Shadows on the Sand (10 page)

“Atlanta’s not the South, despite its geography. People there come from all over.”

“And your family came from?”

I had no idea where my father came from, since I had no idea who he was. Though my mother never took us to her home or spoke of family there, at least she gave me a place to name. “My mom’s from Camden, New Jersey.”

“And you ended up in Seaside because she came here on vacation as a kid? You’re keeping the family heritage alive?”

I grabbed at his comment with both hands, a witness happy to be led. “That’s true. She talked about Seaside a lot. It made Lindsay and me want to come, so when we decided to move, ta-da, we chose Seaside.”

“Just you girls but not your mom?”

The trouble with getting to know people better was that they always asked hard questions. “Not our mom.”

“Or dad?”

“Or dad.” I’d met Greg’s brothers and parents when they came to visit him and hit the café for a meal. How could someone with a wonderful family like his understand mine?

“How long have you been here?”

“It seems like forever,” I said evasively.

“How long?” He was watching me, without doubt hearing the reluctance in my voice.

I sighed. I couldn’t lie to him. “Seventeen years.”

He straightened and stared at me. He’d done the math. “You were a runaway?”

I swallowed. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re what? Thirty?” He frowned. “That would make you thirteen?”

“I’m thirty-three. I was sixteen.”

“Oh. Big improvement.”

I shrugged. What could I say?

“And you brought Lindsay with you?”

I nodded.

“How old was she?”

“Ten.”

He stared at me, and I felt my stomach twist. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. Or maybe I could. Runaways were pathetic druggies. Runaways became child prostitutes. Runaways became thieves. I felt certain he’d met all these sad kids in the course of his career in law enforcement and some with stories more tragic than even I could imagine.

“It must have been bad,” he said finally, “if you took your little sister along.”

Tears burned my throat at his understanding. “It was,” I managed, glad to see Home Depot looming. Enough soul baring for the moment. I was happy to concentrate on the challenge of maneuvering through the parking lot. Fraught with potential calamity as it was, with cars and pickups backing up at me as if I were at a demolition derby, it was much safer than talking about my past.

With great relief I pulled into a parking slot that had empty spaces on both sides. As I eased the keys from the ignition, I breathed a huge sigh. Not one crumpled fender, either Greg’s or some stranger’s. If I looked at the driving situation in a glass-half-full kind of way, I was already halfway home.

I climbed down from the cab, and we walked toward the store together. Though neither of us said anything, it felt very couple-y to me. Since Lindsay and I had done much of the work in turning the Surfside into Carrie’s,
I’d spent a lot of time at Home Depot and Lowe’s. I used to watch the shopping couples as they talked, debated, and argued over which items to purchase. Then I’d go off with my sister and buy our supplies.

Today I was shopping with a guy, and it felt good. Not that it was the same as being a real couple. But it was a one-small-step-for-man type of thing, and I was determined to enjoy it.

All right. I was pathetic, but at least I knew it.

Greg stopped just outside the store’s door. “I’m sorry you got roped into this.”

Did he mean he was sorry he got roped into having me along? “It’s okay. I like Home Depot.”

He looked at me in surprise. “Are you serious? I thought all women hated it. Ginny did.”

“Lindsay doesn’t like it much either, but I do.”

He still looked skeptical.

We walked into the store and went to the lumber section. Along the way I snagged one of those carts that allowed you to rest sheets of plywood or paneling on their side. I trundled it after Greg, who was now about half an aisle ahead of me. That felt oh so couple-y too. The only other thing more couple-y would be if one of us started looking up and down the aisles for the misplaced other.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” a man in a Home Depot apron asked.

“He’ll tell you what we want.” I pointed to Greg, who was leaning over the pile of plywood.

As the man went to talk to Greg, I heard what I’d said. “What
we
want.” I was thirty-three, and there’d never before been a
we
, at least a male-female
we
, where shopping was concerned. How sad was that? And, frankly, there really wasn’t a
we
now.

It wasn’t that men had never shown an interest in me. Several had
through the years, but it was back when I was still convinced that all men were drunks, reprobates, and lechers.

In time I’d realized that romance, at least for me, was a matter not only of a man who made my heart trip but also of timing and healing. I just hadn’t been ready earlier. Too many childhood issues to resolve. I sighed. Now I was finally ready, but the object of my affection wasn’t.

Lord, Your Word says our times are in Your hands. Will I ever be in a situation where my timing and a guy’s timing
—Greg’s
timing—are in sync?

When Greg and the Home Depot man started pulling plywood from the pile, I wheeled my cart to them. They slid two sheets on, and I began spinning the cart around so the steering wheels were in the back.

The Home Depot man grinned at Greg. “You’ve got her trained real good.”

I glared at the man though he didn’t see. I didn’t care how couple-y I ever became,
trained
would never be an operative word. Greg saw my expression, knew how ticked I was, and smiled broadly.

I scowled back for effect. Three cheers for me. I made the man smile for a second time today! A record.

We stopped to pick up the fluorescent bulbs I suspected Lindsay didn’t need, and after a small skirmish over who was paying—Greg won—we left the store. With me on one side and Greg on the other, we slid the plywood into the bed of the pickup.

I wasn’t as nervous driving back to Seaside, and I almost felt comfortable when I pulled into the Sand and Sea lot. Much of the debris Chaz had caused was already cleaned up, and we dumped the little remaining in the Dumpster at the far side of the lot. We lugged the plywood sheets from the truck to the building, and Greg pounded them into place with masonry nails. With every blow, he winced at the stress on his shoulder. I made believe I didn’t notice.

“Can’t someone just pry off the boards?” I asked. “To get inside, I mean.”

“They could if they were determined to, but why would anyone want to?”

“To get Chaz’s stuff?”

He laughed. Laughed! I felt a flicker of pride, like I’d just baked a cake as wonderful as one of Lindsay’s. Three times!

“Believe me,” Greg said, “no one wants any of his stuff, not even him.”

“What happens to it all?”

“I’d bet most of it’s rented, but what happens is that I set a date with him to let him in to get his things or for the rental company to come pick up their stuff. If he or they don’t come, I put everything in storage until we can arrange a sheriff’s sale.”

“Well, he won’t come. He’ll be in jail.”

Greg carried his toolbox to the truck, me trailing him. “He’ll be out on bail as of tomorrow morning.” He sounded resigned. “The only good thing is, he won’t be able to leave the area, so some other town will be spared his presence.”

“Bail? He tried to kill you!”

“Did he?”

Again that uncertainty. “Weird,” I said. “Weird, weird, weird.”

“Agreed. Now let’s get you home.”

We climbed into the cab, this time with him in the driver’s seat.

“Pull down the alley,” I said as we approached the café. “And don’t forget that you’re coming up to let me clean out those cuts of yours.”

He made a face, but he followed me as I led the way up the stairs to the second-floor apartment Lindsay and I shared.

How couple-y.

T
hey say it’s hard to dispose of the dead body of someone you killed. Whether you meant their death or not is irrelevant. Corpses tend to bleed all over you and the surroundings. They’re a dead weight, ha, ha. They release strange fluids and gases. And they get stiff as boards, making lugging them a challenge
.

And other people are nosy. They spy on you and see you dragging your dead husband or wife to the family car for a trip to the nearest wooded area. Or at a stoplight they notice that your companion never blinks or moves from his propped position in the passenger seat. Or blood drips onto the street from the body stashed in the trunk
.

Well, who were “they” to say it’s so hard? That’s what he wanted to know
.

Whoever they were, they hadn’t asked him if he agreed. Granted, he didn’t have as much practice at disposal as one of those deranged serial killers. Half those guys didn’t seem to care about getting rid of their bodies. They left them lying around for anyone to find. It wasn’t because hiding the body was hard. Oh no. It was because they were lazy
.

He would never be so careless, not about bodies or anything. That was why he was so good at what he did. He thought things through, and he always found a satisfactory way of handling every situation, even the ones where death happened
.

So “they” should be talking to him. Maybe he didn’t know as much as some, but he had more experience with disposal than the general population
.

And he was proud of how successful he was at it
.

H
ave a seat.” I indicated a kitchen chair. “I’ll get the Bactine and stuff.”

Greg looked uncertain as he sat, and I couldn’t resist. “You’re not afraid of a little Bactine, are you?”

“Of course not.” But he didn’t sound too convinced.

I glanced over my shoulder at him as I pulled the first-aid supplies from the shelf where we kept them in a large cardboard box with flaps tucked into each other. “You ever had Bactine sprayed on you before?”

“Sure, I’ve used it.”

“On yourself?” I carried the box to the table. “You just tortured your kids with it, right?”

“Well, actually Ginny did all the torturing. It’s what moms do.”

I had a brief vision of my mother and thought I knew too well about mothers and torture. Ginny did not fit the mold at all.

I flipped open the box with a flourish. With a graceful leap, Oreo jumped up to inspect the contents. We had quite a collection of Band-Aids, ointments, meds, and a large spray bottle of Bactine since it wasn’t uncommon to injure ourselves in the line of café duty. I had a giant first-aid kit in the kitchen downstairs too, but this stash was for Linds and me after café hours.

Oreo put out a paw and batted at the antiseptic.

“See?” I said. “Even the cat knows the power of Bactine.”

Greg still looked skeptical. “Pretty cat. Does it always sit on the table?”

“She thinks she owns the place and sees no surface as off-limits. She’s
an indoor cat, so we just ignore her when she jumps on whatever.” I thought of Ricky. “You allergic?”

Wouldn’t that kill any romance in a hurry? How could I choose between Oreo and some man, even Greg? Oreo had seen Linds and me through years of emotional need and healing. There were times when nothing felt as right as hugging a furry, warm animal.

“Not allergic.” Greg reached out and lifted the cat onto his lap. She settled down and began to purr as he stroked her.

You’ve got to love a man who loves your pet.

Greg sat patiently as I washed the scrapes on his face and arm with a warm, soft, soapy cloth. His eyes closed and seemed to relax. When was the last time someone had taken care of him?

“Don’t fall asleep on me.”

He gave a slight smile, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Not a chance with the dreaded Bactine yet to come.”

I swiped an antiseptic wipe over his cheek, and his eyes flew open at the cold. They locked on to mine. They were so dark the irises blended seamlessly with the pupils. Beautiful.