by Gina Wilkins
“How old is he?”
“Eight. And a half, as he always points out.”
Emily ran a fingertip around the rim of her glass. “He’s your only child?”
“Yes. But he’s a fine one,” he added with a proud-papa grin.
She smiled. “I’m sure he is.”
Oliver coughed wheezily and rubbed his nose against one paw.
“Sounds like he’s got a cold coming on,” Wade commented.
Emily had a sudden clutch of panic. “If he gets sick...or worse...while Martha and Arthur Godwin are on their cruise...” She shuddered, not even wanting to think about that possibility.
Wade whipped his head around to stare at her. “This dog belongs to the Godwins?”
She nodded.
Wade seemed to struggle against a grin. And then he burst into a full-bodied laugh that made Emily smile in response. “Now that fits,” he said. “No wonder you’ve found yourself with this mutt on your hands. Who could say no to Martha Godwin?”
“I guess that’s one local citizen you’re getting to know quite well.”
“You could say so. She seems to be in my office every other day. I understand she’s usually in the mayor’s office on alternate days.”
“Martha likes to stay involved in the community,” Emily said, stifling a smile.
“She’s an...interesting woman.”
Emily glanced at Oliver. “Yes. She is.”
Wade glanced at his watch. Emily thought there was just a hint of reluctance in his voice when he said, “I suppose I’d better be going. I’m sure you have things to do.”
She didn’t, but she saw no need to tell him that. She set her tea glass on a coaster and rose. “You’ll let me know the status of your investigation, Chief Davenport?”
He nodded as he stood. “Of course. Try not to worry about it. But...er...you should probably stay in town until everything is settled.”
The words hit her like a slap in the face, though he’d obviously tried to phrase the instructions carefully. She’d been lulled into thinking of him as a friendly visitor. She’d forgotten that he still considered her a suspect in an embezzlement case. And his order for her not to go anywhere brought back that suffocating feeling of being trapped in this house, in this town.
She saw him to the door. He stood on the porch a moment, and she could tell that he was still assessing the place. She didn’t quite know how to feel about that, since she hadn’t yet actually shown the house to prospective buyers.
But this was what she wanted to do, she reminded herself. What she’d been wanting to do for years. It was only deep-seated nostalgia—and general annoyance with him—that was making her suddenly have to fight the urge to tell Wade Davenport that he could stop eyeing her house.
“Would you mind very much if I make an appointment to come back soon with the Realtor?” he asked, turning to her with that lazy smile that made her insides quiver in an oddly disturbing manner.
“No, of course not.” She hoped he wasn’t perceptive enough to notice that her own smile was patently false. “I would show you around now, but—”
He held up a hand, obviously a characteristic gesture for him. “No, I won’t put you to that trouble without notice this way. I’ll go through the regular channels. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me...Ms. McBride.”
Something in his deep drawl made the formal address seem more intimate than it should have. Or was her imagination getting away from her?
She wasn’t sure what to do or say. Falling back on deeply ingrained manners, she stuck out her right hand. “Good afternoon, Chief Davenport.”
His hand swallowed hers. His palm was roughened by hard work, and very warm against her chilled skin. And she felt her knees go shaky in reaction.
She’d never responded like this to a simple handshake. She couldn’t imagine what would happen if this man should ever kiss her....
What was she thinking? A kiss between her and the chief of police—a family man, she reminded herself—was never going to happen.
She removed her hand hastily from his. “Goodbye,” she said, and closed the door between them with somewhat more haste than courtesy.
WADE LOOKED at that closed door for a moment with a lifted eyebrow. And then he glanced down at his right hand, which still seemed to be tingling from contact with hers.
He was whistling between his teeth when he climbed into his Jeep and started the engine.
He would definitely be seeing Emily McBride again.
3
ALWAYS ON THE FIRST Saturday in October, the townspeople of Honoria gathered at Sidney Applegate Park for a festival to mark the symbolic end of summer. Hot dogs and hamburgers sizzled fragrantly on grills manned by city dignitaries. Vendors sold ice cream and sodas and snow cones. There was an antique-car show, and a cutest-pet show. Local merchants sponsored booths advertising their services with giveaway items. Amusement-park rides, games of chance, pony rides, a storytelling circle, and other attractions were set up for the children.
Emily had been “volunteered” to work the face-painting booth for a local civic club.
Several squirming children stood at her elbow as she put the finishing touches to a cluster of colorful balloons on a little girl’s chubby cheek. Emily had promised to work another half hour at this booth, and then she was taking a break—whether anyone replaced her or not, she thought firmly. She’d already supervised the beanbag-tossing game and she’d promised to help judge the baking contest later.
Just ask Emily, she thought wryly. The unofficial town motto. It should be emblazoned on the sign that marked the city limits of Honoria.
Five minutes before Emily’s shift ended, a little boy with blazing red hair and an adorably snub nose slipped into the metal chair in front of her. And then he just sat there, studying her solemnly.
“Would you like your face painted?” she asked him with a smile, struck by the gravity of his round blue eyes.
The boy nodded.
She showed him the chart that held the available designs. Balloons, hearts, rainbows, flowers, a few popular cartoon figures, smiley faces, Superman’s S and Batman’s bat symbol were among the choices. “Which one do you want?”
The little boy studied the chart closely, biting his lip, as if the decision was terribly important. Emily waited patiently.
Finally, the boy pointed to a picture. “That one,” he said in little more than a whisper.
The drawing he’d selected was a fat goldfish with blue bubbles rising from its smiling mouth. It would be the first of its kind that Emily had done, but the sketch looked simple enough. “All right. What’s your name?”
“Clay.”
“Do you like fish, Clay?” she asked, reaching for the paint pens.
He nodded.
“Do you have a goldfish?”
Another nod.
“What’s your fish’s name?”
“Moby.”
Emily smiled. “That’s very cute.”
“He’s named after a whale in a book,” the child volunteered. “My daddy told me about him.”
Emily traced the outline of the cartoon fish on the boy’s impossibly soft cheek. “Yes, I’ve heard of Moby Dick, the white whale in the story.”
“My daddy said the whale was ferocious. But my Moby’s a nice fish.”
Emily was amused at the child’s mature manner. What a sweetheart. “Is your Moby all gold or does he have spots?” she asked, thinking she’d make the cartoon fish as close to his pet as possible without seeing it.
“He’s orange. All orange.”
“I see.” Emily reached for the orange paint pen.
“I’m here to relieve you, Emily,” a young woman said, setting her purse on the table at Emily’s elbow.
“Thanks, Grace. Let me finish this one, and then I’ll get out of your way.”
“You’re lookin’ good, Sparky,” Grace said, studying the little boy’s partially painted cheek.
He blinked.
“My name’s not Sparky. It’s Clay.”
Emily laughed. “That’s okay, Clay. She calls all the guys ‘Sparky.’”
“Only the cute ones,” Grace said flippantly.
Emily drew a trail of tiny blue bubbles around the happy-looking fish, then leaned back to admire her work. “It does look good, if I do say so myself. Want to see it, Clay?”
He nodded eagerly. She gave him a hand mirror.
Clay peered into the glass, then broke into a broad grin that warmed Emily’s heart. “It looks just like Moby!”
Emily loved children. All children. She had actually enjoyed her stint at the face-painting booth, and had been amused by all the little ones she’d chatted with that afternoon. But this child touched her in a special way. There was something about that grave little face of his... or maybe that heartbreaker smile.
“Hey, pal. Looks like you’re all decorated.”
Emily looked quickly over her shoulder in response to the familiar male voice coming from behind her. Chief of Police Wade Davenport stood close by, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of the faded jeans he wore with a khaki police-uniform shirt. It was the first time she’d seen him since he’d stopped by her house last Sunday.
The bright sun reflected from the badge he wore on his chest. He wasn’t wearing a weapon, only a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, but he looked tough and official, nevertheless—except for the softness in his eyes when he smiled at young Clay.
This adorable little boy was the police chief’s son? Confirming her startled realization, the child said, “Daddy, look what this lady painted on my face. It’s Moby!”
“Well, it sure is. Looks just like him.”
Clay beamed.
Suddenly self-conscious, Emily stood to allow Grace to take over her spot, and the line of increasingly restless children waiting to be painted. Her movement drew Wade’s attention.
He smiled at her. “Afternoon, Ms. McBride,” he drawled.
“Chief Davenport,” she responded with a slight nod of her head.
Grace grinned irreverently as she slid into the seat Emily had vacated. “Want your face painted, Sparky?” she asked the police chief. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
“I think I’ll pass,” he answered good-naturedly. “But thanks for the offer.”
Emily thought that Grace’s expression offered a lot more than a cheek painting, but Wade seemed oblivious to the implications.
“Is your shift over?” he asked Emily, falling into step beside her as she walked away from the booth.
She nodded. “I’ve been sitting there so long that I need to walk around a bit.”
His little hand swallowed in his father’s much bigger one, Clay peered up at Emily through his long, curling lashes. “You could walk with us,” he suggested, his expression shy.
“Well, I—”
“Actually,” Wade said, breaking into Emily’s intended polite refusal, “you could do us a favor, Ms. McBride. If you don’t mind Ferris wheels, that is.”
She lifted an eyebrow. Had the police chief already figured out the unwritten town motto? “What do you mean?”
Wade’s expression turned sheepish. “Clay, here, has been begging me to take him on the Ferris wheel. I—er—wondered if you’d mind riding it with him. Unless heights bother you, of course,” he added hastily.
“I love the Ferris wheel,” Emily replied with a quick smile at the boy, who gazed up at her hopefully. “I’d be happy to ride with you, Clay.”
“Really?” He looked delighted. “I’ve been wishing and wishing to ride it, but Daddy’s scared.”
Wade’s cheeks were a shade darker when Emily shot him a surprised look. “I—er—sorta have this thing about heights,” he admitted. “I can deal with it if I have to, but it’s not something I choose to do for fun.”
Emily might have teased him about it had Clay not been there. But she wouldn’t say anything to embarrass him in front of his obviously adoring son.
She was rather startled when Clay slid his free hand into hers, linking the three of them as they strolled along the crowded sidewalk. Emily was uncomfortably aware that she’d immediately become the object of speculation by the townspeople who noticed them, but she had no intention of rejecting the child’s friendly gesture. Putting potential gossip out of her head as best as she could, she smiled down at the boy and lightly squeezed his fingers.
It was unseasonably warm in the park, with the afternoon sun blazing overhead and the crowds bumping elbows on the sidewalk. Emily was glad she’d dressed coolly in a loose-fitting denim scoop-neck dress and leather sandals. Though schools had been open for a month and Halloween was only weeks away, summer heat still had a strong hold on Honoria.
The pet show had apparently just ended. Several dogs on leashes, from pedigreed champions to lovably homely mutts, were led past them. Emily couldn’t help smiling at a slightly overweight boxer that seemed to wear a permanent grin on his ugly face. She didn’t know if he’d won any awards for being cute, but he was certainly appealing in his own way.
And then a woman walked past with a glossy red chicken in her arms. The chicken wore a blue mesh collar with an attached leash, and was looking around as if it thoroughly enjoyed the surrounding festivities. Emily blinked, then looked automatically at Wade, who was grinning broadly as he unwrapped a stick of gum.
“Was that a chicken on a leash?” he asked.
“Yes, I believe it was,” she replied just as gravely.
“So just where would one buy a collar and leash for a chicken?”
“At a chicken-and-dressing store,” Clay said with a giggle.
“Now that’s just sick,” Wade said, his smile deepening.
Emily laughed, thinking that it was a very clever joke from such a little boy.
“There’s the Ferris wheel!” Bouncing in excitement, Clay pointed upward.
Wade looked up, and Emily would have sworn he paled. “You’re—uh—sure you want to do this, Clay?”
Clay nodded emphatically. “I want to see the park from up there.”
“He’ll be fine,” Emily said reassuringly. “We’ll be strapped in, and I’ll hold on to him.”
Wade looked at Emily, his expression suddenly speculative. “Maybe I should reconsider riding it. Would you hold on to me, too?”
She gulped as she realized that the chief of police had just made a not-so-subtle verbal pass at her. “I—uh—”
And then he laughed. She told herself he must have been teasing. The chief apparently had an odd sense of humor.
She was relieved when he turned away from her to step up to the window of the ticket booth. “Two tickets for the Ferris wheel, please,” he requested.
Tickets in hand, Emily and Clay moved to the back of the line waiting to ride. A man with a graying braid and a beer belly under his T-shirt stood in line in front of them. Emily was startled to realize that the man was carrying a live green parrot on his shoulder.
“Clay, look,” she said.
At the sound of her voice, the man turned and grinned down at Clay. “How ya’ doin’?”
“You have a parrot on your shoulder!” Clay said, his blue eyes very round.
Looking comically startled, the man turned his head. “Well, danged if I don’t.”
Emily laughed. She had just read the wording on the guy’s T-shirt. “Happiness is biting my parrot back.” Wade, she suspected, would call it sick. But funny.
“Is your parrot going to ride the Ferris wheel?” Clay asked curiously.
“Oh, yeah. He loves the rides. ’Specially the merry-go-round.”
“What’s his name?”
“Vincent. And I’m Gus. What’s your handle?”
Clay looked confused.
“He means your name,” Emily prompted.
“Oh. My name’s Clay.”
Gus eyed the boy’s face. “Hey, Clay. Did you know you’ve got a fish on your cheek?”
“Well, danged if I don’t,” Clay said, and then gigg
led.
This, Emily thought, was a seriously cute little boy.
Gus was still laughing when he turned to get onto the Ferris wheel with his parrot. Emily and Clay were ushered to the next available seat.
Minutes later they were climbing high in the air. With the safety belt fastened snugly around his waist and Emily’s hand clamped just as tightly on his shoulder, Clay looked down in delight as his father got smaller and smaller below them.
“Daddy looks so little from up here. And look at the cars in the parking lot. They look like my Hot Wheels toys.”
Pleased with the child’s enthusiasm, Emily tried to respond to his excited comments whenever he gave her a chance to speak. To the boy’s further delight, they stopped at the very top of the ride, where the car rocked gently while riders at the bottom were unloaded.
“Look at Daddy,” Clay said, leaning as far over the safety rail as his seat belt and Emily’s hand would let him.
Emily had been watching Wade Davenport since the ride had begun. And she was all too aware that he’d been watching her, too.
Or rather, he’d been watching his son, she corrected herself carefully. Wade certainly had no particular interest in her, other than as a suspect in an embezzlement case. Even if he had—jokingly, she was sure—made a pass at her.
Clay’s painted face was radiant when the ride came to an end. “That was so cool. Thank you, Ms. McBride.”
“You’re very welcome. I enjoyed it, too. And why don’t you call me Emily?” she suggested, feeling as if she’d made a new friend.
“Okay, Miss Emily,” Clay said contentedly, proving that her new friend was most definitely a child of the Old South.
They held hands as they wound their way through the crowds and back to where Wade waited for them. Clay released Emily and dashed to his father’s side, telling him all about how his stomach had fluttered when the ride revolved and how tiny everything had looked from so high in the air.
Wade glanced at Emily with a wry smile. “The boy’s easily entertained.”
“The boy is delightful,” she assured him. “We had a great time.”
“Did you thank Ms. McBride for taking you on the ride?” Wade prompted his son.