Читать книгу Lassoing the Deputy - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 12

Chapter Three

The area just beyond the back of the high school couldn’t actually be called a park. It was a clearing with several sun-bleached benches scattered about and a lot of grass in between. Summer evenings invited couples seeking a private moment or two. During the day, children occasionally still brought their imaginations and played timeless games that didn’t require electricity.

Today the clearing was empty. Except for the Winslow twins, as had been reported. And, also as had been reported, they were both smoking. Each had staked out a bench and was sprawled out, sending smoke rings up into the hot wind.

Parking her Jeep close to the clearing, Alma got out and crossed over to where the twins were sitting. Her eyes swept over them and she nodded.

“’Morning, boys.”

Startled, one of the twins—Ken, the slightly shorter one—sat up straight. “’Morning, Miss Alma,” he responded somewhat nervously.

His twin, Kyle, said nothing. He merely glanced in her direction and nodded. Kyle had always behaved as if he thought himself to be the cooler one of the two. She’d come to favor Ken herself.

When she regarded the latter, he appeared not to know what to do with his cigarette.

Alma kept her voice friendly but firm. Her best asset when dealing with teenagers was that she could vividly remember what it was like to be that age. And how she had felt being chided by an adult. It helped temper her words.

“Put them out, boys,” she told the twins. “You know you’re too young to be smoking cigarettes, even if they were good for you, which they’re not.”

In defiance, Kyle took another long drag from his cigarette, then slowly blew out the smoke. As it swirled away from him, he smirked as he slanted another look at her.

“You gonna tell us that smoking cigarettes is going to stunt our growth?” The suggestion made him laugh. At sixteen, both twins were close to six foot six, like their father and older brother.

“No,” she said, walking up to Kyle and physically removing the cigarette from his hand, “I’m going to tell you that smoking cigarettes at sixteen is against the law.” She snubbed out the cigarette against the back of the bench.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Ken was about to throw his own cigarette on the ground and step on it to extinguish it. He wasn’t being perverse, like his brother, she realized. He just wasn’t thinking.

She relieved Ken of his cigarette, too, and put it out the same way. “And besides, it’s fire season,” she reminded the brothers. “You have to be extra careful that a stray spark doesn’t hit something flammable.”

Satisfied that both cigarettes were out, Alma looked at the two offenders. Most likely, this had been Kyle’s idea. He was the persuasive one of the pair. Ken would always follow him, afraid not to.

“Okay, I don’t want to see you smoking for another two years and, if you’re smart,” she added, looking at them pointedly, “never.”

Kyle bristled. He’d never liked being reined in. “Ain’t you got anything more important to do than to come by and make us put out our cigarettes?”

“Not at the moment,” she answered honestly.

Ken looked at her sheepishly. “You gonna tell our old man?”

Dan Winslow was known to be strict with his sons and there were no second chances. First offenses were dealt with quickly and harshly.

Alma saw no point in involving the man if she could get his sons to stop.

“Not this time,” she told Ken, breaking the cigarettes in half and then dropping them into the trash after she checked to make sure that the unlit ends were no longer warm. “But if I catch you at it again, then yes, I will. And he’s your father—call him that. Not ‘old man.’ He deserves your respect.”

Kyle laughed shortly. “You’ve never seen him getting out of bed in the morning.”

“No, I have not,” she readily agreed. “But just remember, we’re all going to get there someday including you—and that’s if we’re lucky.” She could tell that Kyle was eager to see her leave. I’m not stupid, boy. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said in her most innocent voice, “I’ll take that pack of cigarettes you have in your pocket, Kyle.”

She saw Ken flush. Kyle moved back, as if distance could prevent her from taking the pack. “It’s not ours,” he protested.

Good. At least she wouldn’t have to lecture the grocery store owner about carding his underage customers when they tried to buy cigarettes. “Oh? Then whose is it?”

“The pack belongs to our dad,” Ken blurted out even as his brother gave him a dirty look.

That means you’re going to get busted, she thought. She remained standing where she was, holding her hand out and waiting.

“If he misses them, tell him he can come by the sheriff’s office and get them anytime.” With pronounced reluctance, Kyle dug into his shirt pocket and surrendered the pack of cigarettes to her. She nodded and smiled. “Have a nice day, boys. And remember, keep your lungs clean.”

Alma got into her vehicle and drove away. In the rearview mirror, she could see the twins arguing with each other. Probably trying to decide what to tell their father when he questioned them about the missing pack of cigarettes.

Alma smiled to herself.

Having resolved the situation to her satisfaction for the time being, Alma was about to head back to the sheriff’s office, then changed her mind. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, but it was close enough to noon for her to take an early lunch. She decided that for once, she’d give in to herself.

Besides, she needed the sight of a friendly face.

The thought of stopping by the diner and seeing Miss Joan appealed to her.

The diner was like a second home to her, after the great many hours waitressing there. Granted, she wasn’t very hungry—seeing Cash had tied her stomach into a knot and killed whatever appetite she might have had—but she could do with the company. Female company.

She loved her father and brothers dearly and had done her best to keep up with the lot of them. For the most part, she’d succeeded and if they suddenly weren’t around, she would miss them more than words could say.

That being said, there were times when she found it nice just to let her guard down. Just to be a softer version of herself without having to prove anything to anyone—or feel as if she had to.

That involved talking to a woman. An understanding woman. And Miss Joan, despite the crusty exterior she liked to project, fit the bill to a T.

As usual, Miss Joan was behind the counter when she walked in. The woman looked up the moment she opened the door. One glance at her unlined face—remarkable considering her age—and Alma knew that Miss Joan knew exactly what she was going through. And why she was here at this hour.

“C’mon in, girl. Take a load off,” Miss Joan called out, beckoning her over to the counter. She glanced around and instructed the waitress closest to her, “Julie, go get Alma here a tall, frosty glass of lemonade, please.”

Lemonade sounded perfect. Trust Miss Joan to know just what to offer. Alma slid onto the seat at the counter. All she wanted to do was sit here quietly and listen to Miss Joan talk. About anything. There was something comforting about the woman’s cadence, as if just hearing her talk made everything better.

“That’s all right, Miss Joan,” Alma began. “You don’t have to go to any trouble on my account. I just want to sit here and—”

She got no further in her protest, but then, that was a given with Miss Joan. The woman overruled everyone, God included, Harry liked to say.

“It’s on the house, honey,” Miss Joan interjected. One hand fisted at her hip, she pretended to level a sharp look at Alma. “You’re not going to insult the bride-to-be two weeks before her wedding by turning down her offer, are you?”

Alma smiled. As if anyone could say no to the woman. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said with a smile. “Thank you.”

Julie came and placed the tall lemonade in front of her and retreated. Miss Joan waited until the waitress left, then leaned in over the counter and, in a low voice, asked, “So you saw him, didn’t you?”

There went her stomach again, Alma thought, annoyed with herself. It tightened so hard she found it difficult to breathe. Still, she feigned ignorance. “You mean Cash?” she asked innocently.

Miss Joan gave her a look that said she had no time for nonsense. “Don’t play coy with me, girl. Of course I mean Cash.” And then she laughed shortly. “Really doesn’t sound like much of a name for a grown man. Especially not for a lawyer.”

Alma recalled that Cash had once told her that when he reached his goal and finally became a lawyer, he was going to use only the initials of his first and middle names on his letterhead. His unfortunate first name arose from the fact that although his father was rushing to get his mother to the hospital on time, nature was against him and he didn’t make it. His mother wound up giving birth to him in the backseat. To distract her, his father had had the radio on. Johnny Cash was singing when the infant drew his first breath.

Since they’d been hoping for a girl and had no boys’ names picked out, his mother named him after the country-and-Western icon. Cash used to say that he was extremely grateful that Loretta Lynn hadn’t been singing at the time.

“Yes, I saw him,” Alma said quietly.

Miss Joan nodded. “Did you two talk?”

Alma held the lemonade glass with both hands, focusing on nothing else for the moment. She took a long sip through the straw, then shrugged as if talking to Cash or not talking to him was all really one and the same to her.

“A few words,” she acknowledged, knowing Miss Joan wasn’t going to let this go until she said something.

“So, you didn’t talk,” the woman concluded knowingly.

No, not really, Alma thought. Out loud she said, “There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”

The hazel eyes seemed to bore right into her. Alma felt like squirming, but she managed to stay perfectly still under the scrutiny.

“Since when have you taken up lying?” Miss Joan asked.

“I’m not lying,” Alma insisted. A little of her temper emerged. “What we had was a summer romance and then he went off to college and I didn’t.” Again she shrugged, doing her best to act as if she didn’t care about Cash or about what had happened that long-ago summer. “Not much of a story, really.”

“That’s because you left a lot out,” Miss Joan pointed out sternly. “Like the fact that Cash broke your heart.”

That was giving Cash too much power over her, putting too much importance on the time they had spent together. Alma lifted her chin defiantly.

“We were very young,” she insisted. “We had no business falling in love.”

“And yet you did,” Miss Joan concluded simply. “You’re not going to have any peace until you have it out with him and find out why he didn’t come back.”

There was no need to ask him that. “I know why he didn’t come back, Miss Joan. It’s simple. He liked that life better.” Better than me. “And talking about it from now until the cows come home isn’t going to change anything.”

“Might be a change for the cows,” Miss Joan quipped. She was feeling Alma’s frustration and sympathizing with it. “But what it also might do is open the door to changes in the future. Hey, you’re never too old to have things happen.” This time Miss Joan’s eyes were shining. “Look at me.”

“Hey, how about me? I love looking at you,” Harry said in his booming voice as he walked into the diner just in time to overhear the last line.

Walking up to the counter, the silver-haired man leaned over and gave his intended bride a quick kiss on the cheek.

“If that’s the best you two can do, you might as well forget about the wedding,” Alma told Miss Joan. “I’ve seen more passionate pet rocks in my time,” she teased.

“Huh,” the woman snorted dismissively. “Some of us don’t like to engage in public displays of affection.” She smiled at her fiancé. “Behind closed doors, though, is a whole other story.”

“Something to look forward to.” Harry chuckled, his blue eyes crinkling. “Right now, though, we’re here to get some of your world-famous potpie for lunch, darlin’.” He began to take out his wallet.

Miss Joan placed her hand over it. “Put that away. You know your money’s not any good here.”

“At least let me pay for my grandson.” He nodded toward the door.

Cash walked in at that exact moment. “I can pay for my own meals, Grandpa,” he said. He knew his grandfather’s funds were limited. The old man had given him more than a head start, paying for his first years in college. There was no way he could ever begin to repay him, but covering expenses would at least be a small start. “Besides, I should be paying for you.”

“Neither one of you is paying anything. Family doesn’t pay,” Miss Joan insisted. “And when I marry your grandpa, here,” she told Cash, patting Harry’s hand, “you become my family.”

Cash smiled, appreciating the sentiment. Nonetheless, he still pushed the twenty-dollar bill toward her on the counter. “Until then, I’ll pay,” he told her. “Call it a matter of pride.”

Miss Joan ignored the bill and left it sitting on the counter. “Two chicken potpies coming up,” she announced, raising her voice in order to relay the order to Roberto, the short-order cook in the kitchen.

Sitting on the other side of Harry, who was a tall, heavyset man, Alma was all but obscured. Still, she knew she was kidding herself if she thought Cash hadn’t seen her as he walked in.

With her haven invaded, it was time to go.

Deliberately not looking to her right, Alma got off the stool. “Thanks for the lemonade, Miss Joan,” she said, addressing the back of the woman’s head.

Miss Joan swung around, doing a quick assessment. “You didn’t finish it,” she pointed out.

“I know, and it’s very good, but I’ve got to be getting back to the office. I’ve already been gone longer than I should.”

“Big crime wave to deal with?” Miss Joan arched an eyebrow as she looked at her.

Alma smiled brightly. “You never know. Nice seeing you, Harry.” She nodded at the man sitting to her right. She’d always liked Harry and didn’t want to seem rude.

That wasn’t the case with his grandson. She barely nodded at Cash as she passed him, saying only, “You,” as if it was an afterthought. She let the single word hang there without any embellishment, allowing Cash’s imagination to supply any missing words he might have wanted to use.

Or not. It made no difference to her.

Alma walked out of the diner without a backward glance. The second she crossed the threshold and the door shut behind her, she quickened her pace. She wanted to get into her car and make good her escape before Cash had a chance to catch up to her.

She should have walked faster.

“Alma.” She heard Cash call her name but pretended not to. He didn’t give up. “Alma, wait up.”

Since he’d raised his voice enough to cause several people to look their way as they walked by, she had no choice but to stop.

“Yes?” she asked coolly, turning toward him as he approached her. Her tone belied the turmoil going on inside. She felt as if everything within her was squirming. She wanted to simply get away.

“Alma, wait,” he repeated, reaching her. “You don’t have to leave just because I came in.”

“I wasn’t leaving because of you.” Her tone was no longer cool. It was downright cold. “I said I had to get back to the office—”

She was lying. He knew she was lying. So, it had come to this. The most honest woman he’d ever known in his life was lying to him.

He’d done that to her, he thought with a bitter pang.

“I’ll go,” he told her quietly. “You stay and have your lunch. Or at least finish your lemonade.” And then, because something inside him longed to reach out to her, to just talk to her for a moment, he said, “Still like those things, huh?”

There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile on her lips. She looked as if she was barely tolerating breathing the same air as he was. “When I like something, I stay with it. I don’t see any reason not to.”

“Ouch.” He smiled at her then. It was a small, sad smile that struggled to filter into his eyes. “That was a direct hit,” he announced, the way he might have once done when they played Battleship.

Her eyes narrowed to small, dismissive slits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He was tired, so tired. A part of him had hoped that by coming back here, he could reclaim at least a small part of his soul. But he’d been wrong. Maybe he didn’t deserve to reclaim his soul after what he’d done.

“Yes, you do,” he told her softly. “We both do. You don’t have to run away each time I show up.” It was almost a plea.

Ordinarily, by now she would have relented, put the hurt behind her and moved on. But this hurt was too large to ignore, too large to place behind her. She’d be a fool to let it go and leave herself open to more pain. Because without the hurt to cling to and use as a shield, she’d be putting herself at risk all over again.

He was here only for the wedding. She only had to remain strong for two weeks. Just 20,160 minutes, that was all.

“You had nothing to do with it. I—” And then she stopped abruptly. Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, she put it to her ear. “Hello?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Cash said.

Covering the bottom of the phone for a second, she told him in a hushed, annoyed voice, “That’s because it’s on vibrate.” And then she turned her attention back to the cell phone. “Right. I was just coming back. Be there in a few minutes, Sheriff. I’ll take care of it then,” she promised.

With that, she ended the call and slipped the phone into her back pocket again.

“Take care of what?” Cash wanted to know. She’d already begun walking away from him.

“I’m sorry, but that’s on a need-to-know basis,” she informed him crisply, recalling the line from a TV program she’d seen recently, “and you don’t need to know.”

His eyes pinned her down for a moment. “You’re lying again, aren’t you? I’ve never known you to lie before, Alma, and now you’ve done it twice.”

I’ve lied to you more than that since you came back to town, she told him silently.

She raised her chin, a clear sign that she was getting ready for a fight.

“I have no control over what you think or don’t think, and frankly, I could care less.” There, another lie to add to the pile.

With that, she turned on her heel and got into the Jeep.

She was aware that Cash was watching her. And that he continued watching her as she started up the vehicle and drove away from the diner.

Cash was right and it annoyed the hell out of her. There’d been no phone call. She’d made it up, just as she had made up the so-called conversation she’d had with the sheriff. It was the first thing that had occurred to her in her effort to get away from Cash.

At least it had worked, she congratulated herself. She’d managed to get away without becoming entangled in any kind of verbal confrontation with him.

So what did she do for the other thirteen days before the wedding? she asked herself as a feeling of uneasy desperation undulated through her.

With effort, she banked it down.

This, too, shall pass, she promised herself—and fervently hoped she was right.