Alex leaned back into the car. “Audra and Ginny are quite capable. They’ll take care of Norma while I feed you. I’ll have you back in half an hour. Well.” He glanced at the plain, red-brick exterior of the Twelfth Street building. “Forty-five minutes. Come on.” He proffered a hand. “We’ll declare a truce for the night. Just smelling Rosie Andelaro’s sauce is enough to make me hungry and I had lunch. I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”
He leaned back into the car and covered her chilled hand with his. For a long moment they stayed that way, hands clasped, eyes locked, while rain beat against Alex’s back. His eyes dropped from her gaze to her mouth and lingered there one beat. Then two.
“You’re getting soaked.” Her voice was a whisper, a faint image of the tough-girl persona she wore so well. A different image, altogether. Alex gave her hand a quick squeeze, then shrugged out of the car, closed his door, and headed for the entrance in no particular hurry, half-hoping she’d follow.
The other half?
That half wanted to ignore her completely, let her cry, whine, stomp her feet, whatever it was that snippy, big-city cops did when their world went out of whack. He didn’t want to care, didn’t want to sympathize, didn’t want to notice how vulnerable she looked when sad or angry.
That last had him wondering what put that look of susceptibility in her eyes, the occasional hint of weakness he sensed at odd moments.
Or who.
Watching her exit the car, a whole new thought broached Alex’s sensibilities, a thought he didn’t like and wanted to dismiss as total nonsense, and he would, if it didn’t seem to fit the minor quirks he recognized.
As she strode his way, her face determined if not openly hostile, he shrugged the thought aside as unlikely if not absolutely impossible. Tough girls like Cress didn’t get themselves mixed up with low-life guys who sucked the life out of them before smacking them around. Did they?
“This place have good food?”
She was ignoring the moment in the car, just like him, those few seconds of skin-to-skin contact that made him oblivious to the rain beating against his back. He nodded. “Excellent. And reasonable.”
“That’s unfortunate.” At his hiked brow she moved past him, into the small, shadowed foyer. “I like costing you a pretty penny, Westmore. Makes me feel like I’m getting some of Gran’s investment back in trade.”
“Then you better be real hungry,” he shot back, wondering why on earth he’d ever seen her as sympathetic, “because it would take a whole lot of Rosie’s pasta to even begin to make a dent.”
*
It felt like a date.
Which was ridiculous because Alex Westmore ranked about dead last on her list of available creatures to cuddle, right there with the sharp-toothed opossum who liked to eat the barn cats’ food every night.
But the quiet room, the soft background voice of “Old Blue Eyes” singing of love and loss, the yellow-globed, antique-style lighting gave a sheen of romance to the moment. A sheen she brushed off as preposterous, but when the middle-aged waitress brought them a basket of fresh, warm bread ready to dip in seasoned oil, the combination of scent and song teased those romantic senses to life once more.
“There is nothing on earth better than Rosie’s fresh bread.” Alex broke a piece from the crusty loaf, dipped it and held it out to her. “Try this. Please.”
Accepting food from him made it seem even more like a date. And she was perfectly capable of getting her own bread, for pity’s sake, but his offering hung between them like a peace pipe. An entreaty toward good will. Is this how he got Gran to sign off on the land? Sweet-talking her while wining and dining her to see things his way? And would he answer if asked?
Probably not, but maybe if she played along… She accepted the bread and took a bite, ready to casually delve, but the burst of flavor and texture in her mouth changed her course of action. “This is beyond amazing.”
Alex grinned as he savored a chunk across from her. “Told you so.”
“You must eat here often.”
He leaned forward as if reading her mind. “Not as often as you’re assuming, and usually with my mother and Maggie. If you’ve got questions, Cress, ask ‘em. But your grandmother’s land deal is off the table. Client privilege, and I know you’ll respect that. But my dating life?” His smile said she could ask away. “Go for it.”
“Not a bit interested, but thanks, Counselor.” Funny. Saying she wasn’t interested made her more interested. Why was that? What was it about Alex Westmore that made her wonder about his personal life? His taste in music, in sports, in women?
“How about you?”
He asked the question casually. Too casually. As if he knew something— or suspected something— and thought easy conversation would draw her in.
The guy’s making conversation, and being nice. Lighten up. Not everyone is on an informational-gathering mission. “Me? Not dating anyone at present.” She directed a quick look to her leg. “Nor planning to. My current goal is to help Gran and heal. And I recently added a kind of sad, lame horse at Audra’s place to my agenda. He’s my emotional therapy while the P.T. center plagues me with pain-inducing physical therapy.”
“Emotional therapy for?”
He zeroed in on her phrase, inviting more, and a part of Cress wanted to open up to him. Talk to him. Detective instinct said Alex Westmore might understand her actions and not think she was the stupidest creature on the planet, but a buzz of his cell phone reminded her who he was. What he’d done. And so she waited as he silenced the phone, then shrugged. “When a cop takes a bullet, they feel stupid. What-if’s run through your head. Working with the horse helps me sort the stupid from the inevitable.”
“You take the blame on yourself for getting shot?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Wasn’t the perp a three-time offender who got out on a technicality the last time?”
“You’ve done your homework.” She chunked off another piece of bread, dipped it and took a slow, mouth-watering bite, choosing her words. “I work with a great partner. A good guy, salt-of-the-earth wonderful. When your actions or inactions threaten others, you question them. So my what-ifs center around what might have happened to Carl.”
“But nothing did. You took a bullet from a long-time bad guy run amok. How is this possibly your fault, Cress?”
His heartening tone made her feel better about herself. From where Alex was sitting, it all looked mathematically simple. Her side of the table?
Cress knew the truth. She’d been roughed up the day before and her head wasn’t in her game. Logistics grew more complex when human quotients got thrown into the mix. Still, Alex’s gaze, his words, made her feel better. “Cops can’t afford mistakes. Mine could have cost one or both of us our lives. That’s not an easy scenario to live with.”
He sat back, and his look of appraisal said she’d surprised him. She leaned in and met his gaze. “Alex, the cops who hurt your father and dumped him over the county line were pigs. They weren’t real cops, the ones who offer their safety and protection daily. They were low-lifes who thought roughing up a drunk Mexican was okay. It wasn’t. And I hate that they got off with nothing in the end, a slap on the wrist but no real consequences. But I’ve been a cop for over ten years now, and I can tell you that ninety-nine percent of us are good. And most of us aren’t afraid to have that other one percent weeded out.”
“My father wasn’t a good man.”
She knew this. The whole town knew it, but hearing Alex say the words painted a picture for the detective side of her. A mother, at wit’s end, seeking refuge in a dingy, low-rent apartment, raising two boys on meager earnings. A father, ill-tempered and often drunk, a growing annoyance in a town that prided itself on strength, heritage and sweetness. Hector Diaz Westmore wasn’t the Mayberry image of a town drunk, humorous, sweet and docile. He was a village enigma from multiple directions, an outcast skimming the limits of the law, a man whose death spawned change and animosity among neighbors and friends.
“He was everything they said he was.” Alex’s face said nothing of the tough emotions roiling within, but his eyes? She glimpsed the little boy lost in his eyes and her heart ached for boy and man. “A rough guy who wasn’t afraid to be mean to others. A drunk. And a big mouth that got bigger and more stupid when he was drinking, which was most of the time.”
“But—”
“But he didn’t deserve to die in a ditch,” he finished the thought for her. “The legal system offers steps they could have taken, but instead they chose a “good old boy” mentality and managed to kill a man.” He stared off to the left for long, quiet seconds, then made a face of chagrin. “And no one did a thing about it.”
“I’m sorry.” And she was.
He grimaced and his expression said he hadn’t meant to get into all of that. Her, either. But since they had— “Here’s the up side of crappy childhood drama, Counselor. We survived.” She reached out and put her hand atop his this time, and locked gazes with him. “We not only survived, we’ve thrived in many ways. So we’ve got baggage?” She shrugged, removed her hand as the waitress brought by their mixed green salads and arched a brow. “Who doesn’t? But we’ve learned to take charge and move on, and that’s a skill to be proud of these days. We don’t need reality TV or Hollywood personality-style counseling. We’ve done it all ourselves, and that’s something to write home about.”
“You’re right, of course. And cute. And smart, although on my end I’ve gotta hand some major league credit to God. I stumbled into him when I was on a real bent for revenge and retribution. He managed to save me from being a total jerk. And just so you know, my mother and brother are quite grateful.”
“Conversion of the heart.” She appraised him openly, skeptical. “Do tell.”
“Heart and soul, very Scrooge-like,” he admitted. “Or maybe the Grinch would be a better analogy. Anyway, it saved me a lot of stupid, old angst.”
His words trickled into her heart.
Her relationship with her father dogged her. Old anger over years lost, time gone, feeling abandoned by someone who should love her most. In their case, the man who should love all four children the most. Instead they’d had to deal with three years of alcoholic depression, three years she could never get back. “So. Was it simple? This conversion of yours? You know, lightning bolts, crashes of thunder, instant understanding of the powers that be?”
He stopped. Studied her. Then the tiny muscle on the left side of his jaw tweaked slightly. “Naw. I just hated the face I saw in the mirror and knew the only person who could change that was me. So I did. But God helped. We’ve been on a first-name basis ever since.”
He didn’t proselytize. If he had, she’d have turned him off quicker than a sprinkler in a rainstorm.
He offered the statement with a casual ease she envied and respected. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been spontaneous and heartfelt. Alex’s simple declaration said more than years of ignored catechism. He spoke to her heart, as if expecting her to understand. She didn’t. Never had. But a tiny part of her longed to do just that.
“Are you going to Audra’s often?”
A change of subject. A good turn. “I’m going to try to get there twice a day when I don’t have P.T. Ginny and Mary Jenks are planning to come and do their knitting in the living room.”
“Your grandmother hates knitting.”
Cress grinned. “She does, but she’ll deal with it to have their company. And who knows? Maybe they’ll get her to pick up a crochet hook or a needle before they’re done.”
“Powers of persuasion at work. How’s your lasagna?”
“The best I’ve ever had,” she confessed. “Alex, thank you for suggesting this. It’s been,” she glanced around the small restaurant and smiled softly. “Real nice.”
“I concur. The setting, the food and the company.” He raised a glass of sweet tea in her honor. He’d taken her lead. When she refused the waitress’s offer of wine, he’d done the same. Was that because of her? Or because of his family history? She wasn’t sure, but she appreciated the gesture. “To new times, second chances and moving on.”
Moving on? To where and what?
She had no idea, but right now the animosity she’d piled up against Alex Westmore seemed to dissipate daily. Was that good? Bad? Stupid? She wasn’t sure, but today? Tonight? It felt good and for the moment she was going to roll with that.
Chapter Eight
Cress crossed Audra’s dew-soaked pasture, pretending she was on a mission to the barn. The rain had stopped late-evening, and the overnight temps had fallen sharply. Not quite to frost levels, but cold enough to foretell the change of seasons. She stopped, mid-field, letting her gaze wander, careful not to make eye contact with the shy horse.
The mares padded to her side, looking for handouts. Cress didn’t disappoint them. Crooning, she reassured the girls, heightening her voice just enough for the gelding to hear from his position near the fence. He perked one ear, took a tentative step forward, then skittered back, nostrils wide.
Cress kept her attention focused on the amiable mares. “He wants some, doesn’t he ladies? Sure he does, he’s just a little too chicken to head over here, but his curiosity is piqued. Yes it is. Yes it is.” The Appaloosa nodded total understanding while the bay gave Cress a look of impatience, brushing off the gelding’s idiosyncrasies as his loss, their gain.
Cress grinned. “You and I have something in common, girl.” Smoothing her hand over the horse’s head and flank, she stayed in the pasture a good thirty minutes, giving the group time to acclimate to her sound, her scent, her presence. When her cell phone alarm told her time was up, a wash of reluctance swept her, wishing she could elongate the visit. For a short while she’d felt relaxed and worry-free, perfectly composed, at home with the scent of morning chill, damp grass, fresh hay and horse. The feeling brought back memories of Grandpa and the farm, long days roaming the wide expanse of acreage and animals. Horses and cows, housed together or separately. Flocks of laying hens and a separate group of meat birds covered by a know-it-all rooster. She’d fled to that setting often, letting the naturalness soak into her bones.
She’d lost her mother to ovarian cancer, then her father to grief and the bottle. Nestling in at the farm let her pretend to be normal, for just a little while, during those crazy middle-school years when blending seemed crucial. Nothing about Cress’s life blended then, and she wasn’t doing a very good job of blending now.
When did life get so complicated? She whispered a farewell to the mares and offered an easy nod to the shy guy. When did I mess things up so completely that I forgot how to relax, to be kind, to take time for things like— her gaze wandered the field, the barn, the enclosures, the sheep and one of Audra’s pet dogs. This. What did I think was so all-fired important that I couldn’t take time to live? Is being in control that important? And if it is, then how did I lose sight of that with James?
“Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition. By that sin fell the angels.”
Shakespeare’s words smacked her upside the head, and she wasn’t a big fan of the Baird. She’d hated literature class, abhorred tedious English prose and the stupid opinion papers she’d been required to write, mostly because if she opined differently than the instructor, her grade got docked.
A royal pain in the butt, that old Henry VIII. And the professor.
But that particular phrase rang true, making Cress wonder when exactly she’d become a fallen angel. When had she sold her soul in the name of work, career, justice or James, making excuses for the person she’d become?
Correction: the person you allowed yourself to be.
Heaving a deep, cleansing breath of country air into citified lungs, she aimed for her car, not wanting to disturb Audra. The two cars parked in the drive said Audra’s paying guests at the country bed and breakfast might not like the smell of horse.
She’d hurry home, take care of Gran, spend the day with her, and get back to
the horses before nightfall, creeping her way into the damaged gelding’s heart. She understood bad legs and hardened hearts firsthand. With enough patience and time, maybe they could tough this out together.
*
The highest leaves were just beginning to turn yellow again. He gazed up, wishing the green back, not wanting to spend another long, cold winter inside that horrible house.
He remembered leaves turning color. He remembered someone raking them up, into a pile, and he thought he remembered jumping into that pile, splashing into the bright-colored leaves. But maybe it wasn’t him, maybe it was a commercial on TV, a visual he wished for and never had.
An image fluttered by, soft and good, a smile, so sweet. The wind touched his face like a gentle hand, caring and loving.
“You got that table washed yet?”
The squawk of her voice dispelled the feeling. The image fled his brain so quick, he was pretty certain it never should have been there.
“Fool’s dreams” the old lady would say if he talked about anything he thought he remembered. “Don’t you be goin’ and fillin’ your head with fool’s dreams. It’s you and me, Charlie Backus, and that’s how it’s gonna stay.”
He bit his lip, determined, as he sloshed water over the worn-down picnic table alongside the back porch. She’d have her way now, most likely, but someday, oh…
Someday he’d take that walk down that drive and up that road. And he’d never, ever look back.
*
“What was all that thumping and bumping?” Gran demanded as Cress came downstairs later, showered and clean.
“You look better and sound normal.” Cress flashed her a teasing grin. “Oddly, my relief counteracts the annoyance.”
“Stupid drugs.”
Cress nodded, set a hand on Gran’s shoulder for a brief moment, but knew not to sympathize too much. “Necessary evil.”
“So.” Gran drew up an old stool, settled on it, and began shelling dried beans into a big, wooden bowl, just roughed up enough to make it serviceable, not decorative. “What was that racket upstairs?”
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