She paused. A sad look came into her eyes. “I guess I’m still mad at her. You’d think she could at least drop me an occasional e-mail. Martin may have been the world’s biggest jerk to her, but she had friends here. She could have held her head up and weathered his tantrum.” She twirled a hand in the air. “There I go again. It’s been quite a year. And now Casey.”
I nodded in sympathy. “Yep. I’ve had whole decades like that. It’ll get better.”
I turned to go, reaching for the door pull.
“Hey,” Tammy called to me. “Do you want to come to church with me on Sunday? The girls would love to meet you.”
Church. A place I’d successfully avoided for almost twenty years. Hard pews. Excessive singing. Snooty old ladies. Boring sermons. Not a place I felt like dealing with at this point in my life.
“Thanks for the invite,” I said. “Sundays are a little too hectic right now. But after the first of the year, I should have things a little more under control.”
“I only ask because you’re so much like Sandra. It might take the sting out of Casey’s death if you were there.”
Guilt trips were the foundation of my upbringing. I recognized one a mile away.
“Thank you, but no,” I said and hustled out the door. I speed-limped toward home, obsessed with the image of a little white church house crumbling to the very foundation as I walked through its doors.
The bracing wind cleared my mind as I headed home. I stopped at the Fitches’ driveway and looked both ways before crossing the road.
I gave a little groan.
There, parked against the curb in front of my house, was a police cruiser. The driver’s door showed a number three next to the Village of Rawlings crest. That was the same one Brad had been driving the day he practically arrested me for jaywalking.
I didn’t see him in the car, in the yard, or up by the house, and I wondered where he was hiding. My shoulders pulled back automatically as I put up my wall of defenses.
I made it to the front porch without incident and turned the door handle to go in.
“Tish.” I heard Brad’s call behind me. He waved from Dorothy Fitch’s front porch.
I watched with irritation as he gave Dorothy a hug. I refused to let the sweet gesture melt any part of my grudge toward Brad. From where I stood the two looked like Papa Bear and Baby Bear. Without her bulky coat, Dorothy had nothing to her.
Brad sprinted over to my yard. He took the porch steps two at a time. Then he was next to me, filling up a good chunk of vertical space.
“So tonight’s your big date, huh?” he asked.
I crossed my arms, giving him the cue to get to the point.
He passed me a white envelope.
I flipped it over. It was addressed to Patricia Amble.
That was me.
The return address listed the Village of Rawlings, Department of Building and Zoning.
That was Martin Dietz.
I glared at Brad. “I don’t believe this. Dietz told me he’d dispatched a denial letter. I thought he meant U.S. Mail, not private gopher.”
Brad’s eyes slanted. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Ms. Amble. I’m only doing my job.”
I rattled the letter at him. “Yeah, well, only in this screwed-up town are the cops in the pocket of the zoning board.”
“With good reason. Look at yourself. How do I know you’re not going to grab a shotgun and go after Dietz just for upholding a village ordinance?”
“Of course I wouldn’t do that. I’m not crazy.”
He humphed. “Maybe you’re not, but a few years ago, Dickie Boggs went nuts. The zoning board turned down his privacy fence application, and he took it out on the director. A shotgun in the face, right at his desk. It’s been village policy ever since to have armed officers be the bearers of bad news.”
A shiver snaked up my spine. Everyone in this town was on the edge.
I tucked the letter in the bag with my date clothes. The sight of the light blue fuzzy yarn reminded me that some things were more important than pushing through my cistern-demolition agenda at city hall. Tonight could have longer-term significance. After all, I planned on selling the Victorian next summer. But David and I might find ourselves in a more permanent arrangement. And that meant cooling off over the whole Martin Dietz thing so I didn’t drag my rage to dinner.
“Thank you, Officer.” I nodded to Brad in dismissal. “I promise I won’t take my aggression out on the honorable Mr. Dietz.”
I jerked open the storm door, turned my key in the lock, and scooted inside to lick my wounds.
Fortunately, I couldn’t bask in my misery too long.
Six o’clock was just a short time away.
19
The clock on the mustard-gold stove read four minutes after six. As I stared at it, the last digit rotated to a five, clicking noisily in the quiet kitchen.
Five minutes wasn’t exactly late.
I wandered over to the bathroom to give myself another final inspection, my third in the past fifteen minutes. I had brightened my face with a rosy blush on cheeks, eyes, and forehead. I’d boiled my dried-up old mascara and gotten just enough goo off the applicator to have some lashes. And I’d scraped out the last bit of color from two exhausted lipsticks and mixed the shades together to come up with a fresh, deep orange that looked flattering with my new blue sweater. I’d have to be careful, however, that my Flamingo Pink nails and Mostly Mango lips never crossed paths. If I had known David was going to be late, I’d have had time to shop for a matching shade of lipstick.
I tousled my bangs to give them a little more oomph and thought back to my conversation with David earlier today. I was sure he’d said six o’clock instead of seven. At least I was ready. My fuzzy top and silky slacks fit like gloves over an hourglass figure I’d apparently been blessed with at birth. I sure hadn’t done anything to earn it, other than tending toward laziness on the food-preparation side. Of course, renovating homes wasn’t exactly a desk job.
I walked back into the kitchen and watched the stove clock flip to 6:15. All the reasons I’d once sworn off relationships were coming back to me. Disappointments, heartaches, and plain boorish behavior seemed too overwhelming to deal with at times. Things stayed nice and simple with just myself to worry about.
I tapped my foot, miffed at myself for falling victim to shattered expectations once again. Outside, the porch creaked. David appeared in the drafty single-pane window of the back door. In his hands was an enormous bouquet of red roses.
I gave a sigh. I was hungry. Eating with David was better than eating alone, even though he’d just broken my first qualifying rule.
“Hi,” I said, letting him and the mass of foliage in. “Wow. Flowers.” I inhaled a noseful of their syrupy sweet odor.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was bad and I stopped to pick these up.” He passed me the monstrosity.
“Gosh. Thanks.” I smiled at him, wracking my brain for vase ideas. I peeked over the bouquet at David. He wore black dress slacks and a pale pink oxford shirt under his woolen trench coat. How could a guy that dressed so impeccably have such atrocious taste in floral arrangements? I felt like a centenarian who’d just received one flower for every year of life.
I found an empty paint can in the trash bin under the sink and filled it with water. I stuffed the roses in. They flopped in all directions.
I glanced at David. He had a pitiful puppy-dog look in his eyes. I knew I’d better seem more grateful if I ever expected another overt display of affection.
“These are so amazing. If you’re not in a hurry, I’ll just give them a quick trim.” Of course he wasn’t in a hurry. He was fifteen minutes late.
I snipped the stems with scissors, careful not to get pricked by a thorn. When they were a more manageable length, I placed each flower in the paint can, counting as I did. Twenty-five. I wondered at the significance of that quantity. Maybe it was the number of minutes we’d spent together. Or the number of words we’d exchanged.