Читать книгу On Dean's Watch - Linda Winstead Jones - Страница 9

Reva no longer needed to act as hostess at one of the tables in her restaurant. The ladies who worked for her took care of that duty, joining the guests for a meal and telling them all about the history of the house and the town. That was just as well, since Reva had always been more comfortable behind the scenes. People loved her restaurant, and the food she served was always well received. These days she made a tidy profit from her cookbook, as well as the restaurant.

But no one could eat this way every day and not pay a price.

The guests were being seated when Edna burst into Reva’s second-floor office. “There you are. Thank goodness!”

Reva could not understand Edna’s excitement at finding her; she was always in her office at one o’clock.

“I hate to ask it of you,” Miss Edna said graciously, “but could you possibly take my seat this afternoon? I have table two.”

Reva rose, setting aside her menus for the following week. “Are you all right?” Edna rarely missed a meal. She was one of those lucky people who could eat like this every day and show no ill effects. Her health was fabulous, with a cholesterol count the envy of many younger women, and she never gained a pound.

“I have a bit of a headache,” Edna said softly. “Nothing to be concerned about, but an aspirin and a short nap sounds pretty good right about now.”

“Of course.” Reva did not consider herself as entertaining as her employees, who knew so much about this area and its history. Still, there had been a time when she’d performed hostess duties six days a week. She’d always done and would continue to do whatever was needed to make this place a success.

“Lovely.” Edna took Reva’s arm as she left her office. “I did squeeze one extra customer in,” she said absently as they walked down the stairs. “He looked very hungry, and I just couldn’t make myself turn him away.”

“An extra?”

“There was plenty of room,” Edna whispered. “Table two is really the largest of all the tables, you know. Well, except for table four, which can seat as many as thirteen, as you well know. Still, table two is certainly large enough for one more hungry young man.”

But…an extra? Edna was usually such a stickler for the rules. If you have no reservation and there’s no space available, you eat somewhere else, thank you very much.

“Be nice to him,” Edna said as they neared the room where table two was located. “He’s our new neighbor.” With that she released Reva’s arm and very quickly disappeared out the front door.

Well, crap.

Reva stood in the doorway and watched as two young waiters placed heavy platters and bowls laden with food on the large lazy Susan at the center of the oversize round table that usually seated ten. Today it was set for eleven. She quickly sized up the patrons.

Three seated couples were obviously tourists. They ranged in age from about thirty-five to sixty-five. Sandals, shorts, T-shirts and the surprised way they stared at the wealth of food being deposited on the table gave them away. A family of three, regulars who drove up from Alabama at least once a month, smiled in anticipation as the food was placed before them. Sharon Phillips and her husband, Doug, sat on either side of their only child, shy, nineteen-year-old Tracy.

The tenth guest, the man Reva had very nearly accosted with a Bradford pear limb last night, was seated next to the chair that had been left empty for her. He wasn’t ogling the food as the others were.

He was looking at her.

Oh, Edna would pay for this! This was a blatant, annoying and absolutely unnecessary attempt at matchmaking. The extra guest was handsome and hungry, and it was certainly no mistake that he’d been seated next to her. Headache, indeed. Reva resigned herself to enduring the meal without ever taking her revenge. How on earth could she scold a woman old enough to be her grandmother?

She crossed her fingers and prayed that Dean wouldn’t recognize her. It had been dark last night, and her hair had been tucked up under a cap. Even though she shouldn’t feel guilty—the man had been snooping on her property—she would feel better if the subject never came up again.

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling as she entered the room that had once been a music parlor. A few antique instruments were used as decoration in the room, as well as a few pieces of the original furniture. One of the waiters stood nearby the large round table, in case a platter or bowl was ever in danger of being emptied.

“Reva!” Sharon Phillips smiled widely in welcome. “What a treat. Why, we don’t see you often these days.”

“I’m afraid Miss Edna has a headache. I’m not nearly as entertaining as she is, so I hope you will all bear with me.” Reva lowered herself into her chair. Dean sat to her left; one of the tourists, a woman with bright-red hair, sat at her right.

The patrons filled their plates as the lazy Susan turned slowly, stopped for a moment and then moved on only to stop again. Reva suggested that everyone at the table introduce themselves as the food drifted by. She took a little bit of everything herself, as the dishes spun slowly past, very purposely not looking at the man beside her. She didn’t look even when they reached for the biscuits at the same time and his hand brushed hers. Briefly. Very, very, briefly. And still, there was a spark she could not deny. No! There could be no spark of any kind.

As she’d suspected, the three couples were all on vacation. Two were retired, and the other couple was taking two weeks to drive through Tennessee and Georgia. Her Alabama regulars introduced themselves and raved to the others about the food and Reva’s cookbook.

And then it was his turn.

She had avoided looking directly at the man at her side, but it was impossible to ignore him. He looked out of place in his dark suit and striped tie and spotless white shirt. Reva had a feeling it didn’t matter what he wore; Dean was not a man to be ignored. He had a solid, undeniably strong presence. There were moments when she had to force herself not to look his way.

She told herself he was probably married. Handsome and nicely built, he was not the kind of man who was normally unattached. Women swarmed over men like this one like bees on honey. There was no wedding ring, though, she noticed almost absently, but that didn’t mean anything. Not really.

She had a feeling he was not often truly uncomfortable; he was the sort of man who insisted on being in complete command of his life. But this afternoon he was tense, wound so tight he looked as if he was about to explode. Everyone else was smiling, chatting, enjoying themselves.

If he was so uncomfortable, why was he here?

“Dean Sinclair,” he said. It quickly became clear that he didn’t intend to share anything else about himself. Reva found that rude, since the others had all mentioned where they were from and what they did when they weren’t on vacation, but Dean seemed to think the mere mention of his name sufficient.

Fine with her.

But of course, it wasn’t fine with anyone else.

“Where do you live, Mr. Sinclair?” Sharon asked.

He glanced at the woman who had asked the friendly question. And hesitated. Reva found herself watching him as she awaited his answer. Good Lord, the man was more than a little gorgeous. He had one of those square jaws that looked as though it had been sculpted in stone, a perfectly shaped nose, nice lips…and killer blue eyes, slightly hooded. Last night she had not been able to tell that his eyes were blue—they’d been standing too far apart, and it had been too dark. Thanks to the dark and the distance, apparently he had not recognized her. Thank goodness.

This was a man with secrets, she thought, as he hesitated in his answer. A man who could turn a gullible woman’s world upside down. But Reva was no longer a gullible woman foolish enough to fall for a pretty face and a hard body. Some lessons only needed to be taught once.

“Atlanta,” he said after a pause that lasted a moment too long.

“What are you doing in Somerset?” one of the retired men asked. It was clear to everyone that Dean Sinclair was not on vacation.

Again, he hesitated. “I’m thinking of opening my own business here.”

Reva stared at him. “What kind of business?” Sharply dressed businessmen did not come to Somerset on a regular basis.

He looked at her, really truly looked at her. His eyes met hers and he took a deep breath. Good heavens, he almost smiled. He gave her that same half smile she’d seen last night, as if he were reluctantly amused. “I’m a contractor, a handyman specializing in updating and repairing older houses. I’ve always had an interest in nineteenth-century architecture.”

So much for hoping to go unnoticed. What had given her away? Her fingers twitched slightly, her throat constricted. Maybe she was reading too much into his smile and he didn’t recognize her at all.

Then again, what did it matter? Yes, it had been an embarrassing moment, since she’d threatened him and he’d apparently been innocent of any wrongdoing. But he had been where he should not, well after dark. She had no reason to be embarrassed.

A contractor! Reva forgot all about Dean’s fabulous eyes, his sculpted jaw, his wedding-ring-free hand and her own unnecessary chagrin. Instead, she thought of the rotting banister upstairs, the crumbling brick in the old kitchen fireplace and the sagging back porch. “Really?”

“I’m not sure we’ll locate here,” he said quickly. “We’re just taking a few days to visit the place. Get to know the town and the people.”

“We?” Perhaps there was a wife, after all.

“My business partner made the trip with me.”

Reva gave the man a real smile. “You’ll have to bring him with you for lunch one day. I’d like to meet him.” The partner must be the one with the potbelly. Goodness knows Sinclair didn’t have one. His entire body was likely as hard as that jaw.

An unexpected ripple shimmied up her spine. She pushed the reaction down, forced it from her mind. Edna and Frances were not right. She did not need a man.

Especially not one like Dean Sinclair.

“Do I own what?” Alan was not yet completely awake. He squinted and leaned toward the window, where Dean sat.

“You know, tools,” Dean answered. “A hammer, a screwdriver, maybe a drill.”

Alan shook his head. “Why?”

Dean kept his eye on Miss Reva’s, even though the last of her customers had left a little while ago. “I paid a visit to the restaurant while you were sleeping.” And he was still obscenely stuffed for his trouble. It was like going to your grandmother’s house and being overwhelmed by all the choices laid before you. He’d eaten too much.

Everything had been perfect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten such a fine meal. It didn’t help matters any that neither of his sisters-in-law or his sister, Shea, were what one could call great cooks. Holidays were always interesting, but no one fed him the way Reva had. And Patsy’s idea of eating at home had included a delivery of some kind.

“It was great,” Dean finished.

“Okay,” Alan said, not sounding at all surprised. “What does that have to do with my tools?”

“They put the customers at these big tables,” Dean explained, “and the first thing they did was have everyone tell who they were and where they were from and…what they did.”

“Hi!” Alan said in an overly animated voice. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Dean Sinclair, here to keep an eye on your hostess in case her felon of an ex shows up.”

“Not likely,” Dean grumbled. “She was sitting right next to me.” He remembered Reva Macklin with an unexpectedly sharp intensity. Her hand had brushed against his once, and it had been nice. Much nicer than it should have been. She was soft and warm, fragile and strong in that way some special women were.

And she was lovely, far more beautiful than her old grainy picture or the too-brief sight of her through a telescope. No picture or long-range glimpse could do justice to that flawless skin or the sheen in her hair or the depth of her dark-brown eyes. And the way she smelled—like cinnamon and strawberries and soap—was still so real he could close his eyes and…

“So?” Alan prodded. “What did you tell her?”

“That I’m a handyman.”

Alan guffawed. “You?”

“It’s not that funny.”

“Yeah, it is. You don’t fix your own car when it breaks down. You live in an apartment and have never even had to mow your own yard, much less fix anything. Face it, you are definitely not mechanically inclined. Do you even know what a hammer looks like?”

“Of course I do,” Dean snapped. “It’s not that ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it—”

“I was caught off guard,” Dean interrupted. “Besides, she was the one who caught me snooping around last night.”

“You mean legs is Reva Macklin?”

“Yep. I knew it the minute she opened her mouth. She’s got this husky voice.” The kind of voice a man did not forget. “Since I’d already told her I was checking out the architecture, I had to come up with something that made sense. My brother-in-law’s a contractor and he fixes up old houses. That’s one thing Somerset has in abundance—old, creaking, falling-down houses in desperate need of repair. It was the first logical explanation that came to mind.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “You’re my partner, by the way.”

“Great,” Alan said flatly.

Dean couldn’t get Reva Macklin off his mind. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Eddie Pinchon was crude, a lowlife if ever he’d met one. What on earth had a woman like Reva ever seen in Eddie? He glanced at the old picture of another Reva. Either she’d changed in the eight years since that picture had been taken—in the seven years since Eddie had been sent away—or she was putting on a show. Was she that good an actress?

Dean was adept at reading people. Lies didn’t get past him and he could spot a phony a mile away. The Reva he’d met today was no actress. She’d been friendly without sharing too much of herself, maintaining a professional distance without coming off as a snob. She possessed a quiet gentility that was the hallmark of a real Southern lady.

Again he glanced at the old photograph of another Reva.

“If you can get access to the house as Reva Macklin’s new handyman, you can plant a bug or two,” Alan said thoughtfully.

“We don’t have a court order.”

“Unofficially,” Alan said quickly. “And if you could plant one in the guest house…”

“No,” Dean answered. “Not without authorization.”

Alan shook his head. “We can’t see every entrance to that big house, and we can barely get a glimpse of the guest house from here. There are only two of us on this detail! Pinchon can walk in any time he feels like it, and if we’re not looking in the right place at the right time, we’re screwed.”

Dean knew Alan was right, and still he didn’t like it. His partner gave him a hard time about being such a stickler for the rules, when some other agents broke them without a second thought. He wanted to catch Pinchon, but he didn’t want to compromise his standards to accomplish the task.

“Give it a couple of days. Miss Macklin’s got a good, steady business here. She’s not going anywhere. If Eddie does show up, we’ll get him.”

“I still think a bug is the way to go,” Alan grumbled.

Dean stood. He and Alan would never agree on this point. “I’m going to walk to town,” he said. Since “town” was three blocks of redbrick buildings half a mile down the road and the path was shaded sidewalk the entire way, it wasn’t exactly an arduous expedition.

“Bring me something to eat,” Alan said with a yawn.

It was nice to get out of the house. The streets were quiet now that all of Reva’s customers had left. Dean was rarely subjected to such serenity. It was so quiet he could hear the breeze in the trees. His pace was slower than usual, as if to hurry would be wrong in this place.

Even downtown, with its small shops and quaint old buildings, was slow-paced. The everyday necessities were all right here. A small grocery, a dress shop, a barbershop and a beauty parlor. And a hardware store.

An hour and too much money later, Dean headed back to his temporary home. The bags he carried were heavy, but he figured he now had everything he needed to get started. In his shopping bags were a couple of pairs of heavy denim pants, a few cheap T-shirts, work boots, thick white socks, a baseball cap—and a hammer.

He’d looked at the selections and asked himself, What would brother-in-law Nick buy? That had made the process quick and easy. Everyone he’d talked to had wanted to know who he was and why he was in Somerset, and he’d given them all the same explanation he’d given Reva Macklin.

He was Somerset, Tennessee’s newest handyman, and he’d never in his life so much as driven a nail.

One of the bags he carried contained supper for Alan. He had stopped at the Somerset Bakery and Deli, which was situated just past the beauty parlor and was really not much of a deli at all. They offered lots of baked goods and a few sandwiches. The small place closed at three o’clock, so he’d barely gotten there in time. The somewhat plump woman behind the counter, who had introduced herself as Louella Vine, had been delighted to see him. Maybe business wasn’t so good and every customer was a pleasant surprise. Then again, maybe she was just one of those exceptionally outgoing women who never met a stranger.

The sound of pounding feet alerted Dean to the fact that he was about to be run down. He glanced over his shoulder to see two little boys, one white and blond, the other black and half a foot taller, gaining on him fast. Dean stepped to the side of the walkway, giving them room to pass.

They didn’t.

“Hi!” The little blond boy practically skidded to a stop at Dean’s feet. “Who are you?”

The taller child stayed behind his friend, quiet and watchful.

Dean glared at them both. “Don’t you know better than to talk to strangers?”

“Are you strange?” the blond kid asked, wide-eyed and not at all perturbed by Dean’s tough manner.

“No.”

The little boy grinned, shooting Dean a decidedly disarming smile. “My name’s Cooper. I know everyone who lives on this street, but I don’t know you. This is Terrance,” he said, jerking a thumb back at his friend. “He’s my best friend. We’re in the first grade.” Each sentence ran directly into the next in childlike, breathless fashion. “Last year we were in kindergarten, that’s when we got to be very best friends, but I’ve known him all my life. Almost all my life. As long as I can remember, anyway. But we just got to be best friends last year. Last year we were just little kids, but now that we’re older we’re still best friends.”

The kid talked a mile a minute. When he stopped to take a breath, Dean asked, “Do you live on this street?”

“Yeah!” Cooper answered.

Great. “Well, Cooper, my name is Mr. Sinclair. I’m new. Now run along and don’t talk to strangers.” Dean resumed his walk toward home. Cooper and Terrance did not “run along” as instructed.

“Do you have any kids?” Cooper asked.

“No,” Dean answered curtly.

“That’s too bad. We need some more kids in Somerset. We have a T-ball team, but it’s not very good. We could really use a good first baseman. Why don’t you have kids? Don’t you like kids?”

Dean bit back a brutally honest, Not really. “Kids are fine, I guess.” As long as they’re not mine. “I have a niece and three nephews.”

“Will they come visit you sometime?” Cooper asked.

“Probably not. Besides, they’re too young to play T-ball.”

“Oh,” Cooper said, sounding dejected at the news.

Dean thought about his growing family for a moment. Shea’s Justin was two and a holy terror. All two-year-olds were holy terrors, right? Boone’s little girl, Miranda, was not yet a year old, and she was spoiled rotten. Absolutely rotten! She had Boone wrapped around her little finger and had since the moment she’d come into this world.

Clint’s twin boys were still at that wriggly, wrinkled, useless age. Infants. Why on earth did people insist that they were so cute when, in fact, they resembled big, pale, squalling bugs?

Dean had taken one look at the tiny babies, who had arrived almost a month early, and had told Clint to give him a call when the kids turned into humans. So he wasn’t a warm and fuzzy uncle. The world had plenty of warm and fuzzy without him. Especially now that his siblings were all married and making families.

Somehow the kids had bracketed him, Terrance on one side, Cooper on the other. Terrance was trying, very diligently and not quite secretively, to see what was in Dean’s bags.

Fortunately he was almost home. “What about you?” he asked Terrance.

The kid jumped back from the bags as if he’d been caught snooping. In fact, he had been. “What?”

“Are you anxious for more kids to come to town?”

The boy gave the question a moment of serious thought. “Not really. I have my best friend Cooper and my second-best friend Johnny, and two brothers and my mama and my daddy. That’s enough,” he said, sounding satisfied with his young life.

“Smart boy,” Dean said in a lowered voice.

“But we could use a first baseman,” Terrance added thoughtfully.

Dean came to a halt. “This is where I live,” he said, wisely withholding the Shoo that wanted to leap from his mouth.

“This is Miss Evelyn’s place.” Cooper looked at the old house and nodded his head. “Don’t eat the sugar cookies,” he said in a quiet voice tinged with horror as he delivered the dire warning.

Dean was about to ask why not? when he was distracted.

Reva Macklin had stepped outside. She walked in the shade of the trees that lined the sidewalk. So why did she look as if she carried the light with her? She was sunshine and cinnamon, strawberries and…heaven help him, this was the kind of woman who could work her way under a man’s skin and make him crazy. She walked toward him, and for a moment, just a moment, Dean didn’t see anything else. Dangerous. Very, very dangerous. She didn’t dress provocatively. In fact, she was clothed to suit this town. Quaint. Old-fashioned.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she crossed the street. She walked straight toward him, hair released from the thick ponytail she had worn earlier to fall past her shoulders. It wasn’t curly, but it wasn’t completely straight. It waved. It caught the little slivers of sunlight that found their way through the thick foliage of the trees.

A lesser man would have dropped the bags and drooled, but not Dean.

She gave him a brief, sweet smile, and he wondered what would happen next. Why was she here? Maybe something in her house needed his immediate attention. Faulty plumbing. A rotting board or two. Maybe a loose stair. So he wasn’t any good at repairing anything—he was willing to try.

It crossed his mind briefly that maybe Reva was approaching him for a much more personal reason. He barely knew her; there was nothing personal between them. And yet—

“Cooper Macklin,” she said sharply, turning her attention to the child. “You’re late.”

“I had to stay after school.”

Reva reached their side of the street and crossed her arms as she stared down at Cooper. “What was it this time?”

“I was just trying to help Mrs. Berry,” he explained. “She was reading us a story, but she had it all wrong. I have that book and I know she wasn’t telling it right.”

“Cooper!” Reva said, sounding properly horrified.

“I was trying to help,” he explained passionately. “But she just didn’t want me to help. She wanted to tell the whole story wrong.”

“I stayed, too,” Terrance said in a soft voice that managed to cut through the tension. “So Cooper wouldn’t have to walk home alone.”

Dean was taken aback. That was putting it mildly. His reaction was physical, as well as emotional. His heart pounded too hard, his mouth went dry. He looked from Reva to her son, from Cooper to Terrance and then back to Cooper again.

First grade—that meant the kid was six years old. Blond hair, blue eyes, dimples. Fearless.

Cooper Macklin, Reva’s child, was Eddie Pinchon’s son.