Shelter in Place (Page 59)

“I could.” He set the bust down. “I will. What will you do with it when you finish?”

“That’ll be months—longer. I’ll need to take a break from it or I won’t see or hear clearly. But I’m hoping my father can help there. He’s a lawyer, and has a lot of connections. And, of course, there’s CiCi. I’d like to do molds, cast it in bronze, place it in a park.”

“I could maybe help there, too.”

“How?”

“I talk to the next of kin, survivors off and on. Like Angie’s mom. So with that, we might be able to help get that going when you’re ready for it.”

She nodded, slowly. “An appeal from survivors and loved ones? Hard to refuse. Some might not want this.”

“They’d be wrong. So.”

He set aside his glass, stepped to her. He took her face in his hands, watched those gorgeous eyes calculate. He kissed her, soft, slow. No demand, no pressure. And felt—hoped he felt—her give just a little before he eased away again.

“Change of tactic,” he said.

“It was interesting.”

“Told ya. I’m going to head out, for my lonely meatloaf. I’ll see you around.”

“I don’t get around very much,” she said as he started out.

“That’s okay. I do.” He stopped at the doorway, turned for just a moment. “I’ve gotta say this one more thing. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in my goddamn life.”

She laughed, sincerely amused. “I’m not even close.”

“You’re wrong again. I ought to know what I’ve seen in my own life. CiCi’s got my number around here somewhere. You need anything, call.”

She frowned as he walked out, as she listened to his boots on the stairs. She sipped more wine, then poured what he’d left in his glass into her own, drank a little more.

He was interesting, she thought. And could put the affable on and off like a pair of socks. She had a sense he could be dangerous, and that just made him more interesting.

Plus he knew how to kiss in a way that nudged open the door, just a crack.

She’d have to think about that one.

Most of all, he’d looked at her work and seen what she needed to give it, what she’d needed from it.

And he’d understood.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Standing on the widow’s walk, Essie McVee marveled. The day shuddered with dead gray February, cold as the lash of a frozen whip, and still the view spread like wonder.

The sea and sky, both that broody, bored gray, couldn’t erase the breadth of it or the power of the rocky coastline with the incessant flick of icy water.

She smelled pine and snow, breathed air so cold and damp it felt like she swallowed chipped ice. Far to the right, the buildings of painted clapboard formed the village and a path of trampled snow wound through trees with white-coated branches.

Far off, the lighthouse stood, a beacon of color and joy against the stubborn winter gloom.

Below the house, a rickety pier, with some worrisome gaps, cut on an angle through a break in the rocks.

“You’ve got a dock.”

“Yeah, such as it is. I’ve got a boat shed, too. No boat. Mrs. Dorchet sold it after her husband died. I might get one. A boat. Maybe.”

“A boat.”

“Maybe. I’ve already got the shed and the pier. It seems like I should have the reason for them.”

She looked up at him, remembered the sorrowful boy on the bench at the park, the young cop learning his way, the partner she’d gone through doors with. The friend she’d found bleeding.

Now this. A man looking out at what was his.

“It’s not a shithole, Reed.”

He grinned. “Needs some work here and there, but nope, not a shithole.”

“How’s it feel to be chief?”

“I’ll let you know next month. I’m making some progress, finding my feet. For the most part, people seem to be reserving judgment on whether or not the off-islander can make the grade.”

“You’ll make it.”

“Yeah, I will. It’ll be quiet for the next couple of months, so more time to find my feet, get to know who’s who and what’s what. And take control at the station house.”

“Any issues there?”

He made a noncommittal grunt. “The current chief’s got my back, and that helps. The deputies, the dispatcher, they know what’s what, and things are in a kind of lull during the transition. Got some quirks, like anywhere, but they’re solid enough. The best of the bunch is the lone female.”

“Do tell?”

“Smart and tough. A little bit of a hothead, but I can work with that.”

“Beware the office romance.”

“What? Oh no.” Laughing, he shook back his disordered mop of hair. “Hell no. Not my type, and I’d be her boss on top of that. Boss—ha ha. Anyway, she’s about forty, divorced, and hooked up with an island plumber. Then there’s Leon Wendall. Former navy—petty officer. Seven years on the force here. Likes to fish. His wife of thirty years is a teacher. Three kids, one granddaughter.”

“Seven years? And they brought you in over him?”

“He’s not a boss,” Reed said with a shake of his head. “Doesn’t want to be. He’ll keep his eye on me though. Guaranteed. We’ve got Nick Masterson, thirty-three, newlywed. He’s competent. His family owns the Sunrise Café. His mom keeps the books. And we finish the full-timers with Cecil Barr. Twenty-four, easygoing, but not stupid. His father’s a fisherman, mother’s a nurse, older sister studying to be a doctor, younger brother still in high school.

“We wind up with Donna Miggins, dispatcher. Sixty-four, sharp. I’ve been warned by the lady herself that I can fetch my own coffee, do my own errands, and she won’t take any sass. I like her. I’m a little afraid of her, but I like her.”

“You’re happy.”

“I am that.”

“And you’ve put back most of the weight you lost.”

“I’ve been patronizing the Sunrise Café. Most islanders wander through sometime during a given week. And I’m a crap cook anyway.”

“You ought to learn to deserve that kitchen.”

“If I don’t cook,” he pointed out, “it stays clean.”

“That makes a stupid kind of sense,” she conceded.

“Let’s head down, get some coffee. I just bought that fancy machine.”

“I don’t know why,” she said as they went in, down the stairs. “When you drink it, it’s black.”

“The girl of my dreams likes lattes.”

“The artist?”

He flapped a hand on his heart. “Thump, thump.”

She paused, as she hadn’t on the way up, outside the master suite and, with the privilege of an old friend, wandered in.

“Really nice space, great views again. You still don’t have a bed.”

He pointed to the mattress and box springs. “That’s a bed.”

“A bed has a frame, a headboard, possibly a footboard. Some style. You’re never going to get the girl of your dreams on that.”

“You underestimate my charm and sex appeal.”

“No, I don’t.” She looked around, noting the teddy bear cop sitting on what he mistakenly called a dresser. “You need an actual dresser instead of that ugly block of wood you’ve had since college. Maybe a nice chair. Some tables, nice lamps. A rug. And…” She trailed off as she peeked into the en suite. “Jesus, the bathroom’s fabulous.”