By Your Side (21 page)

“I don’t know.” He thought of his mother’s pile of scrapbook photos; Jessica would be in a number of them. “I’m here as long as my parents need me.”

“And I’m being selfish.”

Fletcher shook his head. She
was
better. That insight alone was proof.

“I miss you too,” he told her, switching the phone to his other hand as he slipped into his jacket. “There’s a lot to like about California, but Houston is home.”

“Hey . . .” Jessica peered into the phone the same way she used to do through the Holts’ front door sidelights. The perspective made her face look like a pampered, mooching spaniel’s. “Is that a sport coat you’re wearing?”

“Sort of.”

“There’s no sort of about it. You’re dressed up, Holt.”

“I’m going out to dinner.”

“A date?”

“I guess you’d call it that.”

“Oh.” Jessica was quiet for a moment, turning her head away just enough that he couldn’t make out her expression. “She’s . . . one of those things to like about California?”

“Yeah.” Fletcher nodded. “I think so.”

“I
REALLY WASN’T,
you know, checking out your legs,” Fletcher explained, feeling like an idiot for saying anything at all. Great choice for after-dinner conversation. “But when you slid into the Jeep earlier, I couldn’t help but notice your ankle.”

“It’s okay.” Macy leaned forward enough that the candle on the outdoor table was reflected in her eyes. She lowered her voice like a conspirator. “If I’ve accepted that you have a handgun under that jacket, then you can know that I have a tattoo. Temporarily
 
—I have an appointment to get rid of it.”

“Ballet shoes?” Fletcher asked, failing a second glance at her ankle in the dim lighting. Her crossed legs were lightly tanned, summer-bare. The heels on her sandals would make her tall enough to look directly into his eyes. If he was lucky
enough to draw her that close . . . “It’s such a small design that it’s hard to tell, but it looks like the dancing shoes my cousin had. With those sort of ribbon ties.”

“Good eye. The other day, this guy at the gym asked me if they were pinto beans. Seriously. Beans.” Macy sighed. “I was sixteen when I agreed to be a tattoo guinea pig for the big brother of one of the other foster kids. Not my brightest idea. Though I heard he developed quite a following later
 
—” she rolled her eyes
 
—“in prison.”

“Why ballet?” Fletcher asked, remembering her teasing threat to plant a combative foot square in the middle of his chest. No tutu there.

“I . . .” Macy reached for her cup again, hesitated. “One of my foster moms
 
—the same one who took us to Yosemite
 
—paid for me to take ballet lessons for a while. They were sponsored by her church.”

Church . . .
That connection again. It had been there, once.

“She . . . Nonni was pretty special.” Macy glanced over the deck railing toward the small marina. The delta breeze blew a wisp of hair across her face. Somewhere, beyond the soft burble of conversation at the adjacent tables and the
tinkle-chink-clatter
of wineglasses and silverware, a single gull’s cry repeated over and over. A lonely sound. “I was thirteen,” Macy continued, “and skinny. Bad hair
 
—worse attitude. I didn’t even trust the sun to come up in the morning. But Nonni kept after me, doing all these little things. She made me feel special
 
—safe, too, I guess
 
—maybe for the first time in my whole life.” That faraway look came into Macy’s eyes. “For a while I believed it all: I’d dance
Swan
Lake
with the San Francisco Ballet, grow up beautiful like my mother, and have a family, a real home . . .”

Fletcher waited. There had to be more. She’d made an appointment to have that tattoo removed.

Her wistful expression closed down. “Nonni died, no warning. The house was auctioned off. The kids . . . We all went different places. Then Leah . . .”

Was brutally raped. And you took up kickboxing.

“Well.” She gave a short laugh, waved her hand as if to erase the pain of what she’d shared. “Guess that will teach you to ask a girl about a tat, Deputy Holt.”

“Sir.” The waiter set their check down and Macy immediately reached for it.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Fletcher warned, entering into what became a small tug-of-war. “I invited you.”

“Too many times,” she insisted, adjusting her grip.

“You’re complaining?”

“No.” The amber eyes met his, making it nearly impossible to continue to wrestle
 
—good thing she wasn’t a perp going for his gun. “I meant that you’re too generous, Fletcher. I’d like to get this, do that this time.” Macy shot him a look. “If you’re worried my credit card will be denied and you’ll have to wash dishes, relax. I’m packing cash. Tons.”

“Win the lottery?” he teased. “Secret heiress?”

“Maybe. Something like that.” Her expression was unreadable. “Let me do this, Fletcher. Please.”

“I don’t know . . .” He stayed quiet for a moment as one of the restaurant staff lit the small stone fireplace nearest them; flames rose and warmed the cool breeze. He
was reminded once again that he was far, far from humid and sultry south Texas. Reminded, too, that Macy Wynn was unlike any woman he’d known. So independent, self-assured. He admired it, but pay for the check? That was going too far.

“If it helps my case,” she wrangled, leaning back toward the heat, “I ordered more food than you did
 
—remember the oyster sampler?”

Raw on the half shell, barbecue, and smoked. Macy had enjoyed them like a California otter cracking an abalone over its belly. She’d followed that with a Dungeness crab Louis, then the macadamia nut–crusted Alaskan halibut. A pescatarian fantasy, no doubt. She’d discreetly checked the right-hand column of the Scott’s Seafood menu and then savored every single bite of her order. It had been a beautiful sight. He smiled. “I remember the oysters.”

“So . . . ?” Macy held up the check.

“Sorry. Can’t let it happen.”

She tilted her head. “I buy dessert?”

“Well . . . sure,” Fletcher conceded, impressed she had room for it. “I’ll call the waiter back and
 
—”

“No. Not here,” Macy interrupted with a slow smile. “We’ll go to Midtown. Rick’s Dessert Diner. Great, funky, retro spot
 
—glass display cases, checkerboard floor, vinyl upholstered booths
 
—with like
two hundred
or more desserts.” The tip of her tongue sneaked across her lower lip. “Chocolate strawberry fudge cake, toasted pecan coconut cake, fudge fantasy. And pies: key lime, apple blackberry, chocolate peanut butter . . . Cheesecakes, tarts, brûlées, cobblers . . . The air reeks of buttercream.”

Fletcher smiled, enjoying the uncensored bliss on her face. He slid the dinner check from her fingers. “What are we waiting for? You’re on.”

Taylor daubed a sweet potato fry in ketchup, then met Seth’s gaze across the vinyl-top table. She raised her voice above the summer evening chatter of the café crowd. “Thank you. I needed to dilute that painful situation with comfort food gluttony.”

Seth’s smile was kind, his brown eyes as warm as the molten fudge brownie she was tempted to add to her order. “I thought a little comfort was in order. Care for the caregivers. How are you doing now?”

There was no skirting the truth with Chaplain Donovan.

“Better, I think. It was hard not to cry in front of that poor woman,” Taylor admitted, remembering the pain in the new widow’s eyes.

“There’s no rule against that,” Seth reminded her gently. “We’re only human.”

“I know.” Taylor sighed. “It’s just that . . . her husband dying out there on that lake, no warning and no chance to say good-bye. It was almost like . . .” She lowered her gaze, toyed with a fry.

“It was too much like what happened with Greg.”

She met Seth’s gaze, nodding. Words weren’t an option.

“I’d be surprised if it didn’t bring that back, Taylor. There’s no way around it.” He set his coffee down and released a sigh. “August will be almost five years since my wife passed, and I’ve probably been on a couple hundred
activations since. Community situations and tragedies within the law enforcement and fire family. Drownings, crib deaths, officer-involved shootings, teen suicides. I’m a seasoned volunteer. But to this day, whenever I’m called to make a hospital visit, I get one whiff of that antiseptic smell and I’m right back there in Camille’s room. I’m watching her fight that cruel cancer pain
 
—and feeling so blasted helpless to fix it.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the familiar package of Kleenex stamped with the chaplaincy logo. “These things will work for us too, Taylor. Trust me on that.”

Taylor would bet there were few people more worthy of trust than this man. People felt comfortable with him, like he had wide enough shoulders to share anybody’s burden. It’s what made him such a great crisis chaplain, why officers and firefighters hung around his family’s uniform store long after they’d purchased their pair of pants or that new flashlight. Seth Donovan invited folks’ confidences because he listened without judging.

“You did great out there,” he told her. “And now that we’ve slid that heart on your sleeve
 
—” he pointed toward the front of her shirt
 
—“back up where it’s safer, you get to be proud of yourself for getting through your very first death notification. You made a difference today, Taylor. That’s good.” He peeled the wrapper from an antacid tablet. “Your call will be added to the monthly debriefing, of course. But informally, can I answer any questions or concerns?”

“I . . . May I ask something personal?”

“Sure.” He set the tablet on his plate. “Ask away.”

“It’s just . . .” Taylor’s breath snagged. “How long did it take?”

“For what?”

“To stop feeling so lost . . . alone?” She heard the pain in her voice, knew there was no way Seth could miss it either. “After your wife died. How long did it take until things got better?”

His smile was like a hug. “I think everyone’s different, Taylor. I leaned pretty heavily on God. I’ve let him pick me up and throw me over his shoulder more than a few times
 
—still do. And time does help. It will get better.” He nodded. “Friends are good medicine.”

“Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “And they can be a pain too. All the ‘You should get out more’ hints and those awkward ‘At least you’re still young; you’ll find someone else’ lines that are supposed to be hopeful.” She groaned. “Someone even e-mailed me a link to widow’s etiquette. When to stop wearing your wedding ring and how soon is too soon to date.” Taylor shook her head.

“All that ‘help’ that feels so insensitive.”

“Exactly.” She met Seth’s gaze, grateful. And wondered if he too had struggled over that ridiculously painful decision to change his Facebook status from married to single. He kept his personal life pretty private, but she’d heard he was dating a forensic tech. “I’m determined to move on,” Taylor added, “but I guess I resent being told how and when.”

“Well . . .” Seth’s eyes held hers. “No worries. I’m not the kind of friend who’s going to preach grief etiquette. And I’m only going to make one important suggestion.”

Taylor lifted her brows.

“The molten fudge brownie.”

“I can’t believe you actually
knew
the counter girl at the Dessert Diner.” Macy studied Fletcher as he maneuvered the Jeep Wrangler into the turn lane that would bring them closer to her neighborhood. They’d passed the Southside Bank a mile or so back and she’d purposely found something to look at on the other side of the street. “And don’t try to convince me that your pie slice wasn’t half again bigger than mine. I thought she was going to strain a muscle lifting it.”

“Coincidence on all counts,” he insisted, smile lines creasing his rugged profile. “Like she said, I met her once at her son’s school when we responded to a bomb threat. A prank fortunately. We only talked a little, but I guess she remembered me.”

Who wouldn’t?
Macy was grateful her memories had moved from the realm of sniper incidents to . . . this. Whatever this was.

“
If
my pie slice was bigger,” he conceded, “it’s because most business owners appreciate having law enforcement officers on-site. Simple as that.”

“Makes sense.” Macy glanced at the badge and weapon secured to his belt, more visible now that he’d slung his jacket over the seat. “You never know when a layer cake heist will go down.” She laughed at Fletcher’s groan. “Seriously, you always carry that gun when you’re not working?”

“Bad guys don’t take days off.”

“Good point.”

Macy pushed down the nagging sense of foreboding that had been dogging her for several days. It made little sense since there had been no news regarding the freeway sniper. Only coverage of the bank employee’s funeral service and an interview with the paralyzed security guard. She’d muted the TV for both.

“One of my roommates is away doing her insane weekend work marathon. And Sally’s probably sleeping before her night shift,” Macy told him, noticing that they were about to turn onto her street. She couldn’t deny she was reluctant for the evening to end. It had been great, and there was something so nice about the way he’d taken hold of her hand as they walked to the car from the dessert place. “You’d have to put up with the Dood, but I have some good organic coffee beans. And clean cups
 
—a minor miracle. It’s not really that late. . . .”