Читать книгу Sweet Devotion - Felicia Mason - Страница 8

Paul Evans pulled into his driveway after a long shift. In his three months in Wayside, this had been the first time he’d experienced any rowdiness in the small town.

And he’d take what amounted to a massive food fight over the rough and tumble of the place he’d come from. Wayside, Oregon, was a world and a culture away from Los Angeles.

He’d been given a heads-up about the Wayside Revelers, so he’d been expecting a need to cruise by their dinner-dance during his patrol shift.

The Revelers were all supposed to be retirees, or at least card-carrying members of the AARP. One in particular, however, didn’t fit that profile. Paul hadn’t been prepared for the fiery beauty who stood up to him brandishing a knife.

How was he supposed to have known she was the caterer? Her eyes flashed and she looked as if she were out for blood—his in particular. In the evidence room, he’d taken a look at that knife again. Carving knife or not, it could have done some damage had it truly been used as a weapon.

On the drive home, just one thing stuck with Paul, though, nicking his conscious, pestering his peace of mind, making him doubt what he’d seen with his own two eyes: How could he have grabbed her so hard that he’d left a bruise?

That ate at him like nothing else—even the fact that she kept saying “again.” He searched his memory, but couldn’t recall arresting her in L.A. Granted, he’d arrested a lot of people in his ten years as a cop on the street there. Maybe she’d been in the number. But surely he’d remember someone who looked like Amber Montgomery—like summer and cornfields and blue skies.

She’d caught his eye, all right.

Not remembering her as a suspect in L.A., however, didn’t bother him as much as that bruise on her arm.

The other Revelers tossed food around. Messy, yes. But not necessarily deadly. The knife wielded by Amber Montgomery, well, that piece of business was another story altogether. Despite her objection, the weapon had been bagged, tagged and put into an evidence locker at the police station.

He thought he’d let go of at least some of the wariness and care that had served him well on the LAPD. But apparently, he’d not yet gotten acclimated to Wayside and its considerably lower crime rate.

If a geriatric food fight ranked as serious crime here—serious enough to roust the mayor and get him to police headquarters—Paul had definitely settled in the right place. In a city the size of Los Angeles, only crimes like mass rioting, terrorism or a high-profile celebrity slaying ranked severe enough for top public officials to make an unscheduled appearance at police headquarters.

Yeah, he’d take a food fight any day over what he’d left behind.

Drawing a deep breath, Paul shed the cares of the job in exchange for the role that brought him the greatest sense of satisfaction.

“Hi, Eunice,” he said, walking in his front door. He un-buckled his gun belt, locked both the revolver and the belt in a closet, then tucked the key away on the chain he always wore around his neck.

“Well, howdy, Chief. Busy night, huh? I heard the Revelers got out of control again.”

He nodded. “You could say that. Thanks for staying with the kids.”

She wrapped up the knitting she’d been doing, placed yarn and needles in a large quilted bag at her side. “Not a problem. Sutton and Jonathan are fast asleep, bless their little hearts. You have two fine children there, Chief.”

Paul thought so, too. “I hope they didn’t wear you out too much.”

Eunice pooh-poohed that. “If anything, it’s the other way around,” she said on a chuckle. “We had fun.”

He pulled out his wallet.

“If you hand me any money, Paul Evans, I’m going to be mighty insulted.”

“Eunice, I can’t let you do this and not pay you.”

“You’re new to Wayside,” she said, patting his hand. “You’ll get the hang of the place soon. I left a plate of cookies for you. We made gingerbread men.”

Paul smiled. Having Eunice Gallagher living right across the street was a godsend, one of many he’d encountered in Wayside. She was the secretary at Community Christian Church, where he’d transferred his membership shortly after arriving in Wayside. A native of Wayside, she’d all but adopted him and his kids.

He helped her with her coat.

“Eunice, do you know a woman by the name of Amber Montgomery?”

The older lady beamed. “Of course! Everybody knows Amber. Don’t tell me you haven’t had one of her honey pecan rolls yet.”

“Honey pecan rolls?”

Eunice laughed. “Goodness, how in the world have you lived here for three months and not had one of those yet? Tell you what, I’ll swing by the inn tomorrow and get you some if they’re not sold out by the time I get there. You’re in for a treat.”

He was still trying to understand. “Wait, so she’s the town baker?”

Eunice picked up her knitting bag. “No. She’s a gourmet chef. She runs a catering business called Appetizers & More, but most people know her for the honey pecan rolls and her lemon meringue tarts.” Eunice smacked her lips. “Talk about delicious.”

Since he’d been hit with potatoes and not tarts, Paul couldn’t agree or disagree. He thought back to Amber’s earlier behavior, though, if she hadn’t looked so dazed, he’d have sworn she’d played a tactic used by nonviolent protesters. That going limp bit had been used for decades.

“Shock,” he surmised. She had to have been in shock. Law-abiding citizens could be counted on to react in one of two ways—outrage or polite pacifism—while they waited patiently or impatiently—for things to get sorted out.

He’d spent so many years working the violent streets of South-Central L.A. that he’d forgotten about law-abiding citizens. Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d had a knife in his face. But it probably was the first time in his law enforcement career that the brandisher hadn’t tried to slice him with it.

Paul felt bad—really, really bad—about the bruise he’d put on her arm.

After he watched Eunice cross the street, open her door then flick her front porch light, Paul looked in on his sleeping children. Sutton, whose teddy bear Bentley and rag doll Angel cuddled close to her, looked like an angel herself. Her blond curls spread out over the pillow.

She looked a lot like her mom. Paul’s heart constricted at the thought.

He stood watching her for a while. Then he placed a kiss on her head and whispered “I love you” to the sleeping child.

A bathroom connected the two bedrooms, and the doors always remained open. On the countertop sat Wally, another of Sutton’s stuffed toys—this one a rainbow fish.

With a small chuckle, Paul greeted Wally. “So you’re on the night watch this evening.”

Paul walked through to Jonathan’s room where lights blazed overhead and at the boy’s desk. Sprawled on his twin bed with its cartoon-character sheets, Jonathan had, as usual, kicked all the covers off. Paul tugged the sheet and light blanket up.

The boy stirred. “Izzat you, Unca Pa?”

Paul smiled, easily translating the sleep talk. “Yeah, sport. It’s me. I’m home. Go back to sleep.”

Jonathan sat up, bleary eyed. “Tried to stay awake. Protect the women.”

“I know, sport.”

His heart went out to the child. Paul hugged him close, then settled him down and tucked him in. “I’ll take over the watch now. All right?”

Jonathan murmured his assent and closed his eyes. Paul leaned down, pressed a kiss to the boy’s head, then turned off the lights in the bedroom.

The bathroom lights stayed on at night. Always. They helped chase the bad guys away.

Amber didn’t have an answer to Haley’s question. No doubt about it, she’d flashed to Raymond Alvarez tonight, at some point confusing the two men, the two situations. Miles away from her former terror, she thought she’d put it all behind her. Until tonight.

The height, the uniform, the eyes…

She shook her head, again thinking of Paul Evans’s eyes. Were they the same deep Mediterranean blue as Raymond Alvarez’s? She couldn’t remember, but the police chief’s were somehow different. Kinder maybe?

No, not kinder, she decided. Compassionate. Though he wore the uniform and carried the gun, Paul Evans’s eyes had regarded her with warmth. Raymond’s eyes, like his soul, were hollow, devoid of any human warmth or consideration. He was a heartless snake in the grass, and it had taken a long time for her to realize that. Too long.

“Would you like me to stay with you tonight?” Haley asked.

Amber shook her head. If there were any ghosts that needed exorcising, she’d do it alone. “No.”

“How about staying over with me and Matt? The bed in the guest room is mucho comfy.”

That got a small smile, but Amber shook her head again. “I’m all right.” And she truly believed she was. She rubbed her upper arm where the cop had gripped her.

“Maybe we should swing by the hospital and have that looked at.”

“It’s just a bruise, Haley,” Amber said. “I’ve survived much worse.”

There was nothing Haley could say to that.

After Haley dropped her off, Amber let herself into her apartment.

Once before she’d been a victim. Never, ever again. Anger still propelling her, and before the fear kicked in, she drafted a letter demanding an investigation into the unnecessary force used by the police chief of Wayside, Oregon. It felt good, too, to lambaste him in writing for the way he’d manhandled her.

In the morning, she’d mail copies to the mayor, the town council, the editor of the Wayside Gazette and the news department at the radio station she listened to. Amber knew that letting off steam in the letter was healthy—a much better response than when she used to pretend that nothing was wrong, that her feelings or her body hadn’t been physically violated.

Surveying her handiwork, she nodded, satisfied, then put the letters in envelopes and stamped them. Then, with every light on in her house, Amber sat in a deep chair, arms curled around her legs.

Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep.

Morning came quickly. She ran five miles to get the kinks out of her body and to chase away the shadows of the previous evening. The fresh air of an early Oregon morning did wonders in restoring her self-confidence. She’d face down this day and whatever it delivered with a new determination, a new purpose.

The lesson of last night, Amber decided, was a test of her commitment to rebuilding her life post-Raymond. It had taken three years—three long, liberating years—to get where she was today. Amber had no intention of letting one bullying police chief bring her down again.

After returning from her run, she showered and tried to shrug off the vestiges of the previous night’s trauma. Next to running, which she did at every opportunity, Amber’s all-time favorite stress reliever was working in her kitchen. Today she got to do something fun, something she enjoyed. She mixed up the basic dough for sugar cookies and chocolate chip cookies.

Using a light frosting, she decorated the sugar cookies once they were baked, with whimsical designs. It was time to pack up the cookies that were ready. She lined a large basket with a red-and-white gingham cloth and alternated layers of chocolate chip and sugar cookies.

She pulled a clean apron with the logo of her Appetizers & More company out of a drawer. She added a miniature version of it to the stack of stuff she’d need. Then, with basket in hand, she headed outside. That’s when she remembered her van wasn’t out back where it was supposed to be, but still at the community center. She couldn’t very well make deliveries on her bicycle.

Frustrated, Amber returned to her apartment and called Caleb, told him where the extra key was hidden under the tire carrier, and listened to a lecture about leaving a spare key where any common criminal could get it.

“Like we have common criminals in Wayside,” she muttered.

“Amber, there are criminals here.”

“And one of them wears a badge that says ‘Police Chief,’” she retorted. “Are you going to get my van or not?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I’ll get it.”

She wasn’t about to tell him that, during the bad time, she’d taken up the practice of keeping a key hidden on her vehicle, never knowing if she might have to escape with just the clothes on her back, that spare key her only route to freedom.

It had come to that.

Thanks to Police Chief Paul Evans, those memories, ones she’d managed to suppress in order to make it through each day, now lay right on the surface, taunting her again. Reminding her that a woman was never truly safe.

Fifteen minutes later, Caleb drove up in her van, a Wayside squad car behind him. Amber couldn’t see who sat behind the wheel.

“Sorry about the inconvenience, Amber.”

He smiled a shy smile and handed her the key. “Where you headed today?”

“Over to Sunshine and Rainbows,” she told him. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back.” Amber dashed back to her apartment, tucked a couple of cookies in a small waxed paper sleeve, sealed it with one of her company stickers and picked up her cookie basket.

Back downstairs, she handed Caleb the cookie bag.

A big grin split his face. “Thanks, Amber.” He glanced back at the squad car. “Do I have to share?”

“These,” she said holding up the basket, “are one way for the kids to learn about sharing. So the answer to you is yes.”

The cop groaned and Amber laughed. “Thanks for bringing the van over.”

“Not a problem. The chief’s really sorry about—”

Amber held up a hand. “Don’t even mention him in my presence.”

Shaking his head, Caleb glanced back at the squad car. “But, Amber, he’s a good guy. Really.”

She slid open the side door and tucked the cookie basket inside. “If you really want to show me that you’re a good guy,” she said, “you’ll help me load up the rest of the van.”

Looking over his shoulder again, Caleb shrugged.

Not waiting for an answer from him, she headed back inside to get the two additional deliveries she had to make: one to the Wayside Inn Bed & Breakfast, and the other, a special order, to the Train Depot.

A few minutes later, Caleb slid the tray for the inn into the specially designed rack in the van. “Amber, I really think you should reconsider about Chief Evans.”

She faced him, her expression serious. “Caleb, if you want to remain friends, and I hope you do, you’ll not mention the police chief or your unfortunate choice of occupation in my presence. Comprende?”

The cop nodded.

“All right, then. I’ll see you around.”

She left him standing in front of the house where she rented a second-floor apartment.

Caleb went back to the waiting squad car and got in the passenger seat.

“She’s still pretty steamed at you, Chief.”

“I gathered as much from your frantic waving. What’s she doing?”

“Making deliveries. I can’t believe you’ve been here for three months and you haven’t had one of her honey pecan rolls.” The cop smacked his lips together. “Delicious.”

“So I’ve heard.” Paul pulled onto the street to head back to the station. “She shouldn’t leave spare keys on her vehicle. That’s just inviting trouble.”

Caleb broke the sticker seal on his treat and counted his cookies. Two. He glanced at the chief sitting next to him.

“What?” asked Paul.

“I only got two.”

“Two what?”

“Cookies. She said I had to share.”

“Cookies?” In a flash, Paul knew just where one of her deliveries would be made. For the last month, Sutton and Jonathan had been raving about the Cookie Lady at their after-school program. She came once a week. From their description—soft and funny, and “she smells good”—that from Jonathan—he’d come to the conclusion that the Cookie Lady was a sixtyish grandmother who spent her retirement baking cookies for the town’s kids.

If, as he suddenly suspected, Amber Montgomery was the Cookie Lady…Jonathan was partly right. Paul could claim firsthand knowledge of the soft part. But the Amber he’d met smelled like beets, beef and lemon meringue. And there’d been nothing funny or entertaining about last night.

Breaking off a teeny, tiny bit of chocolate chip cookie from the large treat, Caleb offered it to Paul.

“What’s this?”

“Well, she said I had to share. But if she knew you were the person in this car, I don’t think she’d want you to have any.”

Paul snorted. “You’re probably right.” He glanced at the sliver. “This is your idea of sharing?”

Caleb bit a piece of his much larger cookie, closed his eyes and moaned. “I’d marry that woman in a heartbeat if she were interested.”

That comment earned him a quizzical look.

“She doesn’t date.”

Paul grinned. “Maybe you’re not her type.”

Caleb smiled back. “That may be so.” He waved the last bite of the first cookie at Paul, then popped it in his mouth. “But I’m the one with the cookies.”