“Calling Roma.” She shrugged. “I know you won’t go to the emergency room, and since you’re stubborn as a mule, it seems appropriate to get her to take a look at that shoulder.”
Roma was a vet, and one of my closest friends, but she also had first-aid training, so it wasn’t really that outlandish of an idea to call her. I talked quietly to Hercules until Maggie put her phone away.
“Roma is going to meet us at your house in a little while.” She gestured at Hercules. “How did he end up here?”
“The cats like to ride in the truck. I guess I didn’t see him jump out when I got out.” I figured that was more believable than the truth: He walked through the closed truck door because that happens to be his superpower. Maggie didn’t know that both my cats had some unbelievable and unexplainable abilities. No one did.
A few minutes later Marcus came out of the tent. Maggie had spotted Liam Stone, one of the organizers of the food festival, and had gone to speak to him. Marcus stared at me for a long moment and then walked across the grass to me.
“Is your shoulder all right?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Someone should take a look at it.” His voice was cold and emotionless.
“Maggie’s already taken care of that.” This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten mixed up in one of his cases, but it was the first time I’d seen him this angry. “I tried to call you,” I said. I stopped and looked away for a moment. “What did you want me to do?”
I expected him to say, “Nothing,” but instead he just looked at me. “Trust me,” he said, pulling a hand through his dark, wavy hair.
“I do trust you.”
He looked past me, over my shoulder. Then his blue eyes came back to my face. “No, you don’t, Kathleen. I almost think you trust those cats more than you trust me.”
“I’m sorry.” I was barely able to get the words out, and my heart felt like it was pounding in the hollow at the base of my throat.
His lips pulled into a tight line. “Just once, Kathleen—just once—it would be nice if you had a little faith in me.”
Maggie had started back across the grass toward us.
“You can go,” Marcus said. He didn’t look at me, and his voice was as cold as winter ice in the lake. He turned and walked away, and I felt tears start to slide down my face. I’d been trying to talk to him ever since.
He wasn’t at the police station. I drove all over the downtown, but there was no sign of Marcus or his car. I ground my teeth against the gnawing pain in my shoulder and drove out to his little house. It was in darkness and there was no navy blue SUV in the driveway.
I tried his cell again and his home phone. Voice mail both times.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.” Hercules leaned against my side and Owen walked across the front seat to rub his furry gray cheek against my good hand. “Let’s go home,” I said.
I pulled into the driveway, turned off the truck and yanked the key out of the ignition. “I ruined everything with Marcus,” I said, sucking in a shaky breath. “It’s over, and maybe it never really got started.”
I walked around the side of the house with the cats trailing me. I didn’t see the chair until I almost fell over it. It was sitting on the path in front of the back stairs.
My rocking chair. The one Marcus had been fixing for me.
It wasn’t in pieces anymore. It was all there, every joint strong and tight, with a new leather back and seat. It was back together, every single piece.
The chair looked wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
But not nearly as wonderful as the long-legged detective who was sitting in the shadows on my back step.
I felt my knees go rubbery with relief. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said.
“I wasn’t sure you’d say that.” The denim-clad legs stretched and stood up. At the same moment Hercules began to hiss because he could see what I now saw.
It wasn’t Marcus waiting by my back door.
1
It was Andrew.
Andrew, who was part of the reason I’d ended up in Mayville Heights, Minnesota. Andrew, who I’d once thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with in Boston, until we had a fight and he went off on a fishing trip with his friends and came home married to a waitress from a fifties-themed diner.
“What—what are you doing here?” I stammered.
“I came to see you,” he said. He gave me that smile my friend Lise back in Boston always said would melt the elastic in your underpants.
“I don’t understand.” I’d been living in Mayville Heights for a year and a half. Why was he here now? “What do you want?” My hair was coming out of its ponytail. I pulled off the elastic and shook it loose.
He shrugged. “I want you.”
“I’m serious, Andrew.” It was late and I was exhausted. I didn’t want to play word games.
“So am I.” He gestured at my arm. “What happened?”
Hercules had stopped hissing, but both cats had moved in front of me so Andrew couldn’t get any closer without tripping over them.
“It’s not a big deal. I wrenched my shoulder. The sling is just to keep me from using it for a day or two.”
Andrew was studying me, his green eyes serious. I wondered what he was thinking. My hair was longer, and I was a little thinner because I walked so much. I probably looked rumpled and sweaty and tired. That was certainly how I felt. He looked good. His sandy hair was a bit shorter than the last time I’d seen him, but he still had the same broad shoulders, strong arms and, of course, that smile.
“So you’re all right?”
I nodded. “I’m fine. Andrew, what are you doing here?”
I’d spoken to him exactly one time since I came to Mayville Heights, and then only because I’d needed his help when it looked as though Maggie might be a suspect in a murder investigation—another one of Marcus’s cases.
I suddenly remembered the rocking chair. It was still sitting in front of the back steps. “Was that here when you got here?” I asked before Andrew could answer my first question.
He nodded. “It’s a nice piece. Where did you get it?”
Marcus had done a beautiful job. The seat and the back of the rocker had been reupholstered with what looked to be black leather, and I was guessing the finish on the wood was walnut. “A friend of mine was clearing out an old house,” I said.
Hercules seemed to decide then that he was tired of all the talking. He stalked around Andrew, climbed the steps and meowed loudly at the porch door. The end of his tail was twitching, a sure sign that he was annoyed. At least he hadn’t done what he usually did—walk directly through the heavy wooden door.
“Are the cats yours?”
I nodded and pointed from one to the other. “The gray tabby is Owen and that’s Hercules at the door.”
Owen made a low murp at the sound of his name. He was still watching Andrew, and his whiskers were twitching, which meant he was still deciding whether this was someone to like or someone who should get the kitty cold shoulder.
“Andrew, it’s late—” I began.
“Come home,” he blurted.
I looked around. “I am home.”
“I mean come home to Boston. With me. Give us another chance. You wanted to know why I’m here? That’s why.”
Why now, of all nights, did he have to show up at my door? Why couldn’t it have been any of the other five-hundred-plus nights since I’d left Boston?
“There is no ‘us,’” I said, exhaling softly. “And I have a life here. I have friends. I have a job.”
“There’s a life waiting for you back in Boston. And friends. And your family.” He swiped a hand over his chin.
I knew that at this time of night it would be covered with red-gold stubble that would scrape my cheek if I laid my face against his. Why on earth had I remembered that?