She’d woken with a stiff neck, but a hot shower and some ibuprofen had made short work of it. Eddie had picked her up, stopped at Starbucks, and then dropped her off at a rental agency, where she’d waited impatiently behind two groups of tourists who couldn’t decide what type of vehicle to rent. Each time the twentysomething clerk glanced aside and caught Mercy’s stare, he seemed to completely lose his concentration and had to ask the customers to repeat themselves. Forty minutes later she was on her way in a Ford SUV, feeling as if she were cheating on her Tahoe.
Truman’s words from last night were fresh in her head. In fact, they’d ricocheted in her brain for most of the night. He was willing to risk a broken heart for her.
She wasn’t ready to risk one for him. Yet.
There’s nothing wrong with needing more time.
She sipped her tea and admired the intricately carved wooden mantel of Tilda’s fireplace. Photos and pictures littered every surface in the formal living room. Mercy liked the contrast of the delicate doilies and crocheted afghans with the attire of her hostess, because she firmly believed in dressing to be comfortable. “How long have you lived here?” Mercy asked, knowing Truman had written twenty years in his report. The home no longer resembled the small house her childhood friend had lived in on the property. It appeared to have been expanded several times.
“Over two decades,” Tilda answered. “I was nearly sixty at the time, but I still had more energy than most twenty-year-olds. Buying this big farm didn’t seem like a big deal, but after a dozen years or so it became a bit much for my husband. He was ten years older than me and had slowed down quite a bit.” She eyed Mercy over the rim of her teacup. “I hear you’re sleeping with that good-looking police chief who interviewed me the other day.”
Mercy nearly spit out her tea. Tilda might have lovely manners, but apparently she said whatever she felt like.
“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve heard it from two different sources in town. People talk, you know.”
“I thought you didn’t get to town much,” Mercy said faintly.
“I don’t. But I have a phone. Still like to talk and catch up on some things. Who’s sleeping with who is always a topic my girlfriends want to discuss. They seem to approve of the two of you.”
“Uh . . . that’s good.”
“I like being able to put a face to the names I hear about, so I was plumb delighted when you called and wanted to get together.” She looked Mercy up and down, assessing and nodding as if she liked what she saw. “I bet you’re nearly as tall as him, aren’t you?”
“Almost.”
“That’s good. I was taller than my first husband and it never bothered me that much, but when I remarried, I realized how nice it was to be able to look eye to eye with my second husband.”
“I understand.” Mercy did. She’d been taller than a majority of the guys she’d gone to high school with. Few were willing to take an interest in a girl they had to look up to.
“Doesn’t really matter in bed, though, does it?”
Mercy kept a straight face. “I guess not.”
“Your police chief reminds me of my second husband. Tall and dark with kind eyes and a nice smile.”
Her own smile spread across her face. “Yes, that’s Truman.”
“You’ve got that look about you,” Tilda said thoughtfully, scanning Mercy’s face. “When you said his name, I could see how important he is to you. You looked like a woman in love. I remember that feeling.”
Mercy caught her breath. She and Truman still hadn’t said those three little words to each other. Several times she’d felt as if he was waiting for her to say it, and she’d been convinced he was going to say it during their discussion last night.
He hadn’t. Was I disappointed?
A bit. Part of her wanted to hear it, and the other part screamed that she wasn’t ready.
Because if he said it, then she should too. Right?
Am I ready?
She recalled the bit of taped cotton she’d ripped from the crook of her arm in the shower a few hours ago. She’d led Truman to believe the blood draw was intended to check her nonexistent alcohol level. But when Mercy couldn’t swear she was not pregnant in preparation for the X-rays, the doctor had ordered the quick test. “Better to play it safe,” the doctor had said.
Mercy had spent the next few minutes in fear that she was pregnant.
She wasn’t.
“But then there’s times where you want to hit them in the head with a shovel and bury them deep in the back pasture because they pissed you off,” Tilda continued with a grin. “That usually leads to makeup sex. And then everything is better until you want to brain them again.”
Mercy took a drink of her tea, still at a loss for words.
“But you’re not here to talk about your man, you want to know if anything else has occurred to me about that fire.”
Relief swamped her. “Yes. Anything new?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Tilda took a big swig of tea. “I remember when your parents moved to town, you know. We lived out their way for quite a while. In fact, my man helped your dad dig fence post holes one year.”
“I didn’t know that.” Tilda needs some gossip time, not an opportunity to talk about the fire. She wondered how to steer the conversation back to the crime.
“I remember them being young and motivated and out to protect themselves from the world.”
“That sounds like my parents.”
“They weren’t nutty like some preppers are. Never saw them practicing drills with gas masks or digging a bunker to protect against radiation. They seemed to want to get back to a simpler time when people relied on themselves.”
“That was exactly what they wanted to do.”
“They were good neighbors. We moved to the other side of town right after your mama had her first baby. My husband liked to move a lot. It was always a pain in the ass. Seemed like I always had to do most of the packing and unpacking.” She sighed. “I guess it’s time to do that again. Maybe I’ll hire some strong young arms to do that part for me.”
“You’re moving?”
“I’ve had a good offer for this property.”
“I didn’t realize it was for sale.”
“It’s not. But when someone knocks on your door and offers money for your home that has been feeling way too big, you take it as a sign from the good Lord above.”
“Where will you go?”
The woman tipped her head and looked off in the distance. “I think it’s time I find myself one of those old-people homes. The ones where you live on your own, but someone is always available to help you when needed. Sort of like an apartment complex, but specially run for us old biddies. I know how old I am. I’ve thought about what could happen if I slipped and broke a hip. I think that offer for my property came at a good time, and I intend to follow up on it. I hope he understands it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“You already told him you wouldn’t sell?”
“I did. I admit it was an emotional reaction. I didn’t care for him marching up to my front door and talking to me like I was some infirm old woman. I sent him packing. He came back a few days later and was politer, but I still wasn’t interested. He left his phone number. I’ll mull it over a few more days and then give him a call.”