Donnell Ann Bell
Page 34
“Members of my staff insisted on signing as well,” the D.A. said.
Mel pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “I―I don’t know what to say Mr. Bennett, thank you.”
The D.A. made an awkward attempt to move toward her, then stopped. She’d never seen him exhibit the least bit of timidity, but he did so now. He cleared his throat. “I’m running for office, Mrs. Norris. Joe’s a good friend, and in the future, we’re bound to cross paths.
“Since you’re soon to be a voting member of society, I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d call me Bruce.” He did step closer then. “And maybe someday you might even find it in your heart to think of me as someone you can trust.”
Mel supposed this was the closest thing to an apology she would ever receive from this man. Reconciling his cold, unfeeling treatment of her in the past would take a very forgiving person. But Bennett had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf. She swallowed hard, grateful the doctor chose that moment to enter.
Release forms in hand, he said, “I understand someone’s anxious to go home. But since you’re throwing a party, I can back later.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” The knowledge that he was joking didn’t quell her anxiety or the fact she’d been stuck in this bed for an entire day. Mel extended her good hand for the clipboard. “No offense, Doctor, but I’m sick of your hospital.”
Epilogue
Melanie shoveled compost into a large rectangular ceramic pot and smiled as Joe’s daughter added her share. Mel was showing Trish how to transplant individual herbs from their tiny plastic containers into a transportable herb garden, which the girl could take home with her at the end of the summer. By the intense look on the soon to be twelve-year-old’s face, she was enjoying the process.
Cradling the root ball, Mel held it close to the girl’s nose “Smell, Trish.”
She sniffed and scrunched up her face. “What is it?”
“Sage,” Mel said. “Later, we’ll make potpourri if you like.”
“Cool,” she replied.
Footsteps sounded above in the kitchen and Trish raised her pretty brunette head.
“That’ll be your dad,” Mel said.
“Where is everybody?” Joe called from the kitchen door.
Mel winked at the girl. “On three.” In unison, they hollered, “Down here, Commander.”
His footfalls on her wooden steps sounded like an army of elephants. Smiling, Joe met Mel’s gaze, then that of his daughter’s as he entered the basement. “I’d tell you to stop with the commander jazz, but when my two favorite ladies say it...”
Trish, who’d flown in to spend the next three months with her dad, grinned up at him. He brushed the dirt off her face with the pad of his thumb.
“I happen to think it’s great when a daughter’s proud of her father,” Mel countered.
“Me, too. But I’ve been a commander for three months now. Hey, you,” Joe said to Trish. “Mrs. Harmon’s out front waiting to take you and Lindsey swimming.”
The girl’s eyes went wide. “Sweet. See you later, Melanie.”
Her footsteps were considerably lighter than Joe’s as she tore up the stairs.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice she didn’t say goodbye to me. You’ve created a monster there, woman.” He took in the plant-filled basement, which he’d warned was on the verge of becoming a rain forest.
“As long as she likes me, I’d say it’s worth it, wouldn’t you?”
He glanced down. “Wearing your ring?”
“Right here, Com―Joe,” she said, teasing him and tugging off her left work glove.
He held her hand, turning it to admire the pear-shaped diamond. Then bringing her hand to his lips, he brushed them over her knuckles, which left her anticipating later.
“Feel like taking a drive with me?” he asked.
With the boys practicing in Denver for an invitational tournament and Trish off with friends, Mel’s Saturday was suddenly free. She pulled off her other glove and set it upon the shelf over her grow boxes and next to the humidity gauge. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”
He lowered his head to kiss her. “You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later when they turned on to Thirtieth Street, Mel wondered if he’d planned a walk in The Garden of the Gods. But before he got to the national landmark, famous for its three-hundred-foot red sandstone formations, he traveled farther west toward the mountains.
It was early June and snow still capped Pikes Peak. Wherever Joe was taking her, it didn’t matter. Some things never changed. Alone-time with Joe was a precious commodity.
As he drove the Mustang through a neighborhood zoned for horse property, Mel let him have his fun.
Some of the surrounding homes were well-maintained, while others had major landscaping issues. Still, others needed paint and major exterior renovations.
Finally, when Joe turned into the loosely graveled drive, which technically had more dirt than rock, her curiosity couldn’t be silenced. “Okay. What gives?”
He drove down the path and parked in front of an enormous colonial-type house set back from the driveway. With ample parking, it had two-stories and a three-car garage, but clearly the structure, which wept for several coats of paint, had to be more than fifty years old.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She stared up at the potential cash drain, in truth, a little horrified. “Is it haunted?”
“I hope not,” Joe replied. “It’s for sale.”
“No! Somebody’s willing to give up all this?”
“Funny. I thought you were a woman with an open mind. You staying in here, or coming with me?”
“I haven’t decided.” But even as she said it, she stepped out of the car.
They toured the house, which thankfully didn’t need as much upkeep on the inside as it did on the outside. Warped, scuffed-up wood floors, an outdated kitchen, five bedrooms and four full bathrooms, the unloved home had family written all over it. And if someone had taken better care of it, it might have been a showplace.
They climbed the circular staircase to the bedrooms. And when Joe opened the door to the master, she gasped. This room, too, required updating, but it was more of a suite than a bedroom. Her mind was already at work taking down the hideous orange and gold wallpaper.
Joe walked to the window and looked out to what she suspected was the backyard. “What do you think of the view?”
She came to stand beside him, ready to ask what they could possibly do with an old barn, when she saw it. “Oh my gosh, is that a greenhouse back there?”
Returning one of his typical half-smiles, he said, “You’d be more qualified to answer that question than me.”
“What are we doing here?” She searched his face.
“Just looking, sweetheart. Just looking.”
“Be right back.” Grinning, she rushed toward the door.
“Melanie?”
In the doorway, she pivoted.
Joe held out a key. “You’ll need this.”
Outside and several seconds later, she slid the key into the flimsy lock of an A-frame-styled greenhouse close to the size of the one Carl had built for her in Cañon City. Once she opened the door, however, she discovered this one stripped bare. Still, there was no mistaking the familiar smell of fertilizer, loam and the plants that at one time must have thrived here.
She traced a hand over dirty, grimy ancient windows, took in the old-fashioned attic fan and the transparent panels overhead, and her half-empty glass filled with hope.
“What do you think?” he asked from the door.
Smiling, she turned to give him her thoughts when she saw what looked like a set of drawings in his hand.
“I guess I’m afraid to think anything until
I know what you have in mind.” Her voice carried throughout the vast empty space. “How did you find it?”
Tapping the rolled-up drawings against his thigh, he came toward her. “I told Lenora Sims if she ever came across something in our price range that had a greenhouse on the property to give me a call.”
Mel laughed. “Well, this certainly seems like it’s in our budget.”
“Was I wrong not to talk to you first?” He turned suddenly serious, his ordinarily confident baritone voice uncertain. “To ask if you even wanted to move? I know how much work and pride you’ve put into the one you have now. But when people get married, they generally live together.”
She walked toward him. “They generally do. What’s in your hand, Joe?”
“Architectural plans. Not for the main house,” he added quickly. “For the greenhouse. If we buy this place, the remodel in this area alone will take significant cash.”
Mel’s throat tightened with every spoken word. Simon had once called Joe a walk-away. The warden couldn’t have been more wrong. A walk-away was an unscrupulous fiend, a womanizer, a love ’em and leave ’em type. The term hardly fit the man who’d arrested her, antagonized her, saved her life and then taught her the meaning of love.
Wrapping her arms around him, she whispered, “I’m not marrying you for your money. Joe. Nor am I afraid of hard work.”
“Is that a yes, Mel? You’re willing to move? You like the place?”
“I love the place, and I love you.”
“What a relief,” he said, bowing his head to kiss her. “Because in case I haven’t mentioned it, the feeling’s mutual.”
(Continue reading for more information)
Acknowledgements
So many helped with this book, I couldn’t possibly name them all. However, I would be remiss in not naming specifically Robin Searle, Misty Evans, Jean Willett, Julie Rowe, Annette Dashofy, Renee Ryan and Anne Marie Becker and, of course, my wonderful mom, Irma Barnes who is my biggest fan and first reader. Special thanks to Pam McCutcheon who was the first published author to read it from start to finish. To the El Paso County Sheriff’s Office and their outstanding Citizens Academy, to Crimescenewriters, a Yahoo loop I co-own with retired veteran police officer Wally Lind, I thank you and all the members of the loop for their assistance. To Bell Bridge Books, and my editor Pat Van Wie, a heartfelt thank you for your vision, logic and expertise, and to my husband, Les, I couldn’t have written this book without your love and support. To my best friend in the world, Moreen Drake, one of my mentors Dianne Drake and to my sister Maria Gravina, thank you for the use of your names. While my characters are evil, the three of you are wonderful, and I love you. Finally, any mistakes are my own, and not any of those who tried their best to convey police work and what goes on inside the head of a cop.
About the Author
Donnell Ann Bell is as at home in nonfiction as she is in fiction. She has worked for a weekly business publication and a monthly parenting magazine, has a background in court reporting, has worked with kids and engineers, and has volunteered for law enforcement and other organizations. She is co-owner of Crimescenewriters, a Yahoo group for mystery/suspense writers, 2000 members strong, and formed by a retired police officer. She is also a graduate of the El Paso County Sheriff’s Citizens Academy. The recipient of numerous awards for her fiction writing, including a two-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart®, Donnell was raised in New Mexico’s Land of Enchantment and today calls Colorado home.
http://donnellannbell.com/