dinner Friday night with my
father,” she said, the bell-like tinkle gone from her tone.
Another car cruised by, and he once again
skip-stepped sideways to avoid getting splashed. “You don’t sound
too excited about that.”
“It’s going to be stressful,” she
predicted.
“Maybe we could meet afterward and do
something stress-free. Grab a drink or something.”
“I’d like that.” Over the dull din of
traffic and rain, he heard her sigh. “But I can’t make a late night
of it. Saturday is my grand opening. I’ve got to get up really
early to bake the final batches of cookies before ten a.m.”
“No problem. I’ve got a big day Saturday,
too.”
“Right.” Now she sounded subdued. He wished
he could see her. Did she know how expressive her face was when she
spoke, how much her eyes told him?
“So…I can get to Brogan’s Point by around
nine on Friday. How does that work for you?”
“Fine.”
“Where should I pick you up?”
Another pause, and she gave him an address
on Atlantic Avenue. He patted his pocket for something to write on
but came up empty. “Why don’t you text your address to me?” he
suggested, and recited his cell number. He doubted her store phone
would have caller ID.
“Okay.” She repeated his number back to
him.
“That’s it.” He pictured her, her hair
pulled back, her slim body protected by an apron, a smudge of flour
powdering her cheek as she wrote down his number on one of her
Cookie’s bags, or a Cookie’s napkin, or the inside of her wrist. He
recalled her hands, her slender fingers ending in clipped,
unpolished nails. No fancy manicure, no long claws and flashy
enamel. Like a surgeon, she had hands that worked, not hands that
were pampered and elegant.
“I’ll see you Friday, then,” he said.
“Okay. I’ve got to go. ’Bye, Quinn.”
“Good-bye.” He had to go, too. The smokers
at the other end of the doorway had finished their cigarettes and
headed back indoors. The duration of a cigarette seemed to be the
standard by which residents, even those who didn’t smoke, measured
their breaks. If things were calm, you might be able to take a
two-smoke break. When the place was hopping, though, the length of
a break rarely exceeded the time it took to smoke one
cigarette.
He’d taken one-cigarette’s worth of break,
and he ought to get back to work. But he lingered outside, standing
in the shadowed doorway, inhaling the cool, fresh air and staring
at the cell phone in his palm. After a minute, it dinged and the
text-message light flashed. He swiped the screen, and there was her
address. And her cell phone number.
Grinning, he wiped a raindrop from his cheek
and headed back inside.
***
Gus spotted Ed as soon as he swung open the
door and stepped inside. He ran a hand through his rain-damp hair
and smiled at her. With a nod, she reached for a mug and carried it
to the coffee maker. Three-thirty was his usual time to stop by for
a cup of coffee, if he wasn’t off somewhere chasing a perp or
solving a case, or in Salem testifying in court.
By the time he reached the bar, she had the
mug filled and waiting for him. He leaned over the polished wood to
brush her lips with a quick kiss. She wasn’t a big fan of public
displays of affection, but the few customers scattered around the
room in the middle of a sleepy, drizzly Wednesday were busy talking
or staring into their drinks. She doubted anyone noticed.
Ed settled onto a bar stool and grinned. “I
got Maeve to agree to come for dinner.”
“Really?” That was a major accomplishment.
She knew how hard he was struggling to stitch the frayed threads of
his relationship with his daughter back together. “When?”
“Friday night.”
Gus raised her eyebrows. “Then you’ll be on
your own.”
His grin faded. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t be there on Friday. It’ll be too
busy here. All the TGIF people.”
“You could take an hour off,” he said, his
tone pleading.
But she
father,” she said, the bell-like tinkle gone from her tone.
Another car cruised by, and he once again
skip-stepped sideways to avoid getting splashed. “You don’t sound
too excited about that.”
“It’s going to be stressful,” she
predicted.
“Maybe we could meet afterward and do
something stress-free. Grab a drink or something.”
“I’d like that.” Over the dull din of
traffic and rain, he heard her sigh. “But I can’t make a late night
of it. Saturday is my grand opening. I’ve got to get up really
early to bake the final batches of cookies before ten a.m.”
“No problem. I’ve got a big day Saturday,
too.”
“Right.” Now she sounded subdued. He wished
he could see her. Did she know how expressive her face was when she
spoke, how much her eyes told him?
“So…I can get to Brogan’s Point by around
nine on Friday. How does that work for you?”
“Fine.”
“Where should I pick you up?”
Another pause, and she gave him an address
on Atlantic Avenue. He patted his pocket for something to write on
but came up empty. “Why don’t you text your address to me?” he
suggested, and recited his cell number. He doubted her store phone
would have caller ID.
“Okay.” She repeated his number back to
him.
“That’s it.” He pictured her, her hair
pulled back, her slim body protected by an apron, a smudge of flour
powdering her cheek as she wrote down his number on one of her
Cookie’s bags, or a Cookie’s napkin, or the inside of her wrist. He
recalled her hands, her slender fingers ending in clipped,
unpolished nails. No fancy manicure, no long claws and flashy
enamel. Like a surgeon, she had hands that worked, not hands that
were pampered and elegant.
“I’ll see you Friday, then,” he said.
“Okay. I’ve got to go. ’Bye, Quinn.”
“Good-bye.” He had to go, too. The smokers
at the other end of the doorway had finished their cigarettes and
headed back indoors. The duration of a cigarette seemed to be the
standard by which residents, even those who didn’t smoke, measured
their breaks. If things were calm, you might be able to take a
two-smoke break. When the place was hopping, though, the length of
a break rarely exceeded the time it took to smoke one
cigarette.
He’d taken one-cigarette’s worth of break,
and he ought to get back to work. But he lingered outside, standing
in the shadowed doorway, inhaling the cool, fresh air and staring
at the cell phone in his palm. After a minute, it dinged and the
text-message light flashed. He swiped the screen, and there was her
address. And her cell phone number.
Grinning, he wiped a raindrop from his cheek
and headed back inside.
***
Gus spotted Ed as soon as he swung open the
door and stepped inside. He ran a hand through his rain-damp hair
and smiled at her. With a nod, she reached for a mug and carried it
to the coffee maker. Three-thirty was his usual time to stop by for
a cup of coffee, if he wasn’t off somewhere chasing a perp or
solving a case, or in Salem testifying in court.
By the time he reached the bar, she had the
mug filled and waiting for him. He leaned over the polished wood to
brush her lips with a quick kiss. She wasn’t a big fan of public
displays of affection, but the few customers scattered around the
room in the middle of a sleepy, drizzly Wednesday were busy talking
or staring into their drinks. She doubted anyone noticed.
Ed settled onto a bar stool and grinned. “I
got Maeve to agree to come for dinner.”
“Really?” That was a major accomplishment.
She knew how hard he was struggling to stitch the frayed threads of
his relationship with his daughter back together. “When?”
“Friday night.”
Gus raised her eyebrows. “Then you’ll be on
your own.”
His grin faded. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t be there on Friday. It’ll be too
busy here. All the TGIF people.”
“You could take an hour off,” he said, his
tone pleading.
But she
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