The story of how Guidry and I met is not exactly the most romantic tale ever told. To make a long story short, I found a dead man in a client’s house, lying facedown in a cat’s water bowl, and Guidry was the lead homicide detective for the sheriff’s department. At the time, the last thing I was looking for was a relationship but, of course, it hadn’t hurt one bit that Guidry was tall, dark, and handsome.
But more than that, he was unlike any man I’d ever known. Quiet. Complex. A mystery, really. Eventually somehow I managed to let my guard down, and we had an on-again, off-again relationship longer than any two normal people ought to have without choosing either ON or OFF. Then he was offered a job with the police department in his hometown of New Orleans, which is really where his heart was, and I couldn’t very well argue with him, since my heart was here in Siesta Key.
He moved to New Orleans. I stayed here. And that was that.
Except now there was this damn letter. Why was I so afraid to open it? The only thing I could come up with was that, with Guidry at a safe distance, I could finally admit to myself that I’d been in love with him. For me, that’s saying something. Not that I’m some kind of cold-hearted spinster, but I’ve learned the hard way that love can be ugly. Unrestrained, my heart is as strong and fierce as a wild animal, so I’ve gotten really good at building a wall around it, reinforced with nonstop work and general sassiness, which works just as good as coiled razor-ribbon wrapped around concrete. That way, everybody’s safe.
I looked down at the beach. There was one lone seagull by the water. She was clutching something in her beak, probably a clam, and hammering it against one of the rocks that jut out at the water’s edge. It was making a tap-tap-tap sound, almost like the drummer in a rock band setting the tempo for a new song.
Well, I thought, that letter’s not opening itself.
I stood up and was about to go inside when I saw a dark shape moving around in Michael and Paco’s kitchen. A light was on, which is unusual—normally I’m the only one up that early—and the first thing I thought was burglar.
I froze. The kitchen door opened slowly, and for a second I felt a scream forming at the bottom of my throat.
Out stepped Ethan, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and balancing a silver tray with the other. He tiptoed across the deck and made his way up the stairs.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He let out a little yelp. “Damn, woman, you scared me!”
I said, “You scared me first! I thought you were robbing us. What are you doing sneaking around at this hour?”
He held out the tray. There was a round tortilla basket overturned on top of one of Michael’s blue dinner plates, with a folded napkin, silverware, and a tiny glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
He grinned. “I made you breakfast.”
“Huh?”
“Well, not really. It’s more like I raided Michael and Paco’s kitchen. But I put everything on the tray myself. Well, actually Michael did that. But I held the tray.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Since when do you serve me breakfast on a silver platter?”
He smiled. “Since you became a local hero and pulled a guy out of a burning vehicle with your own bare hands.”
“Wow,” I said. “I have no words. Just wow.”
I sat down at the little breakfast table on my deck, and Ethan slid the tray in front of me. He was starting to lift the basket off the plate when I stopped him.
“Wait a minute. Is that letter under this basket?”
All innocent, he said, “What letter?”
“You know exactly what letter.”
He smiled. “I thought about it, but no.”
“I promise I’ll open it today. It’s not a big deal.”
“If it’s not a big deal, why didn’t you open it last night?”
I shrugged innocently. “I guess I forgot it was even there.”
He lifted the basket to reveal a bowl of freshly cut fruit. Mango, kiwi, and strawberries sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and topped with a dollop of crème fraîche. Next to that was a scrumptious-looking buttered scone.
He sat down and said, “Fresh out of the oven. Paco’s up early today.”
It hadn’t taken Ethan long to pick up on the subtleties of the secret language that Michael and I have developed over the years for talking about Paco. Working as an agent with the Special Investigative Bureau means Paco rubs elbows with all sorts of interesting characters—mobsters, narcotics dealers, counterfeiters, animal smugglers—so whenever he’s away on a job, both Michael and I walk on eggshells, trying to pretend everything’s just as normal as can be, as if Paco’s gone out on an errand and will be back safe and sound any minute.
The fact that they were up and about this early could only mean one thing—Paco was starting a new assignment today. “Fresh out of the oven” meant Michael was in the kitchen, nervously trying to distract himself.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, biting into the scone. “This is the best breakfast ever.”
He folded his arms over his chest and smiled. “And how’s your neck?”
My mouth was full of scone, so I managed an “Mmmph!” and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Okay, good,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table. “Then my work is done.”
“Wait a minute! Where are you going?”
He stood up and disappeared inside, calling over his shoulder, “Sorry, babe! I’ve got a meeting in Tampa with a new client.”
Just then my cell phone rang from the bedroom, and Ethan called out, “Somebody’s calling you.”
The only people in the world that could possibly be calling at this hour were Michael, Paco, and Ethan, so I decided I’d just enjoy my breakfast and check my voice mail later. Except, if it was a client with an emergency, like a lost cat or …
“Hey, can you see who it is?”
There was a pause, and then he said, “Sara somebody.”
I couldn’t think of any clients named Sara. The only Sara I knew was a girl who worked the hot dog stand at the pavilion on Siesta Key Beach, and I wasn’t even sure she knew my name. “Sara Somebody” was probably a new client. I figured I’d check my voice mail after breakfast and call back at a more godly hour.
Just as I was digging into my fresh fruit, Ethan came back out on the porch in a crisp white dress shirt with a dark gray jacket. He leaned against the railing and draped a pale, silvery-blue tie around his neck.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you…” There was a forced nonchalance to his voice that immediately made me a bit nervous.
“Whaffat?” I said, my mouth full of mango and kiwi.
“So … what’s the EPT for?”
I swallowed, “The huh?”
I knew exactly what he had said, but for some reason I needed a little time to think. He crossed the skinny end of his tie over the fat end and looped it around into a bow. “The early pregnancy test that’s in your medicine cabinet.”
“Oh!” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Um … I bought that.”
He nodded slightly, gazing off into the distance as he slipped the tie’s long end through the bow and pulled it into a tight knot. “Okay…”
It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what he was getting at. The vague note of a question in his voice finally tipped me off. I said, “Oh my gosh! You didn’t think…”
He shrugged, “Well, I was kind of wondering.”
“No! It’s not for me. It’s for a girl I know—the daughter of a client. It’s a long story, but basically she thought she was pregnant. It turns out she wasn’t, but I figured she should probably have a way of knowing if it ever happens again. Hopefully she’ll never need it.”