One True Thing

by Marilyn Pappano

  “What happened last winter?”

  “Not much. Oklahoma winters can be really mild or really cold—but then, you know that, having researched the climate.” He let a little good-natured sarcasm slide into his voice on the last words. “We had a couple ice storms that shut things down for a day or two, and we had a tornado in January. That’s something you don’t see a lot of.”

  She continued to look at him, her expression unchanging.

  “They have tornadoes where you come from?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “In San Diego? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  “Lemon Grove,” she corrected him. “And none of that answers my question. What happened with you last winter?”

  He leveled his gaze on her, as steady and measuring as hers was, then smiled coolly. “I’ll make you a deal. You answer all those questions of mine you’ve danced around, like what your pen name is and what your book is about and what kind of research you did, and I’ll tell you about last winter.”

  She smiled, too, a bright smile that involved her whole face without bringing one bit of warmth to it. “It would serve you right if I agreed.”

  He shrugged.

  “Fair enough.” Then she lowered her gaze to the baby. “She doesn’t look anything like her mother.”

  “Nope. She’s the spittin’ image of Easy, except she’s prettier and has all her fingers. He’s only got seven.”

  “Jace! You shouldn’t joke about that.”

  “Hey, I’m just repeating what he said. Besides, I think we’re distantly related. I’m mostly Osage and he’s mostly Cherokee, but a few generations ago somebody from his father’s side married somebody from my mother’s side.”

  “So you’re probably tenth or twelfth cousins.”

  He grinned. “It still counts as family. At least, when you want it to.”

  “You like kids,” she commented, her gaze lowering to the baby.

  He looked down, too, at Liza Beth’s dark skin, eyes and hair, her fat cheeks and the mouth that managed a grin in spite of her gnawing on his finger. “I like most people.” Even some of the people he’d arrested over the years. Civilians tended to think that cops and crooks were mortal enemies, but that wasn’t always the case. Sure, most bad guys weren’t anxious to go to jail, and some would do anything to avoid it, but a lot of them didn’t hold grudges. They were doing their jobs and he was doing his. No hard feelings.

  “Then why were you trying to avoid attention last winter?”

  He gave her a steady, censuring look. “We agreed, remember? If you don’t answer questions, I don’t. No fair trying to sneak around the back way.”

  Her only response to his rebuke was a nod, then she glanced at Liza Beth again. “Why aren’t you married and raising a houseful of kids?”

  “I always figured I would be, but…” He finished with a shrug, then studied the faint wistfulness in her expression. “You want to hold her?”

  Her hands flexed and came up off the tabletop, a prelude to reaching for the baby, then she caught herself. She dropped her hands into her lap, put on a taut smile and shook her head. “I keep my distance from kids.”

  “Why? You don’t like them?”

  “I like them fine—at a distance.”

  There was that itch again. Jeez, why lie about liking kids? It was about as inconsequential as things got in the bigger scheme of things. About the only time not liking kids mattered would be when she already had them. Otherwise, so what?

  Maybe she regretted not having any, so she pretended not to like them. Maybe she couldn’t have any, so pretending eased the pain. Maybe she had one or two or three, and had lost them for some reason, so it was guilt she was easing.

  His wondering was interrupted by the waitress with plates of food. She set them down, then reached for the baby. “Her daddy just came in to get her, so I’ll take her now.”

  “See you, sweetheart,” Jace said, brushing a kiss to Liza Beth’s forehead before handing her over. The kid didn’t want to give up her pacifier, and sucked hard enough to make a pop when his finger pulled free. Immediately she screwed up her face as if to cry, then she caught sight of her father and was all smiles again. How could anyone not want to brighten a kid’s world like that just by walking into it?

  He waited until Cassidy had taken a bite of the chicken-fried steak that was the day’s special, then asked, “What made you pick Buffalo Lake for your vacation—uh, work?”

  After studying him a moment she levelly replied, “I told you—the book I’m working on takes place here.”

  “Here, specifically? Or in the general area?”

  Her only response was a shrug.

  “The state’s got some really nice resorts, places where you could find the privacy and quiet you want, along with all the conveniences and a few luxuries…but not around here. I’m having a hard time picturing you sitting in your apartment in Lemon Grove, saying, ‘I think I’ll rent a run-down cabin on the shore of a small lake no one outside Canyon County, Oklahoma, has even heard of.’”

  As he expected, she chose to answer the wrong part of his comment. “The cabin’s not run-down. It’s rustic.”

  “You’re playing with words.”

  A smile flashed across her lips, then disappeared. “That’s my job.”

  And his job was finding out the truth…at least, it had been. For the first time since the disciplinary hearing last winter, he was tempted to do a little cop work. As temptations went, though, it was a mild one, just a passing thought that he could find out her truth if he wanted. If he cared enough. Since he neither wanted nor cared…

  She surprised him when, after a moment of paying proper attention to the potato-and-cheese casserole accompanying the steak, she actually offered him some information. “You’re right. I didn’t leave Lemon Grove with the intent of coming to Buffalo Lake. I knew I was coming to Oklahoma, but I didn’t decide on an exact destination until I got here.”

  “Why here? Why not Shangri-La or one of the other resorts?”

  “Do you know how much rent the Davison family is charging for the cabin? Two hundred bucks a month. Furnished. I can spend six months there for the cost of—what?—maybe a few weeks at one of those resorts. Besides, conveniences and luxuries are just a distraction I don’t need.”

  “That’s redundant, isn’t it? Or is there a distraction you do need?”

  Her face colored, making him wonder if she was remembering Shay calling him a distraction. Wants attention all the time, she’d said, which wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t want everyone’s attention—just Cassidy’s at the moment—and he didn’t even want that all the time.

  Just more than was wise.

  Without waiting for an answer that he really didn’t think was forthcoming, he polished off the last bite of his burger, then drained the last of his pop. “What do you do on a hot summer day in Lemon Grove?”

  “I sit in my air-conditioned office and work.”

  “All the time? You don’t go to the beach or into the mountains? No drives north to L.A. or south to Tijuana?”

  “I’m not an outdoor sort of girl. What can I say? I’m dedicated to my job.” That much was one-hundred-percent true, Cassidy reflected. Her job was staying alive, and she was committed to it twenty-four hours a day.

  She took one last bite of tender, battered steak, then pushed the plate away. As if alerted by some sixth sense, the waitress immediately appeared. “Did you save room for dessert? Manuel baked up some dewberry cobblers this morning.”

  Though she didn’t know what dewberries were, Cassidy was tempted. “Cobbler” was enough to do that to her. Peach, cherry, blackberry—she wasn’t finicky. She loved them all, especially warm from the oven with a scoop or two of vanilla ice cream melting over them. But she’d stuffed herself on chicken-fried steak, potatoes and creamy cucumber salad and didn’t have room left for one single berry.

  “None for me,” she said politely.

  “How about a co
uple servings to go?” Jace suggested, giving the waitress a smile that made her melt like the ice cream Cassidy had been fantasizing about.

  While the woman left to get his cobbler, Cassidy let her gaze slide around the restaurant. The fixtures showed a lot of hard wear, much like the customers. Even so, it held a certain homey appeal. It was a place to meet friends, to catch up on news, to enjoy good food at good prices, to connect with other people. Once upon a time she’d had favorite restaurants where she’d been greeted by name, where the waitresses knew her favorite dishes, where she’d connected.

  She missed that.

  “You ready?”

  Refocusing her attention, she saw Jace was holding a foil pan and their ticket and was about to stand. As she slid to her feet and slung her purse over one shoulder, he dropped some ones on the table, then gestured for her to precede him to the cash register near the door. There she withdrew her wallet, but he gave a shake of his head.

  “I can pay for my own lunch.”

  “It was my invitation.” He handed a twenty to the waitress, pocketed his change, then followed her outside.

  Though the grocery store was only half a block away, they drove. Jace parked in the shade of a huge oak, then glanced back across the street when he got out. “I need to make one stop,” he said when she joined him at the back of the truck. “Why don’t you go on in, and I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Sure.” She was not disappointed, she told herself as she crossed the parking lot. She always did her grocery shopping alone and there was no reason to mind it today.

  Always shop on a full stomach, her mother preached. The theory, as Cassidy recalled, was that she wouldn’t make impulse purchases based on hunger. The downside was that, with her stomach so full, she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for any of the foods available.

  It was going to be a salad kind of week, she decided as she gathered the ingredients for chicken salad, pasta salad, garden salad and potato salad. She added a few staples—cereal, milk, ice cream and chocolate—along with a paperback from the limited selection, and was finishing up on the pop-and-potato-chip aisle when a man near the checkout caught her attention. Jace, she thought with a rush of warmth that was more pleasurable than was good for her.

  No, not Jace. The clothes were a match, but this man’s back was to her and there was no long, silky black ponytail to be seen. His hair was short, as short as hers.

  Then he turned, saw her and started toward her.

  “You cut your hair,” she blurted when he was still fifteen feet away. Damn! As if he hadn’t been handsome enough before. He was a dangerous man, she’d decided on their way into town. Now she amended that to very dangerous.

  He combed his fingers through it, dislodging a few stray hairs. “It’s getting too hot to wear it long. I never liked it that way anyway.”

  “Then why let it get so long?”

  “It was easier than getting it cut.”

  She wanted to ask when he’d last cut it. Back in the winter, she would bet, when he hadn’t wanted anyone’s attention. What had happened? Had he undergone some personal crisis, been depressed or sick or in trouble?

  He would tell her…if she answered all his questions first.

  She didn’t want to know that badly.

  Instead of getting his own shopping cart, he turned hers back from the register and took it—and her by default—on a quick sweep through the store. Though he wasn’t working from a list, he knew what items he wanted and in what brands and sizes. He gathered twice the amount of food she had in less than half the time, then steered the cart to the checkout.

  The cashier was a pretty woman with auburn hair and a name tag identifying her as Ginger pinned to a snug-fitting T-shirt. “Hi, Jace,” she said warmly before turning her attention to Cassidy. Her gaze narrowed and her smile slipped a bit, but when she finally greeted her, it was with almost the same warmth. She rang up Jace’s purchases first while a teenage boy in baggy denim shorts sacked them.

  “Are you visiting Jace?” she asked as she started on Cassidy’s groceries.

  Cassidy glanced at Jace, talking football with the bagger and paying them no mind. “No. I’m renting the Davison cabin out at the lake.”

  “Oh, you’re the one—the writer from Alabama.” Ginger smiled. “I go out with Buddy Davison from time to time. He mentioned it.”

  “Actually, it’s South Carolina,” Cassidy corrected her. Ask the same question ten times and she would give ten different answers. That was one of her methods of survival.

  “No, I’m pretty sure Buddy said Alabama. He says you write history books.”

  Had she told Paulette Fox that? Cassidy wondered. Maybe. Hell, she’d told the woman she was from Alabama, when she’d never set foot in the state. She’d gotten in the habit of not paying a great deal of attention to her lies. After all, she was rarely in one place long enough for her untruthfulness to catch up to her, and this place wasn’t likely to be any different. “Not history books. Historical novels.”

  As soon as the words were out she inwardly grimaced. That was dumb. If she knew little about writing books in general, she knew nothing about writing historical books. The only history she was intimately familiar with was her own, and it had always been fairly innocuous…until six years ago. Then it had gotten interesting. Three years after that it had become movie-of-the-week material. Now it was boring and lonely, but tempered by the certain knowledge that it could all blow up at any moment.

  Baseball, her father liked to say, was a game made up of long stretches of tedium broken by brief spurts of excitement. It was an apt description of her life.

  “I don’t read much,” Ginger said, “but I always thought it would be cool to write a book. Of course, I just barely squeaked through senior English, and I don’t have a clue what I would write about, and really I don’t think I have what it takes. I can’t even bring myself to write a letter from time to time, so I think a book is pretty much out of the question.”

  That was something else Cassidy had learned in her brief “career”—not only was everyone planning to write a book someday, but they equated completing a four-hundred-page novel with writing a one-page letter to Grandma. It was as if they defined write in its simplest form—putting words to paper—and never acknowledged the difference between that and telling a logical, compelling, cohesive story.

  She had learned the difference all too well in her past few days at the computer.

  Ginger read out the total of her purchases and Cassidy handed over three twenties. She glanced up as Jace moved to her side again, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead his gaze was on her open wallet. The wallet where a Wisconsin driver’s license was half revealed behind an old photograph. Abruptly she snapped the wallet shut, accepted her change and dropped it, coins and all, into the bottom of her purse.

  “See you, Jace,” Ginger said, then added to Cassidy, “Nice meeting you.”

  Cassidy murmured something appropriate—she hoped—then followed the bagger toward the door, Jace right behind her. Her jaw was clenched as she waited for him to say something about the license, but when he finally spoke, the subject was harmless.

  “You like to fish?”

  The relief that rushed over her was enough to weaken her knees. It must have been the photograph he’d seen and not the driver’s license, or surely he would be questioning her about it. He’d never hesitated yet to ask whatever came to mind, and surely a license in a different name from a different state would rouse a curiosity too strong to resist.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, hoping her tone was as casual as the question deserved. “I’ve never tried.”

  Naturally that wasn’t entirely true.

  There had been the time with her dad, when she’d impaled a fish hook in her foot and required a trip to the emergency room to remove it. And the time with her brother, David, when she’d knocked his precious hand-tied lures overboard and he’d tossed her after them. And the time with Phil, trying
to impress him by removing the ugly creature she’d caught quite by accident from its hook. It had latched onto her finger the way Liza Beth had claimed Jace’s, and in her resulting hysteria, that time it had been Phil who’d gone overboard. Not surprisingly, none of the three had ever invited her fishing again.

  “It’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon. We’ll give it a try sometime…when you don’t mind being distracted.”

  She frowned at him and saw he was giving her a sidelong look and grinning. He was entirely too handsome when he grinned, with all the mischievousness of a boy run wild…and all the sexiness of a man full grown. It made her want to blurt, How about now? Thankfully she managed to keep the words inside and politely said, “That sounds like fun.”

  And for once, she thought as she climbed into the truck and turned the air-conditioner vents her way on full blast, that was the honest truth.

  Chapter 4

  “You lied to me.”

  Jace backed away from the door the next afternoon as Neely opened the screen door and walked into the cabin as if she had a right. Technically, since her husband was half owner, she did have that right. He kept backing, not stopping until the sofa was behind him, then folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her. He knew it wasn’t a very good scowl—he loved her too much to ever get really annoyed with her—but he pretended anyway. “About what?”

  “Your neighbor. You remember, the one who’s this tall, round, old enough to be your mother and not your type?” She copied his position, then added a tapping toe to it. “I happened to stop by Shay’s yesterday and the waitress said you’d been in for lunch with your new neighbor. Then I went to the grocery store and Ginger said you’d been in there, too. They said she’s pretty, blond, about her age, and Ginger said you looked… How did she phrase it?” She raised one hand to tap a fingertip against her chin, then feigned enlightenment. “Smitten. She said you looked smitten with her.”

  “Smitten. That’s a good old-fashioned word. Sounds like something my dad would use, or maybe Uncle Del, but not Ginger. I’m kind of surprised that she even knows it.”