by Jayne Denker
“Walter?” he prompted.
The whip-thin man also crossed his arms, so scrawny they looked like they were floating in the vast space of his short-sleeved dress shirt, and adjusted his tie, round glasses glinting in the morning sunlight. “Simple, Will. I caught her shoplifting.”
“I was not—”
“Jordan, what did I say? You’ll have your turn in a minute.” They both needed to keep their cool. He didn’t want to take anyone into custody. He really didn’t. “Go on, Walter.”
“She picked up this tabloid from this rack here.” He shook the magazine dramatically and indicated the display a couple of feet away from the doorway. “And—”
“Did I walk away with it? Did I?”
“You were about to!”
“You can read minds, now?”
“All right!” Will barked, louder than the both of them. When they were silent, he said, “Jordan, obviously I’m not going to be able to keep you quiet, so go ahead.”
She shot him a glare before stating, “I was going to go into the market to buy some food. But I stopped to check that magazine, because Celia’s on the cover.”
“Is she really?” Mrs. P exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling another copy off the rack. “Ooh, look at that. Doesn’t she look lovely! ‘The Small-Town Girl Who Stole Celeb Playboy Niall Crenshaw’s Heart.’ So exciting!”
As she flipped the pages to get to the story, Will caught a glimpse of the cover—a photo of Jordan’s cousin and her boyfriend, the actor who’d hosted the town’s singing competition in August. From what he’d heard, they were in California now, where he was filming his latest movie.
“Okay, see?” Jordan burst out. “Mrs. P is doing the same thing I was, and you’re not trying to get her busted for shoplifting!”
“Jordan,” Will said in his best warning tone. She stopped. It obviously took effort, but she stopped. “Walter, did you see Jordan walk away from the store with the magazine?”
“Yes!”
“How far?”
“Well, she kind of . . . turned and took a step or two . . .”
“It’s called pacing,” Jordan exclaimed. “I went that way and then came back. I was going to bring it into the store and add it to the other stuff I was going to buy. You know, like groceries? Now you can forget it. I wouldn’t set foot in your store if you gave me everything for free. I’m getting my stuff at Walmart.”
The small crowd watching the show gave a collective horrified gasp.
“What’s wrong with Walmart?” Jordan snapped, looking around at them all.
“Nothing,” Will said, “but you know everyone around here supports Main Street businesses.”
“No way I’m doing that if they’re all going to treat me like a common criminal.”
“I wonder why,” the shop owner sneered, pointing at Jordan’s ankle. “Or is that thing the newest fashion statement?”
“Screw you, dude—”
“Okay, we’re done here,” Will interrupted. “Walter, since Jordan didn’t actually leave the premises with the magazine, I can’t really bust her for shoplifting.”
“But—”
“And if you’re so worried about these things disappearing, put the racks inside. Jordan, come with me.”
“Will—!” she protested, hanging back as he took her by the elbow.
“It’s done. You’re fine. Let’s just go, all right?”
“Just . . . give me a second.”
“No violence.”
“Oh, gimme a break.” She dug in her pants pocket and came up with a few crumpled bills, which she threw Walter’s way. “Here. For all the nail polish and bubble gum from fifteen years ago. We’re square now. Happy?”
Walter most definitely did not look happy, but he did pick up the money from the sidewalk.
Will led Jordan a few steps away, gently nudging her past the townspeople still hanging around, hoping for more drama, before he turned to her, concerned. “Do you need food?”
Jordan made a scoffing noise as she hunched and unhunched her shoulders, looking for all the world as though she were trying to shake off what had just happened. “Please. You’re acting like I’m broke and homeless. I’m neither, okay? It’s just that Gran’s kitchen is totally empty. We cleared out everything when we put the house up for sale last month. I just need to stock up on some food. Too bad Walter has a long memory.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“God, no. The sight of me in a cop car? That’s all this town needs. Besides, this piece of jewelry only chafes a little bit. I can still walk, you know.”
“If you need anything . . .”
“Stop it, Winthrop. I’m fine.”
He shook his head in amazement. Back to using dorky names in place of his real one already? Apparently she recovered quickly. “I’ll take you at your word for now. But you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Don’t forget, you’re my responsibility.”
“Yeah, yeah. Chief Zoë said so. I get it.”
“Give me your phone.”
“You’re confiscating my personal property?”
“I’m going to put my phone number in it. In case you need to call me for anything.”
“Anything?” she repeated suggestively as she pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it to him.
“Stop it,” he growled, tapping on the screen. Once he’d entered his information, he called his phone from hers to get her number, then handed the device back. “Now you’re free to go.”
She pocketed her phone again and turned away, waving over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Officer.”
“Jordan!” he called after her. When she glanced back, he paused. What did he want to say? A lot of things. Don’t antagonize the townspeople. Don’t jeopardize your legal situation. Take care of yourself. Ask for help if you need it. Don’t be so proud . . . Don’t be like your parents. Nothing that would ever pass his lips. All he said was, “Keep your nose clean, all right?”
She actually smiled a little. “Hey, you just make sure these jokers mind their own business.”
“I mean don’t give them anything to latch onto.”
“Why is it my job?”
“Because you’re the one with the criminal record.”
Chapter 4
This was a mistake. A huge, huge, mega, jumbo mistake. A Costco-sized mistake.
Jordan squinted against the morning light seeping through the curtains in the front bedroom—the one she considered hers, even though she’d only stayed with her grandmother intermittently—and burrowed deeper under the bedclothes. She didn’t want to get up and, fortunately or unfortunately, she didn’t really have to. Because she had nowhere to go and nothing to do. For five freakin’ weeks. Well, four now. But still.
God, she hated this town. The only good thing was her grandmother, Holland Leigh—a woman she idolized for her toughness, her frankness, her sheer bullheadedness, and the fact that she could hold her liquor better than a man one quarter her age and twice her size. Gran understood her. Gran always made her feel welcome, made her feel loved. But now Gran was at the senior home nearly an hour away, still whooping it up as she always did, but grappling with the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She’d accepted that it was the best place for her and had gone willingly . . . after she was able to snag a condo big enough for two and move her boyfriend, Mac, in with her. Jordan accepted it as well, but it didn’t make moving in to Holly’s old house, half-empty and cold, with a “for sale” sign in the front yard, any easier.
She’d thought it wouldn’t be a big deal, serving out her house arrest in Marsden, even without her grandmother around. Holly had promised the judge by phone that she’d keep an eye on Jordan, a little lie the two of them had concocted. Holly had had no intention of babysitting her grown granddaughter; she trusted Jordan to look after herself better than the justice system did. Besides, what trouble could she get into, with a thing on her leg that only allowed her to go ten miles in any direction? Around here,
it’d take her no farther than . . . well, Whalen, that scuzz-bucket town. And what in the world would she want to go there for? It was worse than Marsden.
Nope, she was well and truly trapped. And for weeks. Weeks. With no company, nothing to do . . . nobody to do . . . Not that she was looking for anything meaningful, but a little distraction might be nice.
Too bad there weren’t too many options in Marsden for that kind of thing.
In fact, she couldn’t even think of one.
Well...
Nope, not one, she told herself. Definitely not. Especially not the one she’d come to call her shadow. She hadn’t spoken to Will since her bit of shoplifting street theater. She wasn’t proud that she’d given Marsden the opportunity to start judging her all over again—on her first day back no less—and she’d vowed to hide out since then. No funny business. She’d been successful so far, yet Will had been there, on the periphery, all the same. Driving past the house at least once a day, usually more frequently. Turning up on Main Street when she’d dared to go for a walk to add some variety to her day. Never saying anything. Just . . . observing.
It made her want to lift her t-shirt and bra—on the occasion that she was wearing one—and flash him. But that’d get her in trouble, and she couldn’t afford that right now. Sometimes, though, she thought it would be worth it. There was nothing cuter than Will Nash with a flushed face.
Before she allowed her mind to wander down that unfortunate, mine-laden path, she pushed off the covers, forced herself out of bed, and pulled on a tattered hoodie. The mornings were definitely cooler, verging on downright cold, as October crept in, but she still had her coffee on the front porch every morning. For the fresh air, she told herself. Not because she thought she’d seen Will jogging by one day.
It was a relief that her phone rang just at that moment; apparently she needed a distraction to stop her mind wandering, because she couldn’t stop it herself. “Hi, Aunt Wendy.”
“Good morning, sunshine. How are you doing?”
“Couldn’t be better.” She leaned on the kitchen counter and stared intently at the coffeemaker, willing it to finish its last lingering dribbles so she could get going on the whole caffeine thing. It was the only vice she was allowed for now, and she cherished it.
“Good, good.”
Jordan knew Wendy was only half listening; it was what she did to everybody, a side effect of having gotten into the habit of tuning out her husband, Alan Marshall. Uncle Alan wasn’t a bad guy, but he sure did love to hear himself talk. A lot. How her cousin Celia, one of the sweetest people on earth, had been produced from these two was one of the mysteries of the universe.
“What are you up to today, dear?”
“Dunno. Skinning some puppies, probably.”
“Good, good,” came the answer in Wendy’s vague, airy voice. “It’s nice to have a hobby.” Then, a little more focused, “Wait. What?”
Allowing herself a little laugh, Jordan held her phone to her ear with her shoulder and poured her first cup of coffee. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure you’re all right there all alone? Your uncle and I worry.”
Not enough to come down from their mountain retreat or alter their schedule to check on their niece, but it was nice of her to say, all the same. “I’m fine. I sit, I watch daytime TV, I kill my phone battery playing stupid games, I rattle my tin cup against the bars, I scratch a mark into the newel post for every day I survive in the hole.”
Wendy ignored all of that. “If you’re not doing anything today, you’re welcome to come golfing with me and Uncle Alan. But I’m not sure it’s your kind of thing.”
Jordan suspected Wendy knew darn right well it wasn’t her kind of thing, and she wasn’t sure if her aunt was being nice to try to include her anyway, or if it was a clever ploy to make sure her niece would turn her down. Either way, she had no intention of going, even though the golf course was within her allowed radius. She pushed open the screen door and plopped onto the ancient wicker loveseat on the porch, resting her coffee cup on her propped-up knee. “Thanks for the invite, but I think I’ll pass.”
“If you think it’s best. Do you need anything else from the garage?”
“Nah, I’m good, Aunt Wendy.”
Jordan had reclaimed only a few of Holly’s old housewares and electronics from the vast amount of stuff Uncle Alan and Aunt Wendy were storing at their house until they could sell it off. If there was one thing she was capable of, it was living simply, so the sparsely furnished house didn’t bother her.
She hung up with Wendy and went back inside to get more coffee. There was only a bit of furniture left behind. Her aunt and uncle reasoned it made the house look a little more lived in, less sad, while they tried to sell it. There hadn’t been much interest yet—Marsden was a tough real estate market, because the town wasn’t really close to anything. If you were here, you were staying here, not commuting. The only people who’d be interested in Holly’s place were longtime residents interested in “trading up” to the cute house on a leafy lane or artists who wanted to move to the area for the magic “vibe” the place gave off—ethereal remnants of the continual production of art, in all its forms, since the town had been established as an artists’ colony in the 1800s.
So far, however, no locals with a sudden influx of cash to spend on a new house showed up, and the artist population was decreasing as the temperature dropped. Once winter set in, it was all locals, all the time, hunkered down in the Catskill town until the thaw. The artists returned in the spring (barring any surprise snowstorms, of course, which had been known to happen . . . in May), followed by the tourists and art buyers in June.
Jordan was very happy that she would be nowhere near Marsden once the snow started to fly; she certainly didn’t need to trade one kind of imprisonment for another. Nope, the plan was to complete her sentence and then hit the road. And go where, she had no idea. She just couldn’t stay here.
She fetched a second dose of caffeine and went back onto the porch. Even though she felt like an old timer sitting there in the chilly air, watching the neighborhood (not that there was any activity, except a restless retiree across the street raking the few yellow leaves that had drifted onto the grass in the first stages of autumn), she had realized that morning television was poison, so this was the better option.
Wait. Suddenly it was a way better option. She sat up and craned her neck, but then forced herself to adopt her usual relaxed pose and squinted over the rim of her mug at the approaching figure. She hadn’t been seeing things the other day; Will Nash actually had put her on his jogging route. Here he was again.
As he drew closer, she could see the sweat stains on his heather gray t-shirt, his dark hair matted on his forehead and temples, the movement of his leg muscles—oh, baby—where his blue athletic shorts ended, the MP3 player or heart monitor or whatever device he had secured to his bicep. Good grief, the bicep. Oh look, he had a pair of them. Weren’t they nice?
Lord, she was staring. But Will didn’t notice; he was concentrating on his pace, focused only on the sidewalk ahead of him. Until he drew level with Holly’s property. As he passed the house, his eyes cut over to her. Briefly. Just once.
Jordan was proud she had the wherewithal to raise her mug in greeting but not move another muscle. Will nodded, the briefest of acknowledgments.
And then he was gone.
That was it.
She resisted the urge to stand up to catch a glimpse of Will’s departing backside. She had her pride, after all . . .
She nearly tripped over her own feet in her mad dash to the far end of the porch, but by the time she got there, the street was empty. He was long gone. She wondered if Will was the type of jogger who ran a circular route or a linear one. Would he turn around at some point and come back the same way? Good God, stop. There had to be something else to occupy her time besides ogling Will Nash in sweaty workout gear . . . right?
Then she saw a movement at the base of the jun
iper bushes that grew monstrously wild below the porch railing. A picklepuss of an orange tabby squinted up at her from where it crouched, looking for all the world as if it was accusing her of distracting him while he was on the job.
“Ooh, sorry,” she whispered to the cat. “You hunting? Wait—does my grandmother have mice? You got a particular rodent in your sights, or are you just hoping?”
The cat blinked its yellow eyes at her.
“Hey,” she said, a little louder, “are you hungry? Want some breakfast? Or do you have someplace to be?”
Blink. Then a lightning shift to the bathing position. Jordan got the feeling the cat was listening but pretending to be busy cleaning the back of its paw. She knew the move. Hell, she’d practically invented the human version.
“I see you haven’t run off yet. That’s gotta mean something. Want some tuna? You could use some food that doesn’t have to be chased down and disemboweled, and I could use the company.”
The tabby shook out its paw, then rubbed its ear.
“Playing hard to get, eh? That’s okay. I’ll get you a plate anyway, just in case.”
And Jordan happily focused on feeding the hungry feline. Much more sensible than waiting for that hottie police officer to come by again.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
Chapter 5
A hundred yards. That’s all it was. Normally the short distance that separated Will from the rest of the Nash family was enough to ensure some peace and quiet. Today it wasn’t. Today it was too easy for one of his brothers to come find him and irritate the hell out of him merely by knocking on his door.
Whamwhamwham.
He ignored it, stayed stretched out on the end of his bed, arms overhead, feet flat on the floor—where he’d been for the past ten minutes, although he knew he hadn’t done enough post-run stretching and really needed to be in the shower right now.
Whamwhamwham.