by Penny Reid
According to Flo McClure, Karen Smith had tried to walk over while they were at the playground and the guards wouldn’t let her within a ten-foot radius. I imagine this made Charlotte happy. Karen Smith was widely recognized as one of the town’s main gossips and had perpetuated the idea after Charlotte’s divorce from Kevin that Charlotte was someone to be pitied.
Cletus had told me in passing that most of Rae’s entourage had been sent packing to LA after three crazy days, everyone except the two guards and her PA. I hadn’t seen the PA, and I didn’t know why the sight of the two men grated, but it did. Did they sleep at the carriage house with Rae? Was she ever alone? I wanted her to be safe, protected, looked after, but how could she live like that? Being followed everywhere she went sounded terrible. Didn’t she have any privacy?
But then, I’d broken my own rule for the first time in over five years and Googled Raquel Ezra, searching for articles on when she’d started using bodyguards. A whole slew of truly disturbing stories popped up—like one about an intruder who’d brought rope into her house and she’d burned him with a curling iron, and another guy who’d followed her around Sunset Boulevard, flashing her, and another guy who’d tried to climb the gates of her current residence—and suddenly I didn’t mind the guards’ presence anymore.
If anything, I felt a bit angry with her that she hadn’t seen fit to bring them with her to Green Valley from the get-go.
“Bad day, Jackson?” Flo asked, tossing a file on my clean desk, it landed with a smack.
“No. Day’s been fine. How’s yours?”
“Okay, I guess. This is the paperwork for that overdose two days ago, the one at the hotel, not the one at the residential address. The family is asking for a more detailed report.”
I picked up the folder and issued her a tight smile. “I’ll ask Boone if he has anything to add, go back over what I wrote, see if I can provide more detail.”
Third reason I’d kept my distance, a random string of opiate overdoses, a kidnapping victim found dead in the park, and a slew of domestic abuse calls during the last week and a half. Since I was stuck in the station, I’d been the one typing up the reports, acting as the secretary for everyone else. I didn’t mind the assignment, given what my thoughtless (and yet worth it) actions had brought me, and I wanted to help, but there was a reason I hadn’t become a coroner.
Each of the deaths struck me as more depressing than the last. Being the conduit through which needless, seemingly endless death was described for official purposes and consumption hadn’t done much for my state of mind.
Flo nodded, studying me. “Seriously, you doing all right, Jackson?”
“Just fine, thanks.” I flipped open the folder and pretended to scan the intake form.
“You—uh—had a chance to catch up with your Ms. Ezra yet? How is she holding up? Did she and that Harrison fella finally call it quits?”
I gathered a deep, silent inhale through my nose and forced a bored, even tone as I replied, “I haven’t spoken to Ms. Ezra. I imagine she’s fine. Maybe call Charlotte, she would know.”
Which brings me to my fourth and final reason for avoiding Rae—Ms. Ezra—I was determined to think of her as Ms. Ezra from now on.
I could not be trusted around her without losing every stitch of my good sense. Let me clarify that: I did not trust myself around Ms. Ezra. She wasn’t the problem. I was the problem.
Taking her on that drive had been a mistake. Kissing her, touching her, making her come in my arms had all been grievous errors in judgment, and I didn’t like myself much afterward. I’d been pushy. When she put my hand on her body, it was like I’d lost my mind.
Point was, being around Ms. Ezra made me someone else, someone thoughtless, reckless, someone who cared only about feeling good in the moment rather than staying focused on my worthwhile goals for the long term. Being with her was as easy as breathing. Her presence made my head swim and my heart light, but it did not make me a better person.
For example, being with Ms. Ezra had me considering absurd ideas, like quitting my job here and looking for a position with the LA County Sheriff’s Department, moving out to California so we might be able to . . .
What? What exactly do you think a movie star wants with someone like you?
She wanted a fun time. Following her to Los Angeles just to be her fun time would be crazy. And foolish. And a waste of all the hard work I’d been putting in here. I wanted to be sheriff of this county, but more than that, I wanted to deserve the job.
I needed to push her from my mind. I walked the other way whenever I spotted her, determined to stop being an idiot, determined to stop thinking about her because I knew reaching or pushing for someone so far above my level would eventually come with a hard, painful fall.
Stay upright, Jackson.
Flo loitered for a long moment and then left, her feet scuffing against the linoleum floor as she went. Karen Smith may’ve been the town gossip, but Flo McClure was usually the source of it. The less I said to Flo, the better. I didn’t wish to provide any additional fodder.
Surprisingly—and I wasn’t complaining— I had not been at the center of Karen Smith’s or Flo’s gossip mill these days. Sienna and Jethro’s plan to save my reputation had worked. Mostly.
Folks in town were quick to eat up the story Rae, Charlotte, and Sienna had spread around at the jam session, that I’d been off duty and doing Rae a favor, offering to help her break free from a toxic relationship.
I couldn’t believe it. This explanation for our kiss in front of the ATM made absolutely no sense. But what did I know? People apparently found the story easier to swallow than the possibility that Raquel Ezra wanted to be with me.
Most folks even felt sorry for me and had told me as much. I’d done Ms. Ezra a favor and ended up with a parade of photographers tailing me everywhere I went. With the townsfolk, I’d come out of ATM-gate smelling like a rose. A sad, inconsequential rose, but a rose nonetheless.
My work colleagues seemed more skeptical. Maybe because some of them were present when Rae had shown up with that sour cherry pie? Regardless, no one had come out and asked me what happened—in fact, most everyone had given me a wide berth—but I got the sense they knew there was more to the story.
The sheriff, meanwhile, would have none of it. And he obviously didn’t wish to discuss it. We hadn’t spoken in private since the meeting with Mike. In front of my coworkers, he’d been the same as he usually was—professional, thoughtful, respectful—but if my father had more to say, he’d kept those thoughts to himself.
My mother, on the other hand, stopped by my house in the evenings unannounced when I was working on the boat, bringing my favorite dinners and offering to do my laundry. She’d say, “Hang in there, baby.” I knew she was referring to the strained relationship between me and my father, not the paparazzi.
She’d also say, “I don’t want to pry, but if you need to talk about anything, you let me know.”
My mother had recently—within the last few years—retired from teaching elementary school, but she still volunteered as a teaching assistant three days a week. She was basically MacGyver, Martha Stewart, and Captain Marvel all rolled up into one woman. Janet James could turn dirt and a paper clip into a winning science fair project, bake ten dozen gluten-free, dairy-free cupcakes while grading assignments, making dinner, and checking in to ensure my sister and I had finished our homework, washed our hands, and eaten our vegetables—all without breaking a sweat or displaying a single crack in her outward calm.
She was basically the most competent, capable, supportive, kindhearted, no-nonsense person on the planet.
I wasn’t going to talk to her about anything, least of all the ways I’d failed to live up to my father’s expectations.
I rubbed my forehead and flipped through the file on the overdose. These were printouts of documents that existed in the online system, but Florence and the rest of the administrative staff liked their paper files for recent cases.
“Is that the overdose the Nelson family keeps calling about? Or is that the FBI file for the kidnapping?” my father’s voice asked from somewhere behind me.
My instinct was to stiffen, which I did, but I also managed to nod. “It’s the overdose. I’ll add more details.” I’d finished with the kidnapping file hours ago, but I still couldn’t get the crime-scene images out of my mind. What I needed was to go on a long, punishing run; or maybe spend ten hours working on the boat.
I’d often wished I was one of those folks who could get drunk, but drinking more than three beers just bought me a cluster headache and a world of hurt.
“I read the report you and Boone put together on that overdose. Not sure how much more detailed y’all can get.” His hand came to my shoulder, gave it a pat. “They’re not going to be happy, no matter what you say. Sometimes there are no answers that will satisfy. Best to tell the truth and move on.”
“Even so . . .” I flipped to the third page, bypassing a picture of the young woman lying on the floor of a hotel room, a crime scene photo taken before the death had been ruled an overdose.
I sensed him hover behind me while I pulled out my notepad and jotted down a few questions for Boone. We’d been thorough, but maybe there was something we could add that might lessen the Nelsons’ grief, even a little.
“I understand you wanting to do right by the Nelsons, but there’s more than enough work to do, Jackson,” my father said finally, his footfalls carrying him away. “Don’t spend too much time weeding an empty garden.”
My father’s comment about weeding empty gardens came from his father. His father—my grandfather—had been a farmer, and all his sayings seemed to revolve around dirt and plants and weather, but it also reminded me that this Saturday was my day to visit the plots.
I’d been roped into adopting plots by Ashley and her husband Drew. Ashley mentioned a year or so ago that the park rangers needed more volunteers for their adopt-a-plot program. Normal, nonscience folks like me would take time out of their schedules to collect seasonal biological information about designated areas inside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, like when wildflowers bloomed, which kinds, how many; changes in the tree canopy; changes in the surround foliage. That kind of stuff.
Charlotte and her kids had come out with me a few times. Documenting the flora had always sparked some interesting conversations. I had four plots, two along Cooper Road Trail and two about a hundred yards from the parking lot at Cades Cove—one to the north, the other to the south. Even though less monitoring was required during June and July, I wanted to make sure I did my due diligence.
Saturday morning, after a quick breakfast and coffee, I set off for Cooper Road Trail with my notebook and pen. Once I’d finished investigating and writing down all the relevant information, I hiked the rest of the trail and did my best to enjoy the unseasonably cool summer morning, ready to turn my mind to something other than images of overdoses and violent death.
I then set off for Cades Cove, realizing once I’d parked that the day had gotten away from me. It was now just past 4:00 PM, and I’d missed lunch.
My notebook and pen in hand, I jogged toward the first plot. I thought maybe I heard someone call out my name and looked over my shoulder, but I didn’t slow. If I neglected to eat soon, I’d be in danger of a cluster headache. I needed to make quick work of it and get back home.
When I didn’t immediately notice anyone who might’ve been shouting my name, I continued toward the plot, not seeing the big man in dark sunglasses and a dark suit until I was almost on top of him.
“Hey. You. Stop,” he said, stepping in my path.
I did stop, drawing up short and frowning at the granite set of his jaw. I recognized him. This was one of Rae’s—I mean, Ms. Ezra’s—bodyguards. Which meant—
“It’s okay, Dave! This is a friend,” a voice full of sunshine and rainbows called out, and I caught sight of her a split second before my lungs seized. Rae waded through the tall grass of the prairie and wore tight yoga pants—or something like them—a fitted plain white T-shirt, and a baseball cap. She came from the direction of my plot.
I swallowed both my surprise and a rush of chaotic sentiments, taking a step back at her approach, my brain telling me to turn around, go home, eat some food, and check on the plot next weekend. But the rest of me rebelled. I stood rooted in place, ensnared by the vision of Rae.
“Hi.” She walked right up to me and gave me a big hug. “I—uh—I missed you.”
I stifled a groan, closing my eyes and bracing too late for the impact of her. Even surrounded by the earthy smells of the grasses, trees, and prairie, her scent enveloped me. I breathed in, my lungs hot and aching, my arms coming around her body, holding her.
Jackson, if you are photographed with her, it will be—
Worth it. So, so worth it.
“Hi,” I said, breathing past the spiky heat in my chest and relaxing into her embrace. Since the hug was already happening, I might as well surrender to it.
We stood there like that for a time. I honestly have no idea how long. She readjusted her head, placing her cheek against my heart and pulling in a deep breath just to let it out on a big sigh two seconds later.
“Sorry I smell like bug spray. It’s good to see you,” she said, her voice quiet and shaded with sadness.
“You too.” It was good. Too good, my surly brain warned.
I pulled back, releasing her completely and stepping out of the circle of her arms. “What are you doing here?” Turning my head to glance at her guard, I gave him a short nod which he returned. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been narrowed to threatening slits.
Her eyes moved over me, her stare feeling somehow heavier than before, weighted with something I couldn’t place. “I’m supposed to meet Charlotte and the kids for a picnic here. Or, not here, but over there.” She twisted at the waist and pointed behind her.
Right at my plot.
Chapter 18
*Jackson*
“A sex symbol? A symbol of sex? I don’t think that I am a sex symbol, although it’s very flattering. I’m 59, now, so I think I’m possibly past my sell-by date. I think I am.”
Liam Neeson
“She sent me GPS coordinates and said it was important we meet precisely there because she had something to show me, but now she’s late.” Rae pulled her phone out of some unseen pocket and scrolled through a few screens. “She hasn’t texted, but I’m wondering if maybe my reception is spotty. Except my phone has full bars. I don’t know.”
“I see,” I drawled, my attention snagging on her second guard. He wasn’t as conspicuous as the first guy, turning his head this way and that as though scanning the horizon, but I felt his attention on me.
Perhaps discerning the direction of my thoughts, Rae gestured to the big guy first and the smaller guy second. “Jackson, this is Dave and Miguel. Dave, Miguel, this is Jackson.”
“Oh. You’re Jackson,” Miguel said, his posture immediately relaxing.
I walked over to Dave first since he was closest, extending my hand. “Yep. I’m Jackson.”
Dave took it, gave me a firm shake and another head nod. “Nice to meet you, man. Charlotte talks about you a lot.”
Miguel called over, “She’s not the only one.”
I looked between the two men, my eyebrow raised in question. I wanted to thank them for looking after Rae and keeping her safe, but I wasn’t certain how my expression of gratitude would be received. She wasn’t mine to fuss or worry over. Even so . . .
“They’re hilarious,” Rae said. I found her blushing but not smiling. “And they’re both under an NDA, so they shouldn’t be volunteering any unnecessary information.” Unless I was mistaken, this last part sounded like a legitimate threat. I’d never heard her voice so stern.
Bemused, I walked over to Miguel. He grinned widely at me. Or maybe he grinned widely at Rae’s threat.
As we shook h
ands, he leaned close and whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
“I heard that!” Rae marched over and grabbed my arm. “Ignore them. We’re ignoring you!” she hollered.
Chuckling at this exchange, I allowed myself to be pulled behind her toward my plot and a red and white checked tablecloth spread on the ground. To one side of the circle sat a giant picnic basket.
“I’m so sorry about them,” she said on a rush. “They like to gossip.”
“Hey, Raquel,” Dave called over.
“I said we’re ignoring you!”
“We got company. Do you want me to stop them?”
We both turned and searched the prairie for newcomers. It took me about three seconds before I recognized the four women, all of whom were waving gleefully at us.
“Jackson!” Darlene Simmons—a tall redhead with whom I’d spent more than one enjoyable evening many years ago—sing-songed my name. “Yoo-hoo! Jackson! Didn’t you hear me calling your name in the parking lot?” Darlene was a medical doctor now.
Next to her were three more of my—ahem—conquests. Although, in retrospect, an argument could be made that I’d been a conquest for each of them, not the other way around. I’d never pushed, only taken what they’d freely offered.
Regardless, none of the ladies had been left unhappy by our arrangements, nor had they been left with a broken heart. I’d never shied away from greeting any of them if we’d happened to run into each other. Until now.
This cannot be happening.
I felt Rae’s eyes on my profile as she called to Dave, “It’s okay. Don’t stop them.”
“Right-o,” he said, sounding cheerful.