Lies That Bind (11 page)

“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 definitely be looking into fingers that end up in freezers,” he said, laughing. “We did have a bit of excitement last year when that Lorenzo guy took a dive off of the dam. Remember that?”

Maeve kept the same expression on her face, wondering if he had detected the slight tic at the corner of her mouth; she couldn’t hear Lorenzo’s name without that happening. “I remember that. Suicide, right?”

Chris nodded vigorously. “Oh, most definitely. No one just climbs up over the fence for a better look at the water. Unless they’re an idiot,” he said. “And by all accounts, the guy was a bit of a jerk but definitely not an idiot. You probably saw it in the blotter. A couple of domestic disturbances at their house.” He took a sip of his beer. “Wife would never press charges. I warned that guy a dozen times but he never seemed to get the hint.” He shook his head. “Domestic disturbances are the worst.”

Maeve made some kind of sympathetic noise to indicate she understood. The Haggertys popped into her mind again.

He continued. “I also do some outreach at the high school, a little drug prevention work, things like that.”

“D.A.R.E.?” Maeve asked, thinking that the program was a waste of time and money, taught at the wrong time in kids’ development—fifth grade—and not supported with anything that helped dissuade certain kids, like Heather, from the “gateway” drugs. But she couldn’t really criticize. She hadn’t done such a great job herself.

“Not really. We have a uniformed female on that. But since I do most of the drug busts in town and know who’s doing what with whom,” he said, smiling slightly, “I try to make myself a presence in the school. If the kids aren’t going to stay away from drugs for any other reason, I’d like them to know that I’m watching.”

“Does it work?”

He crossed his arms on the table and she took in his strong forearms, the dusting of light brown freckles on his skin. “Hard to tell. Some days, I feel like I’m playing Whack-a-Mole. Lots of pot around these parts, as you know, and now a little heroin creeping in.”

“Heroin?” she said, her stomach feeling a little sick.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting back as the waiter delivered their appetizer. “Horrible, right? We had an overdose four years ago. Don’t know if you remember. Carter Westman?”

She did remember, but the girls were still young enough and still easily monitored so that the news of the overdose hadn’t stayed with her. Now, though, with Heather acting the way she was, in love with a kid who Maeve hated, she worried.

He put his hand over hers, an intimate gesture that didn’t seem out of place. “Don’t worry. We’re on it.” He broke out in that broad smile again. “And don’t base our current lack of investigative ability when it comes to what happens at your store as an indication of how we operate. We’re much better than we appear and we’ll eventually figure it out.”

While eating the appetizer, a cauliflower dish smothered in some kind of sauce Maeve was sure was an aphrodisiac, she wanted to change the subject. “Do you have any experience with missing persons?”

He looked intrigued. “A little. Why do you ask?”

“I have a sister. She’s missing.”

“A sister?”

“Yes,” she said, putting her fork down and scanning the dining room before looking at him again. “Someone from my past came to Dad’s funeral and said I have a sister. She may have been … she is developmentally challenged. I didn’t know about her.”

“What are you doing to find her?” he asked.

“My ex, Cal, is helping me search death certificates. Beyond that, I’m not really sure what to do.” She had never called Margie Haggerty. Dolores had been the one who had told Maeve, the one Maeve had gone to see. She didn’t think Margie had anything to offer but wondered if she had written her off too quickly.

“Did you think about hiring a PI?” he said. “I could give you a name.”

“Maybe,” she said, but with the house, the store, and Christmas approaching, funds for a private investigator were limited.

“I’ll help you in any way I can,” he said.

“You will?” she asked. “Why?” To her, it was a logical question.

To him, the answer seemed obvious. “Because I like you.” He looked down at his plate of food. “I always have.”

“Oh, that’s just because you want free muffins,” she said, what she had planned on being a joke causing his face to fall. She tried to recover but wasn’t sure she knew how. “I like you, too,” came out sounding insincere even though she did like him. She had just never noticed that she had before now. She didn’t allow herself to have those thoughts and she wasn’t sure why.

Maeve was aware she had broken the mood so she went to her best offense—humor—to bring things back into balance. “So we’ve talked about your job. Is there anything you wanted to know about what goes on at The Comfort Zone? Any secrets I might have that you’re interested in?”

“Yeah,” he said, softening a bit, willing to play. “The blueberries in the scones. Fresh or frozen?”

“Fresh when I can get them. Frozen when I can’t,” she said. “That’s all you want to know?”

“No,” he said, blushing like he had when he asked her out. “There’s a lot more I want to know but I don’t want to find everything out all at once.”

Now it was her turn to blush.

It was after dinner, in the parking lot, the river just a few feet away when he turned to her. “Would it be all right if I kissed you?” he asked. “I don’t really know how to do this so I figured I’d ask.”

She looked up at him, the blueberry scone and coffee guy who had become a little something more, and savored the moment. She remembered every first kiss she had had but she never thought she would have the opportunity to have another one. That part of her life was over, or so she thought. “It would be just fine,” she said, forgetting, when he wrapped his arms around her, about everything that she had been thinking about just hours earlier, storing it all somewhere for later. Somewhere that wouldn’t ruin a mood that she had never anticipated.

Chris was the anti-Cal, sure and confident in spite of his asking to give her a kiss. He was tall and fit—but with just enough heft—with that crooked nose, kind and gentle but with just the right amount of softness. He had been in her backyard all these years but she had never taken notice.

But he had and that was all that mattered.

He pulled away and pushed her hair away from her forehead. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

“You have?” she said. “Kiss me?” The kiss had taken her breath away and she had a hard time finding words.

“Yeah,” he said. “Kiss you. I have.” He took her hand and they walked back to the car. “It’s okay if I’ve just been the blueberry muffin and coffee guy to you.”

So he knew.

“Maybe I can become more than that?” he asked, leaning her up against the car, pressing his body against her. He kissed her again.

“Maybe,” she said, in between the breaths, the tongues, the murmurs.

“Maybe.”

CHAPTER 18

She was in a good mood when she got to work in the morning and didn’t even get a knot in her stomach when Jo was thirty minutes late. Chris had dropped her off a little after ten the night before, early enough so that she wouldn’t feel like a zombie the next day. Although he was a gentleman and didn’t press it, she could tell he wanted to come in, but she held firm. First date. Late night. Early morning. A kid upstairs. All of the usual excuses. He had finally driven off, giving a little toot of his horn as he rounded the corner.

For just a minute, she had forgotten about lumps on the head, severed fingers, and missing sisters.

Jo—who after finding out that Maeve had been on a date with Larsson, pronounced Chris “yummy” and said that she herself had always had a bit of a crush on him—was dying for details but Maeve was deliberately sketchy. “Have you been to the Indian place in Irvington?” Maeve asked.

Jo shook her head. She was stacking cookies into the shelf by the front door.

“It’s delicious.” Maeve slid a large chocolate cake into the case. “We had this wonderful appetizer with cauliflower. I don’t even really like cauliflower.” She walked around the front of the counter to look at the contents of the cake case. “And my entrée was amazing.”

Jo turned. “Enough about the restaurant! I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about cauliflower. Or your entrée. Details! Did he kiss you? Did you sleep with him?”

Maeve clutched her chest in mock indignation. “No, I did not sleep with him,” she said. “I am not sure I even know how to do that anymore.”

“Promise me this,” Jo said. “If it gets close to that point, if you think you’re going to sleep with him, please, please, have a quick consult with me. You probably have tumbleweeds in your vagina or at least in that place in your brain where you think about sex. If you even do that anymore.”

“Why do I need to consult you?” Maeve asked. “Do people do it differently now? Have things changed that dramatically since my divorce? Please don’t tell me I have to learn anything new. I’m just too tired. And believe me, there are no tumbleweeds in there.”

Jo walked over to the counter and laid herself on top of it, swanning dramatically, too exhausted from what Maeve didn’t know. “It’s the same. It’s you who’s changed.”

“You mean ‘older,’ right?” Maeve asked, pinching the little roll that hung over the top of her jeans. “You mean because of my appropriately named ‘muffin top,’ correct? The one I got from making—and eating—too many muffins?”

Jo rose. “Okay, treat it as a joke. It will be to your detriment.” She floated off, and went through the kitchen doors, muttering to herself as she did. “I’ll get you a vibrator. Practice with that…” she said as the door slammed behind her.

Maeve reviewed the list of orders she had for the week, happy with the amount of money that they would bring in but a little nervous about how she would execute everything. She felt that way a lot, delighted with how the business had grown but wondering how she would do everything herself. She leaned against the counter and started thinking dollars and cents. With Jo leaving to have the baby, the time was coming to hire someone new, and the thought of going through that process made her head hurt just a little bit.

She was deep in thought when the back door to the kitchen opened, no knock to indicate that someone had arrived. Margie Haggerty stood there, tentative, her hands clasped in front of her, the look on her face telling Maeve that she was nervous. Maybe a little afraid.

Maeve was glad to see that look, the sight of her former neighbor’s tense expression making her feel that maybe, just this once, she had the upper hand. That she’d get the truth. And although she couldn’t say she was pleased that Margie had shown up at her place of business, the woman’s appearance had saved Maeve a step in this process, allowing her to cross one thing off of her mental to-do list. She had wanted to call Margie first but life had intervened, as it had a habit of doing.

Maeve bypassed any pleasantries. “What are you doing here?”