by Diane Moody
She pulled back a little, avoiding his eyes. “Uh . . . well, I think we just got off to a bad start.”
He laughed. “Ya think?”
“Hey, I couldn’t help it.” She huffed. “Okay, you really want to hear this?”
“Yes, I really do.”
“You represented everything I’ve ever wanted—a job with one of the leading newspapers in the country. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be a reporter. Work on the big stories of the day for a leading news outlet. That’s why I had to put off going to college for so many years, because I had to save up so I could go to NYU and get my degree from one of the top journalism schools in the country.”
She stood up, then took a few steps closer to the railing overlooking the ocean. “It broke my heart to have to leave before I finished. But it was so expensive. Far more than I’d estimated. And I just ran out of money. I tried working several different jobs—you know, the usual—Starbucks, odd jobs around campus, tutoring . . . but I finally realized all of those paychecks combined could never pay as much as working for my dad here. Besides, he needed my help.
“Of course I had no idea how bad things had become with his business. He didn’t have the heart to tell me. He knew I was counting on my old job here. And I had no clue the economy had affected his company so badly. I should have realized it, looking back. But I was so consumed with my school work and my own financial mess, I never once thought about his situation.
“He’d already been forced to lay off some of his crew. That absolutely killed him. But neither he nor Nita said a word about that when I finally told them I was coming home to work for a year.” She turned back toward him with a sad smile. “Ever the thoughtful daughter.”
He stood, reaching for her hand. “I’m sure they were both trying to protect you. They knew how disappointed you were about having to take a year off. If you only knew how many times your aunt nagged me about hiring you.”
“Seriously? I mean, I knew she had spoken to you. But ‘nagged’ you?”
He smiled. “Afraid so.”
She buried her face in her other hand. “Now I’m really embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. Course, if I’d had any idea Nita’s niece was so smart and beautiful and such a brilliant journalist—”
“Oh please.”
“I’m serious!” He lifted her chin. “You weren’t at all what I expected. So you see I was happily surprised to meet you that night the cabin burned. Even if the circumstances weren’t the greatest. Whereas you, on the other hand, were clearly unimpressed by this loser who walked away from the L.A. Times and chose instead a small town weekly.”
She averted her eyes again, this time blowing out a slow breath. “Yeah, well . . . sometimes you have to get to know someone to really appreciate them.”
“Well, now. We’re making progress. You ‘appreciate’ me, do you?”
They sat back down on the bench, his arm returning to its place over her shoulder.
“Grant, I have to know. Why did you walk away from the Times? I mean, who does that? People spend their whole lives wishing for a place at that table. I was so angry when Nita told me about that. I could barely stand to talk to you. But looking back, I guess I should have at least asked to hear your side of the story.”
“Yes, I believe they teach that in Introduction to Journalism, don’t they?”
“Very funny.”
“Keri, sometimes what you wish for turns out to be anything but what you wished for. Meaning, sometimes that ‘dream job’—isn’t. And that’s what happened to me. I was lucky. I had a professor in college who really liked my work and put in a good word for me to a friend of his at the Times. It’s like I skipped the ladder altogether and went straight to the head of the line. And don’t think I didn’t realize what an unbelievable stroke of luck that was.
“At first I loved it. I was fascinated with every aspect of it. The adrenaline was incredibly addicting. I couldn’t stand my days off. All I wanted was to be out there on the front lines of the news, witnessing the big stories, interviewing all the players making the news. It’s all I cared about. Eventually, I moved into investigative journalism, and then it got even more addictive. I couldn’t stand not to be working on the cases. Doing the interviews. Keeping up with the minute-by-minute developments. Following the leads.
“And I was good at it. Really good at it.”
“Yeah? So, just how good at it were you, Mr. Dawson?” she asked playfully.
“Pulitzer-Prize-good-at-it, Miss McMillan.”
“Yeah right,” she smirked.
He nodded slowly, his eyebrows rising to validate the point. “I’d be happy to show it to you sometime. As long as you don’t bite my head off in the meantime.”
She felt her jaw drop as her eyes locked on his. And then she felt it again. The slow burn in her gut as envy and frustration and outrage all boiled together.
“Now I really don’t understand!” She pulled away from him, taking his arm off her shoulder. “How could you walk away from that? How could you turn your back on a Pulitzer and come here? To this?!
“You really are the idiot I thought you were. I was right. Oh, I was right about you.”
“Hey, settle down, Keri.”
“No! Don’t tell me to settle down!” She jumped up, backing away from him. “What’s the matter with you? How dare you throw away a perfectly good career? Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
She paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you think I’ve stomped on your dream because I walked away from mine.”
She stared at him. “That’s exactly what I think! It’s like you wadded it up and tossed it in the trash can and then made sure it ended up in some disgusting landfill! It’s SO UNFAIR!”
“But the dream died for me.”
“How? How did the dream die?”
He gripped the rail, looking down below at the foaming surf. “Like I said, dreams aren’t always what you think they are. Sure, it was exciting and stimulating and rewarding . . . at first. Then it became exhausting. I said it was an addiction because it was. I started popping pills to stay awake and keep on task. Then I’d have to take sleeping pills because I couldn’t sleep. Then I’d be so stressed and exhausted, I’d do anything to relax and get away from it for a while. Everyone I worked with fought the same demons, so happy hour became part of our daily schedule. We’d drink and discuss our work and drink and talk half the night away. Combine all that booze with all the pills I was popping? Not a good combination.”
“So what, you had to go into rehab? Even so, couldn’t you just clean yourself up and go back? Try to be more disciplined?”
He scoffed, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “I suppose.”
“Why didn’t you, then?”
“I simply got burned out, Keri. It happens.”
“Grant, you have a PULITZER. Wasn’t that even the slightest motivation to get back in there and try again? I just don’t understand how you could—”
“No, you don’t understand. Because you can’t. You weren’t there, putting up with the political agendas hiding around every corner. You weren’t there to see good people brought down hard and ugly by those with self-serving agendas. You weren’t there, having your ethics compromised at every turn just to get the story. You weren’t there, watching every relationship you attempted go down the drain because you were too wrapped up in your job to give anyone a chance to get close. And you weren’t there when your best friend overdosed because the lie he was forced to write caused a young girl to take her own life . . .”
He stopped abruptly, panting after the words spilled out, still suspended in the wintry puff of air between them. He blinked several times and stole a look at her. Then he looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She pulled off her mitten and touched her fingers to his lips. “Don’t. I’m the one who owes you an apology. A
gain. I . . . I had no idea, Grant.”
He took a deep breath and pulled her into his arms. They stood that way for several minutes. She felt like such an utter fool trying to tell this good and decent man how he should have lived his life.
“No, you had no idea. There’s no way you could.”
She burrowed deeper into his embrace. “I’m so sorry.”
The wind kicked up again, the roar of the waves making it impossible to speak. Moments passed.
“Well, it’s not something they teach you in school.”
“Apparently not.”
“Besides,” he began, leaning back to look at her, “if I’d stayed in L.A., how would I ever have met Nita’s feisty little niece?”
She smiled. “I’m not sure. Maybe we should investigate.”
He leaned his forehead against hers, cupping her face in his hands. “My thoughts exactly.” And then he kissed her, his lips warm and gentle . . . and in no hurry whatsoever. She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on for dear life as she felt that blanket of peace and security surround her once again.
Then, without the slightest hint of disappointment, she realized those dreams she’d been clinging to for so many years had just shifted. In a whole new direction.
The thought surprised her. Actually it shocked her.
But that conversation would have to wait because she’d also made another discovery.
Grant Dawson’s kisses could take her breath away.
And then some.
Chapter 13
Her encounter with Grant at the lighthouse left Keri breathless and dizzy. They’d walked back to their cars and Grant had left her with a final kiss before driving off to his dad’s boat. She was having trouble getting her brain to function with any semblance of normalcy, so she opted to stop by the sheriff’s office. She needed to talk to Bud about her encounter with Zack, but she needed the infamously strong coffee they brewed at the station even more.
Still, the sweetness of her stolen moments in Grant’s arms couldn’t be dismissed just yet. First, she’d experienced that unexpected moment when the Lord had spoken to her heart. Then the long, heartfelt conversation with a man she never once had imagined as anything more than her boss. And an irritating one at that. Funny how things change . . .
“Now that’s a refreshing sight if ever I saw one,” Bud said, waving at her from behind the counter of the messy outer office.
“What’s that?” Keri asked, heading straight for the coffee urn.
“That big ol’ smile on your face. Wouldn’t have expected to see that today, what with your dad in the hospital and all.”
She poured the thick black brew into a clean mug then doused it with creamer. She hoped the heat she felt in her face would diminish before she had to face him again. “Oh, just amused about something. That’s all.” She kept her head down, focusing on her swirling coffee.
“Come have a sit. Let’s compare notes.”
They moved into his office. “I’m afraid I’m more confused than anything else, Bud.”
“How so?”
“I talked to Zack. Didn’t learn any more than you did, I’m sure. But I definitely get the feeling he’s capable. He’s got prison written all over him. I’m not sure he wouldn’t be better off tucked in safe and secure at the state pen over in Salem.”
“True, but we’ve got to have something solid to get him in there. Believe me, I’ve tried for years.”
She took a sip, grimacing at the strength of her coffee despite the heavy dose of creamer. “Whoa. You guys don’t kid around with this stuff.”
“Helps get the job done.”
“I guess it does. Hey, Bud. I need your help. I really think Jerry Winkler could be our guy. You already know about his fight with Dad the other night.”
“Yeah, I talked to Tyler. He filled me in. Sounds like quite a showdown.”
Keri bit her lip, trying to find her words. “What can we do to bring him in? Do you have to have a warrant or something? Is there any way you can do a polygraph on him? I have a feeling—”
“Hold on, Keri. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here.”
“You know as well as I do he’s dangerous! Did Dad tell you his comment about ‘all the matchbooks’ around town? How else can you interpret that but a threat?”
Bud’s chair creaked as he leaned back and tented his fingers. “Keri, I know there’s bad blood between Jerry and Tyler.”
“You should have seen him, Bud. He scared me to death! It’s like he’s this ticking time bomb, just waiting for something to set him off.”
“I get it. I know. I’ve known the man for years. But that’s hardly enough cause to bring him in. But I’ll talk to him. I’d ask you to come along but—”
“Don’t bother. Dad pretty much made me swear not to cross paths with him. And it’s probably a good thing. I might not be able to control myself. I’d like to punch his lights out or maybe—”
“I did not hear that,” he quipped, holding his hands against his ears. “Not a good idea to tell the sheriff of your intent to physically harm someone. Even if you have good cause.”
Keri laughed and set her mug on his desk. “Point taken. So let me ask you. Have you learned anything new in the investigation? Anything you can share with me?”
He sat up and began rustling papers on his desk. “Well, let’s take a look. Seems to me there was . . . oh, I remember now. He reached for a plastic bag, holding it by the corner. “I don’t guess you have any idea what this is, do you?’
She reached for the bag, noticing the dirty red string inside. “I think I saw this out at the site the other day.”
“You did?” He tilted his head. “When was that?”
She traced the string through the plastic realizing it was much heavier than mere string. Something more like— “Wait. This looks like a strand of one of those elastic pony tail holders.” She grabbed the one out of her hair and held it up in her hand. “Like one of these.” It was only then that she realized hers was red also.
Bud pursed his lips. “Ah. That explains it then. Must be one of yours.”
Something in the back of her mind began to spin. But what?
“Then again . . .” Bud began, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on his blotter.
She looked up at him. “What?”
“Doesn’t Zack wear that greasy mess of hair of his in a pony tail most of the time? Do guys use these too?”
“Sure. They don’t exactly make ‘his and her’ pony tail holders. And guys usually wear this plain kind, without any decoration.”
They stared at each other, thinking. Something just out of reach in her mind nagged her. But what? Who else wears a pony tail? “I’m trying to think if any of the guys in Dad’s crew have long hair but most of them wear it short or even shave their heads.”
“And you’re sure that’s not yours? I mean, it’s red just like yours.”
“They come in all kinds of colors. Mostly black and navy and red, but they could be any color.” She closed her eyes, trying to think if she’d had her hair pulled back when she was at the site. The night of the fire, she hadn’t had time to do anything with her hair. After she got Carson’s call, she’d quickly dressed, but she didn’t remember pulling her hair back. Besides, that night she never got near the hearth where she’d seen this . . .
“Oh my gosh.”
“What?”
“I remember when I saw this. It was a few days after the fire. I’d gone out there to the site to nose around. Grant had just hired me and asked me to start probing into the fire, come up with a list of suspects. I drove up and found Matt Blankenship at the cabin.”
“Matt? What was Matt doing there?”
“He said his folks were having trouble getting back from Europe.”
“I know, Keri. We’ve been in constant communication with them since the fire. They just flew into Portland late last night. Should be in town later today.”
“Matt said he’d com
e in town on their behalf to check out the damage. He said—”
Keri jumped at the sound of Bud’s chair scraping against the floor as he stood abruptly. “Keri, when was the last time you saw Matt?”
“What? I just told you. That morning at the cabin.”
“When? What day was that?”
“I don’t know, it must have been . . . it was Tuesday. Same day I started working for Grant. Wait—it was right after I came by and talked to you that morning. Remember?”
“I remember. So?”
“After I left here, I drove out to the cabin. Just to look around. Matt was already there. When I pulled up I saw—” She gasped, jumping to her feet. “Bud! Matt drives a pickup! A dark pickup! Remember, Shep said he saw a dark pickup leaving the Weekly office just before he saw the fire?”
“Focus, Keri. Focus. Back to Matt. You saw him at the cabin and he had a black pickup?”
“I saw it parked around back. Or I mean, front. The front of the cabin. But it wasn’t black, it was navy. A navy blue pickup . . .”
The memory raced through her mind. The surprise at finding him there. The compassion she’d felt toward him about the loss of his new home. The awkward conversation . . .
She gasped again. “Bud!” Her eyes tracked up to his. “It was really windy that day. A big gust of wind came up, blowing all that ash in our faces . . . and once I’d cleared my eyes, I looked up just as Matt took a red band off his wrist and pulled back his hair into a pony tail.”
Bud started to say something, but she stopped him.
“But wait. That was after he left that I saw this in the ash near the fireplace.” She picked up the evidence bag again, looking at the singed remnant. “I sat on the hearth and toed my sneakers in the ash. That’s when it caught my eye. So it couldn’t have been Matt’s because I’d just seen him put it in his hair.”
Bud tried to interrupt but she continued, dropping the plastic bag and stretching the band she’d just taken out of her hair. “But of course, when you buy these, you buy them in a pack of a dozen or so. And they usually come in an assortment of colors.”