Sandpiper Cove

by Irene Hannon

  In silence, he transferred the sandpaper to his left hand and gave her fingers a firm squeeze.

  After a few moments, she arched an eyebrow and flicked a glance at their still-clasped hands.

  Whoops.

  He released her fingers at once.

  “Sorry to bother you at home, but I understand you had some vandalism here yesterday—for the second time.” She surveyed the side of the workshop, where remnants of the crude graffiti clung stubbornly to the wood despite his liberal application of elbow grease.

  He frowned.

  How in the world did she know his place had been targeted twice?

  “Who told you that?”

  “The source isn’t important. I’m curious why you didn’t report the damage.”

  “There wasn’t much to report.”

  “Breaking the law is breaking the law.”

  “Look . . . I don’t want any trouble.”

  “You’ve already had trouble. And whoever did this could come back again.”

  “If they do, I’ll deal with it. This isn’t high-end property. They can’t break anything I can’t fix.”

  She folded her arms and adopted the wide-legged stance police used to intimidate.

  It did not endear her to him.

  “Dealing with lawbreakers is the responsibility of law enforcement.” Her voice was harder now, and there was steel in her eyes. “And you’re not the only victim. There are quite a few others—all innocent citizens who don’t deserve this kind of hassle. Some are older and far less capable than you of fixing the damage.”

  “I’m sorry for that, but I don’t want to get involved.” His response came out stiff. Defiant, almost.

  Not a smart attitude to take with a cop.

  But instead of getting mean and nasty with him, the chief uncrossed her arms . . . let out a slow breath . . . and angled toward the water visible through the trees.

  Several silent seconds ticked by.

  When she turned back, her features—and tone—were friendlier. “I can understand why you’d prefer to keep your distance from trouble. But we’re getting nowhere solving this. I need more clues, and I hoped you might let me nose around and see if I can spot anything that could help us identify and apprehend the culprits before these minor annoyances ratchet up and someone gets hurt.”

  Her request wasn’t unreasonable.

  And as he’d learned in the school of hard knocks, being reasonable earned you brownie points—especially if you had nothing to hide.

  “Fine.” He flexed some of the tightness out of his shoulders. “Search all you want, but I doubt you’ll find anything. I didn’t.”

  “Thank you. Any other damage besides that?” She motioned toward his workshop.

  “Not this visit. Three weeks ago, they broke a window in the cabin and tore out one of the steps to the porch while I was at work.”

  “They must not have been worried about anyone hearing them.” She inspected the new riser, pristine and raw compared to the weathered gray wood around it.

  “This is an out-of-the-way spot, and no one’s here on weekdays except my dog, Clyde.”

  At the mention of his name, the canine peeked out from behind his legs.

  The chief’s manner warmed a few more degrees as she dropped down to one knee and held out a hand. “Hey, Clyde.”

  “He’s skittish around . . . ”

  Before Adam could finish the sentence, Clyde sidled out from behind his legs, sniffed the woman’s hand, and moved close enough for her to pet him.

  He even gave her fingers a lick.

  Adam’s jaw dropped.

  “You are one handsome guy, you know that?” Clyde started wagging his tail, and she chuckled—a deep, throaty sound that set off an odd flutter in Adam’s stomach. “Yeah. You know it.” She lifted her chin. “What breed is he?”

  “Uh . . . mutt.”

  “Hmm.” She studied him. “I see a touch of terrier . . . a dash of beagle . . . a hint of lab. Let’s go with mixed breed. It sounds nicer than mutt. Don’t you think so, Clyde?”

  The pup gave a happy yip.

  His dog had bonded with a police chief?

  Go figure.

  “I agree.” After ruffling his fur once more, she stood. “I don’t suppose the vandals left any spray cans behind.”

  He forced himself to shift gears. “No.”

  “Too bad. I’ll let you get back to that while I poke around.” She nodded toward the sandpaper he was holding. “You have your work cut out for you trying to get that paint off.”

  “Any damaged board can be smoothed out and made new with work and patience.”

  A flicker of surprise sparked in her blue irises. “A thought worth pondering.”

  With that, she began a slow circuit of the shed—Clyde trotting along at her heels.

  Adam went back to sanding . . . but the mindless task left his brain free to think about the visitor roaming around his property who’d befriended his skittish dog.

  If Clyde trusted her, she must be worth trusting. Animals had sound instincts about people.

  Not that you needed them with the chief. She had to be trustworthy if she’d worked for the State Department. That kind of job would require all sorts of high-level security clearances and background checks.

  The kind he’d never pass.

  One more reminder that his past mistakes would taint him for the rest of his life and limit his opportunities to do a lot of things.

  Including meet a nice woman.

  What decent woman would want to associate with him?

  A cloud of depression settled over him despite the shafts of spring sun filling the clearing with brightness and light.

  He gritted his teeth and sanded harder.

  That kind of thinking wasn’t healthy. Better to take his new life one day at a time instead of worrying about—

  “I don’t see anything.” The chief paused a few feet away from him, brushing off her hands as she inspected his work. “I’d say you’re almost down to clean wood in that spot.”

  He surveyed the area he’d been sanding. Only faint traces of the obscenity remained.

  Too bad it wasn’t as easy to sand off the rough spots in a soul.

  “Yeah. I’m getting there.” With the shed, anyway.

  “Are you certain you don’t want to file an official report on the two incidents?”

  “Yes. I took care of the damage, so the owner won’t have to worry about an insurance claim.”

  “Suit yourself.” She bent down and gave Clyde one last pat. “What happened to his leg?”

  “I don’t know. It was twisted like that when I found him. But he’s learned to compensate.”

  “Smart dog. Adapting is the key to survival.” A few beats of silence passed—and Adam had a feeling she wasn’t thinking about Clyde. Yet once she straightened up, her professional demeanor was back in place. She dug out a card and extended it. “If you change your mind, or if anything else happens, feel free to contact me. See you around, Clyde.”

  With a wave, she returned to her car, Clyde following a few feet behind. After putting the Civic in gear, she turned around on the gravel pad and disappeared down the road that wove among the trees.

  Not until the dust settled did Clyde return to his side, tail wagging, tongue hanging out in the goofy grin that often earned him a doggie treat.

  “Since when did you decide to become an extrovert? I thought I was your best bud?”

  Clyde sat on his haunches and rested one paw against Adam’s leg.

  Who could resist that impish face?

  “Apology accepted. Now let’s find you a treat.”

  The dog followed him into the cabin, scarfed down a biscuit, and hurried back to the open door to look around.

  As if he was hoping their visitor would return.

  Hard to blame him.

  Another visit from Lexie Graham would be welcome—even if she was a police chief.

  But as he replaced the box of
dog treats in the cabinet, fingered the woman’s card, and went back to cleaning up the shed, he recognized that thought for what it was.

  A fanciful wish that had no more basis in reality than the fairy tales found in a children’s storybook.

  2

  “Everything okay?”

  Lexie slid a plate into the dishwasher and faced her mother. “Fine. Why?”

  “You seemed distracted at dinner.” Annette Clark stowed the butter in the fridge, leaned a hip against the counter, and folded her arms. “You asked Matt twice if he wanted to go down to the wharf later.”

  Whoops.

  She should have paid more attention to the mealtime conversation instead of letting her thoughts wander to an ex-con who lived in a shack with only a dog for company.

  “Lexie?”

  At the prompt, she resumed loading the dishwasher. “I’m not distracted.”

  Not much, anyway.

  “Well, something’s up if you passed on these.” Her mother selected a warm chocolate chip cookie off the plate on the counter and took a bite.

  “I ate too much meatloaf.”

  “A piece and a half isn’t even a full serving.”

  Busted.

  “Fine. I’ll have a cookie.”

  “I’m not trying to force one on you—but that overactive mind of yours is stuck on some thorny topic. Want to tell me what it is?”

  No, she did not.

  Especially since she had no idea why Adam Stone was dominating her thoughts.

  “Busy day.” She shifted farther away from her mom and took extra care setting the glassware in the dishwasher.

  “Is that why you were late?”

  “Partly.”

  “No more vandalism, I hope.”

  “As far as I know, the culprits didn’t strike today.”

  “So why were you late?”

  Her mother should have been an interrogator with the CIA.

  “I, uh, had to make a stop on the way home.” She closed the dishwasher and braced for the inevitable follow-up question.

  It didn’t come.

  She peeked over her shoulder—to find her mother giving her a speculative perusal. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s not a thing wrong with me.” Her mom finished off the cookie. “You, on the other hand, are very reticent tonight. And given that you didn’t offer any details on your after-work stop, I’m wondering if a man could be involved.”

  Good grief!

  How had her mother arrived at that conclusion?

  “That’s a leap, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  Annette Clark’s razor-sharp maternal instincts hadn’t dulled one iota through the decades.

  Better to come clean rather than let her mother’s imagination take wing. It wasn’t as if she was trying to hide some clandestine rendezvous, after all. Adam Stone might be on her mind, but the reason had nothing to do with romance. He was the victim of a crime—and he had a lovable dog.

  His mesmerizing gold-flecked brown eyes had nothing to do with her distraction.

  “No man was involved . . . at least not in the context you’re thinking.” She took a cookie she didn’t want, bit into the gooey sweetness of warm dough and soft chocolate chips, and gave her mother a cursory account of her visit to Sandpiper Cove.

  “That poor man. He’s certainly had his share of misfortune.”

  “Most of it of his own making.”

  “I’m not condoning whatever he did to get sent to prison—but I suspect his troubles began long before that.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I’ve exchanged a few words with him at church. He doesn’t share much about his past, but from a few remarks he’s made, I got the impression his family situation was the polar opposite of the Waltons. It appears to me he’s trying to make a fresh start, though, and I’m sorry to hear someone is targeting him.”

  “He’s not the only victim.”

  “I know—but I expect he’s the one with the flimsiest support system.”

  Lexie couldn’t dispute that. It was the same conclusion she’d drawn as she’d wandered around his isolated property this afternoon.

  However, she had no intention of feeling sorry for him. He might not have come from an ideal background, but a life of crime was a choice.

  “He could make friends if he wanted to.”

  “I imagine that’s not easy for an ex-con. I’m sure prison life—let alone what came before—can reduce a man’s self-esteem to rubble. And he’ll always carry a certain stigma in some folks’ minds.”

  That was true.

  But it wasn’t her problem.

  Nor would she let it be . . . even if seeing him up close and personal with his lame dog and feeling his almost-palpable aloneness had bothered her more than she cared to admit.

  “Mom, can we go now?” Matt zoomed into the room, bristling with the megawatt energy of an almost five-year-old that added life and joy to her days.

  “I’m all set.” She grabbed her purse and took his hand.

  “Wait.” He tugged free and swung toward the counter. “Where’s the bread for Floyd and Gladys, Mamaw?”

  “Right here.” Her mother pulled a plastic bag of scraps out of the pantry. “You tell those seagulls not to fight over this.”

  “They never fight. They’re married.”

  Her mom’s lips twitched. “How do you know that?”

  “Charley told me.”

  “Ah. Then it must be true. That man has a sixth sense about all God’s creatures. You two have fun.”

  “Me and Mom always have fun.” Matt grinned at her.

  Vision misting, she smoothed down the feisty cowlick he’d inherited from his father. Touched the tip of the aquiline nose that also came from paternal genes. Joe had always said it was a sign of aristocratic blood—and had promised to take her to visit the ruined castle in Scotland he claimed had been inhabited by his noble ancestors.

  She’d never known for certain whether he was teasing about that trip or not.

  Now she never would.

  “Hey . . . Mom.” Matt squeezed her fingers, his expression suddenly solemn. “Are you gonna cry?”

  “No, of course not.” She forced up the corners of her mouth and willed the pressure behind her eyes to subside. She’d shed her last tear more than two years ago. Made peace with the fact that love and romance weren’t in her future. Learned to live with the loneliness that plagued her even here, in this house she shared with the two people she loved most.

  There was no reason for this out-of-the-blue, sweeping surge of melancholy . . . and longing.

  “Your face got kind of scrunchy.” Matt tightened his grip on her fingers, his forehead knotted. “Kind of like Darcy’s did at Sunday school when her dad was late to pick her up. I think she was ’fraid he wasn’t gonna come. But you don’t have to worry about being by yourself. You got me and Mamaw.”

  “I know that.” She squeezed his fingers. “And what could be better than living in the same house with my two favorite people in all the world? You want another cookie for the road?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Here you go.” Her mother handed him one, and Lexie let him pull her toward the door. “Be careful, you two.”

  “You want to come, Mom?” She tossed the invitation over her shoulder.

  “No. I have an emergency garden club meeting tonight. We have to decide what to do about the damaged planters on the wharf.”

  They were back to the vandalism topic—reminding her again of the man she’d visited this afternoon.

  “I have every confidence you enterprising ladies will come up with a solution.”

  “I hope so. And by the way . . . Matt’s right. You do have the two of us in your corner—but there’s always room for one more, should someone special come along.”

  “Let’s go, Mom!” Matt gave her another tug.

  She followed her son through the door without responding to her mother’s comment
.

  Because the woman who’d nurtured her for thirty-five years was wrong.

  There wasn’t room for anyone else in her life.

  Love was too risky.

  Even if she felt lonelier tonight than she had since the early days after the tragedy that had changed her world forever.

  “May I join you for lunch?”

  From his perch on the dike surrounding one of the budding beds at Harbor Point Cranberries, Adam shaded his eyes and looked up at Luis Dominguez. “Sure. I didn’t think you were working this afternoon.”

  “I finish early at school, so I come out. This is a big project, and I know BJ needs many hands. After all she has done for me, I do not wish to let her down.”

  “Yeah. I hear you.” The construction firm owner had done no less for him than she had for the Cuban refugee who settled onto the dike two feet away. More, in truth. Giving a job to an educated man like Luis, who’d led an upstanding life and endured great hardships through no fault of his own, was a lot less dicey than taking a chance on an ex-con. “How’s school going?”

  “Very well. The classes, they are not difficult. It is wonderful to be involved in medicine again.”

  Being a paramedic wasn’t the same as being a doctor, though. It had to be tough for a prominent physician from Cuba to accept such a lesser role.

  Yet the fortysomething immigrant never complained about his lot in life. Instead, he was grateful for any blessings that came his way.

  There was a lesson to be learned there.

  “Eleanor fixed you a great lunch.” He motioned toward the man’s hearty meat pie and generous slice of fudge cake. What a difference from the days when he’d packed an extra sandwich for cash-strapped Luis so the man would have more than a piece of fruit for lunch.

  “Yes. She is a fine woman. I am fortunate to share her home.” He moved aside some napkins in his lunch pail and extracted a second piece of cake. “She send some dessert for you too.”

  The elderly woman often did that—and her kindness toward a man she knew only through an occasional exchange of greetings at church never failed to surprise him.

  “Thanks.” He took the cake.

  “I did not see BJ at the house site.” Luis dove into his meat pastry.