please.” When what she really wanted to say was Oh, heck, no. Mr. Obadiah and Frank didn’t like the ex, and that was enough to make Nev wary. But she didn’t have it in her to be rude, and a quick glance around showed that all the tables were full.

  She folded the newspaper and laid it on the bench next to her purse, and then she rearranged her food as the woman slid onto the opposite bench.

  “I’m Katherine Isaacs.” Then she made a face. “Though most people insist on calling me Kiki.”

  “What do you prefer?”

  “Oh, I’d prefer ‘Your Majesty’ or something, but I guess I’ve gotten used to Kiki.”

  “I’m Nev Wilson.”

  “You’re new in town.”

  “I’m just visiting.” Nev sprinkled the hash brown patty with salt before taking a bite.

  “Visiting who?”

  “No one. I had some time off, and the town’s tourism website caught my attention.” Lord, she’d just lied to a cop.

  “So you don’t know anyone here? You just picked it for a vacation?” Kiki’s expression was hard and just a little fierce. Nev could easily see her playing the bad cop to Ty’s good cop. She was tough—no soft edges there. Probably a great thing for dealing with criminals. Not so much for friendly chatting with a stranger.

  “No, I don’t. I mean, I didn’t when I came. I met a few people at church yesterday.”

  “Really. Like who?”

  She listed a half dozen names she remembered from the introductions after the service, sliding Mr. Obadiah into the middle, hoping Kiki wouldn’t notice. She did.

  “Mr. Obadiah...oh, you mean Pops Gadney. Cranky old man.”

  Nev was siding firmly with Frank. She’d snarl and growl at Kiki, too, given the chance. “I thought he was lovely.”

  “Did you meet his grandson?”

  How did Detective Carries-a-Gun Isaacs feel about the end of her and Ty’s relationship? Had it been mutual, or did she want him back? Unable to tell from her expression, Nev took a drink of coffee before saying carelessly, casually, “Yes, I did. He seems like a nice enough guy.”

  Kiki tilted her head to study her. Though her features didn’t reflect it, Nev knew beyond a doubt she was seeing the same faults Marieka saw: too short, too fat, too soft, too plain, too common. There was nothing about her that made her stand out in anyone’s eyes.

  Though in her head she heard Ty’s comment: You don’t give yourself enough credit. And later: Around here, we think curves are hot.

  Kiki Isaacs didn’t think they were hot. A smile slid across her face—she’d judged Nev and found in her zero threat—and in a clearly better mood, she said, “Yeah, he is a nice guy.” She looked at her watch and then began rewrapping her biscuit with sausage. “Damn, it’s later than I thought. I’ve got to get to work. Nice meeting you, Nev.”

  Nev watch
ed her leave as she slowly began to eat again. We don’t bring out the best in each other, Ty had said of Kiki the day before. It had taken Nev only five minutes in the woman’s company to figure out what he’d needed a couple of years to learn. Women like Nev never got men like him, but anyone could tell that Kiki wasn’t the right woman for him, either.

  Though it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in a fantasy or two of getting him, would it, as long as she kept her feet on the ground—which she’d been doing since she’d learned to walk. As long as she kept the fantasy separate from reality and protected her heart, what could be the harm imagining for a moment that there could be something between her and Ty?

  She indulged while she finished the meal: living in this lovely little town, making a home in that cozy house on Easy Street, having Mr. Obadiah in her life, being a regular at the AME Zion church, being in love with and loved by Ty, having babies, making a real life.

  It was sweet, she acknowledged as she picked up her trash and left the table. Enticing. Incredibly appealing.

  But the woman in her knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  * * *

  The desks in the detective division of the Copper Lake Police Department were neatly lined up down the center of the large room, four steel-gray pairs facing each other, with two additional desks at the back of the room that faced the wall. The one on the right was broken, tilting crookedly, the drawers warped and hard to open. The one on the left was Ty’s.

  He liked having his back to the rest of the room. It made concentration easier.

  He also liked that Kiki’s desk was in the middle with her back to him.

  “Hey, Ty.” Lieutenant Maricci leaned against a filing cabinet a few feet away. “Jill from social services is taking the Holigan girls to their foster home this morning. She would appreciate company.”

  “Does she want me to bring a couple pairs of extrasmall handcuffs?”

  Maricci scratched his jaw. “Wouldn’t that be nice? And gags, maybe, to stop the biting. Plus a couple of hobbles.”

  “I’m surprised they found someone to take them. Nobody besides Granddad ever wanted a Holigan kid.” Sean Holigan, a few years older than Ty, had stayed with them from time to time when things were really bad at home or he couldn’t go there for some other reason. Granddad had had high hopes for Sean, but not long after high school graduation, he’d followed his family’s footsteps right into prison. He’d never come back to Copper Lake after his release.