by M. P. Cooley
He gazed beyond me to the grave, as if he wanted a formal introduction. His southern gentleman came out at the oddest moments.
“It’s fine,” I said, taking his hand and pulling him over to Kevin. “I visit all the time. Unless you want some time alone? If so, we can catch up later. I have an ice-skating date that I can’t miss.”
“No . . . It’s not . . . That’s not why I dropped by. Today’s shaping up to be busy, what with going back to DC, but, well . . . June, I have something to discuss. Work related.”
I waited. His eyes darted to the grave.
“We would’ve talked business in front of Kevin before,” I said.
“Fair enough.” He pushed his toe in the gravel of the drive before catching himself and standing at attention. “Look here, they need a new ASAIC in Albany.”
I played along. “In charge of everything from western Vermont through Syracuse. That does sound glamorous. Anyone I know?”
“The powers that be like that I know the area,” he said modestly. “And it would make a whole lot of sense, careerwise, for me.”
“That’s great!” At a grave five plots over an older man jolted up, and I dropped my voice.
“Really,” I whispered. “Congratulations.”
He shrugged his shoulder, but a smile broke through. “Thank you kindly. I’m pleased.” He leaned in close. “But I’d like to talk to you about coming back in.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Me and the Bureau, we parted ways,” I stammered out. “They don’t want me.”
“Now then, don’t forget, you left them. Your service record is exemplary.”
“That would be . . .”
“Yes?”
“Wonderful,” I said.
He grinned broadly, the hard angles of his face dissolving.
“But,” I said, and Hale’s smile dimmed, “but I can’t. With Lucy, I can’t pick up and move every two years.”
“I see.” Hale squared his shoulders. “Roots are important.”
“That’s part of it. But even this current job, where nothing happens—”
Hale laughed.
“Where nothing usually happens,” I went on, “it wouldn’t be possible without my dad. Back in L.A., during big cases all my plants would die. What would happen to Lucy if I got transferred to Missouri? Or was on a stakeout for two weeks?”
“There’s administrative.”
“Hale, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I would prefer to roust drunks and go on calls for old ladies who heard a noise in the night than do paperwork.”
“Consulting?” he asked. He tugged at the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Just think on it. I need at least one ally up among the Yankees. And I’ll need to be introduced to all the hot spots.”
“I think you’ll need a different tour director.” I laughed. “The library is the only hot spot I know. Great kids’ section and a mastodon. They took the bones they found at the bottom of the falls in the 1870s, covered them in fake fur, and added eyes that follow you.”
“Well, that sounds very . . . educational.” Hale took a step onto the lawn, sinking a half inch into the mud. He hugged me, and I smelled clean dirt and the first hint of grass.
“Glad to have you back,” he said into my ear.
“Glad to be back.” I disentangled myself from the hug, unstuck my shoes from the ground, and walked toward the car. “But if I work for you, no hugs. Now I’ve got to go ice-skate. Someone pulled some strings for me, arranged for Lucy and me to have some private time. But I’ll see you in court if not before.”
“Count on it.” He winked. I blushed, much like I did all those years ago at Quantico.
Sitting in the car, I watched Hale lope over, stopping ten feet away from the grave. He squared his shoulders and walked the last few feet. Overhead, the sun was high in the sky. In my rearview, I saw him trace the rays that were carved in the headstone, like Lucy would.
Lucy was now slinging herself across the ice toward the exit. She still didn’t understand the concept of gliding and was frustrated by the distance between her and the hot chocolate. I was as excited as she was, the powdered variety somehow tasting better at an ice rink, but I chose a few more laps. Our time was almost up, and soon tinny pop music would be blaring and open skate starting up.
Jackie brought the chocolate, holding up two cups in victory and grinning before putting them on the bench next to the rink’s exit. She placed her hands on her lower back as she waddled toward the exit, a pose I remembered from when I was pregnant. Of course, I was eight months pregnant at the time and Jackie couldn’t be out of her first trimester. You couldn’t really tell exactly how pregnant she was under the maternity clothes she insisted on wearing.
“Thank you!” I called over my shoulder, picking up speed as I rolled into the turn. I cut through the air, no resistance. This was going to be the last go-round, and I wanted to make it good.
“My pleasure,” yelled Jackie. “I owe you my life! Me and the baby.”
I laughed as I whizzed past. I came out of the other turn and sped into the straightaway, wanting height as well as speed. My muscles anticipated the jump, and I was up and spinning. My lungs filled with air; I expanded.
I came out of the jump too far back on my blade. The first thing I learned in skating was how to fall safely. I landed on my butt and slowed to a halt, laughing.
“Mom, that was really high!” Lucy called. “Do it again.”
I got up and started another circuit around the rink. Maybe I did have another in me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I AM SO GRATEFUL TO my editor, Rachel Kahan, whose enthusiasm and brilliance challenged and encouraged me to write a better book, and who has been a tireless advocate. My publisher has been amazing, and I’d like to thank assistant editor Trish Daly, copy editor Brenda Woodward, production editor Lorie Young, and designer Jamie Kerner, as well as the stellar marketing and publicity group, including publicity director Danielle Bartlett, publicist Camille Collins, marketing director Kaitlin Harri, and the whole team at William Morrow.
Endless thanks go to my agent, Lisa Gallagher. Her wit, wisdom, and instincts for good storytelling, which she shared with me with such kindness, nurtured this book from its inception. I know, absolutely, that this couldn’t have happened without her.
Thanks to those who provided advice and expertise, including my writing group, Kate Curry, Nita Gill, Maggie King, Colleen Olle, and Carole Pollard, without whom I would have abused the word actually; my early readers, Lisa DeLange, John McEneny, Kristen Sunkes, and Michele Tepper; and my law enforcement reviewers, Frank Hagg and John Aspinwall, who helped me understand how police officers think, speak, and even walk. Any errors you find are all mine.
Upstate New York deserves special mention. I’m so proud to have been raised there, and it doesn’t deserve the pain and suffering I’ve inflicted upon it. Residents of the Capital District will no doubt be able to identify the fictional Hopewell Falls, but do know that the people and events are complete fiction.
Thank you to the relatives and friends who supported and encouraged me, including my mother, Maureen Kelly Cooley, and sisters, Bridget and Mary, as well as Vicky and David Baron, Jackie Dion, Michelle Ginthner, Megan Griffith, Rik Nicholson, Kathy Riggins, Deane Shokes, Daryl Sprehn, and so many others.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of upstate New York, M. P. COOLEY currently lives in Campbell, California. This is her first novel.
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CREDITS
Cover Design by Amanda Kain
Cover Photographs: Icicles © by Ettore Marzocchi / Getty Images;
Background © by David M. Schrader Author Photograph © by Craig Sherod Photography
Art on the title page and the chapter-opening pages © argus/Shutterstock, Inc.
COPYRIGHT
William Stafford, “Ask Me” from The Way It Is: New and Sele
cted Poems. Copyright © 1977, 1998 by William Stafford and the Estate of William Stafford. Reprinted with the permission of the Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ICE SHEAR. Copyright © 2014 by Martha Cooley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-230070-6
EPub Edition JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780062300713
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