Lies That Bind by Maggie Barbieri Page B

the speed limit on Route 9; her father had been the same way when he had had a license. Cops drove fast and rarely, if ever, suffered the consequences. They darted in and out of traffic, always hurrying to the next thing. “Has that ever happened to you?” he asked.
    She hadn’t heard a word of what he had said, so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she had tuned out; her mind kept returning, even as she willed it not to, to her father’s death. Family secrets. Her sister. Billy Brantley. She turned and rather than try to cover up, admitted that she hadn’t been listening. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been crazy. As you know.”
    “No problem,” he said. “My ex used to accuse me of never listening to her, and you know what? Guilty as charged.” They stopped at a light. “I’m working on that,” he said.
    She fiddled with the charm bracelet on her wrist, the one her father had given her and had added charms to her whole life, the last being a tiny donut with an emerald where the hole should be. She was impressed by how relaxed Chris seemed, much more relaxed than she was. Had he done this before, taken out a woman from the village for Indian food? Was he more experienced when it came to dating after a divorce? Rather than wonder, she asked him outright. “Have you dated since your divorce?”
    “Nope,” he said. “First time.”
    She let out a breath. They’d be jumping into the deep end together, and knowing that was a tremendous relief.
    “How am I doing so far?” he asked.
    “You’re doing great,” she said and sank back into the passenger seat of his Jeep, a car that existed in direct opposition to Cal’s Town & Country minivan, which beeped when it went in reverse and that, to Maeve, always smelled like baby formula and crushed Goldfish. This car, this manly vehicle, smelled like coffee and some indescribable scent of the male species. Man with SUV. Man who wore gun. Man who didn’t constantly have a baby strapped to his chest and refer to his flaky wife as “Mommy.”
    Man who seemed just the slightest bit interested in Maeve, her own scent of flour and butter and her unwillingness to tolerate fools of any kind seeming to be the recipe he was looking for.
    The restaurant was just as she remembered it: warm, inviting, and smelling of an exotic blend of spices she knew weren’t in her pantry. They were seated upstairs with a table that had a river view, and ordered drinks, a beer for him and a glass of white wine for her. As they perused the menu, they talked easily about what they had eaten in the past, what was good, and what didn’t need a second chance. He expressed his sympathy at her father’s passing.
    “You doing okay with that?” he asked, scanning the menu, not wanting to meet her eye.
    “No. Yes. I don’t know,” she said. “He was old. He was sick. But he was all I had,” she said, surprising herself at the admission. “Well, not all. I have the girls. I have Jo.”
    “I understand what you mean. It kind of thrusts you full on into adulthood, losing a parent,” he said, and then seeing she didn’t understand what he meant, added, “You’re no one’s child anymore.”
    It was honest, direct, and probably not what she needed to hear at that precise moment.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s how I felt when I lost my mother last year.”
    “And your father?”
    “Died when I was a kid.”
    They had that in common, losing a parent when they were young. She wondered what else was similar about their backgrounds. For his sake, she hoped it was not much else.
    After they ordered, Maeve asked Chris about his job. “So, you’re a detective. What kind of detecting do you do in Farringville?” Beyond what you do with me at my store, she thought. She had a pretty good idea of what kind of detecting he did based on how many times he had been at The Comfort Zone in a professional capacity in the last few weeks.
    “Mostly drug stuff,” he said. “But I’ll