Exposure (8 page)

She couldn't even be bothered to rail at him anymore. "Let go of me," was all she said, but her tone was cool, tinged with distaste. It was as if she had simply written him off.

He released her and she rose to her feet, promptly stepping back out of his reach. Ah, man, this wasn't right; this was all screwed up. He had to try to make her understand: "Emma, listen, I'm—"

"Mommy?"

They both froze. Then, as one, they turned to face the bed.

Gracie was struggling to sit up beneath the constricting blankets. She yawned and knuckled her tangled, baby-fine blond curls away from sleep-flushed cheeks.

Emma was across the room in a flash, bending over her daughter. "Hey, angel pie," she murmured. "What are you doin' awake?"

"Heard sumpin', Maman." She spotted Elvis over her mother's shoulder. "Hi, Shewiff."

"Hiya, kid."

"I'm fwee, you know," she said and gave him a sleepy smile. Without protest she allowed her mother to tuck her back down into her nest of blankets. Rolling onto her stomach, she drew her knees up beneath her, tucked in her arms, and within seconds was sound asleep again.

"Why does she keep telling me that?" Elvis asked in bewilderment, watching Emma helplessly as she marched over to the door and pointedly held it open.

"Because she just turned three last month and she's proud of it," Emma replied coolly, and then added stiffly, "thank you for watching her for me."

"Emma, I'm really sor—"

"Good night, Sheriff."

"Listen, please, I'd like to explain—"

"Good night."

Then he was somehow on the other side of the door and it was being firmly shut in his face. Shit! He stared at the sturdy old portal in dismay. How the hell had everything gotten so far out of his control?

Grant Woodard glanced up from his work when the intercom buzzed, eyeing the telephone with barely suppressed irritation. Thumping down his index finger to mark his place on the spreadsheets he was perusing, he jabbed the button down with a free finger. "Yes, Rosa," he said.

"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr.Woodard," she said with the same calm efficiency she bestowed upon everything she did. "But you did say you wanted to hear from Mr. Hackett the minute he called."

Grant snapped upright. "Yes, I did."

"He's on line two, sir."

"Thank you, Rosa." The words were barely out of his mouth before he cut her off by punching down and activating the second line on his phone. "What have you got for me, Hackett?" he demanded. "Have you found her yet?"

"Yeah, I think I have. I can't be a hundred percent certain until I check it out for myself, sir, but there's a small town called Port Flannery on a little island in Washington State, and I'm pretty sure that's where she is. I thought it best to check in with you first, though, boss, to see how you want it handled before I go to the island. Given the size of the town there's always the possibility she'll hear of my interest, and I don't want to spook her into running."

Grant stared at the portrait of Emma and Grade that stood in an elaborate gold frame on the corner of his desk. "Do you think you can verify her location without alerting her?"

"Yes. It shouldn't be a problem as long as I take my time and don't make direct inquiries. But what do I do once I've located her, sir? If she's there, do you want me to bring her home?"

"No. Not yet." Grant tapped his pen impatiently against the glossy desktop. "I have to give this some careful consideration. Merely verify her location, Hackett. The minute you're sure where she is, check in with me again."

"So. I bet you're Emma Sands, huh? I'm Nadine Donnelly. Mother to our good sheriff."

Emma looked up from her steaming latte and the Seattle Post Intelligencer that traveled to Flannery Island on the 6:45 ferry every morning. There was a woman standing next to the table, smiling crookedly down at her. With her bright, youth-conscious clothing, bouffant, long dark hair, and flashing blue eyes, she at first glance appeared to be about forty years old. It was only upon closer inspection that one surmised she was probably closer to fifty. But a young fifty. The woman was either exceptionally well maintained or she must have been barely out of her adolescence when she'd had Elvis.

Elvis. Oh, God. Emma could feel her cheeks heating and she sat up straighter. She wouldn't blush. Dammit, she would not blush. It hadn't even been a real kiss, for pity's sake.

As rationalizations went, that one was nothing short of ridiculous, and she damn near snorted aloud.

Oh, right, Missy. Like the way you rubbed yourself all over the man doesn 't really count because he didn 't actually kiss you. And what sort of a mother are you to forget yourself like that with Gracie right in the room? She cleared her throat. "Yes, ma'am," she acknowledged. "And this is my daughter Gracie." Gracie, however, was no longer in her seat when Emma turned to present her. Emma made a face. "Well, she's around here somewhere."

"Here I am, Maman!" Gracie climbed out from under the table and clambered onto her chair. She plunked her sand pail down on the tabletop with a gritty rattle of shells and rocks. "Hi!" she said to her personal idea of heaven, a brand new audience. "I'm Gwacie Sands and I'm fwee years owd . . ."

"Please," Nadine interrupted her, looking at Emma, "don't ma'am me. Just call me Nadine." Then she looked at Gracie. "Sorry, doll. I didn't mean to cut you off. Mind if I sit down?" she inquired of Emma.

"Uh, please."

"So, you're three, huh?" she said cheerfully, apparently not finding it the least bit difficult to bounce her conversations between the two females as she pulled out a chair and plopped down in it. She studied Gracie. "That's old enough for an Elvis doll, I do believe."

"I yike dolls." Gracie tipped her head to one side, eyes bright and inquisitive as she regarded her brand-new acquaintance. "What's an Elbis?"

"Why Elvis Presley, hon, The King." When Gracie continued to smile and blink at her with blank incomprehension, Nadine exclaimed, "Don't tell me you've never heard of him!" The look she gave Emma was remonstrative. "This child's education has been sorely neglected."

Emma smiled crookedly and shrugged a shoulder in a gesture typically Cajun French. "Mais oui, what can I say?"

Nadine shook her head to hear such heretic flippancy and then turned her undivided attention to Gracie. "Elvis Presley was the King of Rock and Roll, baby," she told the toddler solemnly. "He shaped the sound of music as we know it today. But then"—she sighed—"I'm afraid he died a premature and tragic death." She looked up at Emma. "I'm leaving on the fourth of July for Memphis," she said. "My friend and me are goin' to see some of the countryside and then, of course, go to Graceland. Unfortunately it's impossible for us to be there to pay tribute at the memorial."

"The mem . . . ?" Don't ask. "That's too bad, Mrs. Donnelly; I'm sure it's a disappointment. But the rest of the trip sounds like it should be very, um, rewarding." Inhaling the light, distinctive scent that imbued the air around Nadine, Emma turned to Gracie. "Mrs. Donnelly is the sheriff's maman, angel."

"I know, I hewd." Gracie stood up on her chair and launched herself at her mother. Arms clinging in a choke-hold around Emma's neck, she gave her a wet, smacking kiss on the cheek. "This is my maman!"

"Please, Emma," Nadine insisted, "not Mrs. Donnelly, not ma 'am. Just Nadine."

"Mom? "

Both women looked up to see Elvis striding to their table, staring at them incredulously as if wondering what the hell Nadine was doing there talking to Emma.

Which was precisely what he was doing. Emma had that slightly glazed look that said clearer than billboards on the highway that his mother had been running on about Elvis Presley again. God Almighty, if it wasn't one damn thing it was—

"Oh, hi, Elvis, honey. I was just telling little Gracie here about the King. She'd never heard of him; can you imagine?"

Still clinging to her mother's neck with one arm, Gracie dug her heels into Emma's thighs and swung around until she was perpendicular to her mother's torso. She leaned against Emma's breasts and bounced in place a couple times. "Hi, Shewiff! Your maman say you the King of Wocky Woads!"

There was an instant of silence. Then Elvis broke into a huge, spontaneous grin. Plucking Gracie out of Emma's arms, he swept her up and executed a little two-step in front of the table. He was wearing worn cowboy boots and planting one underslung heel on the floor, he spun them around. Clutching at his shoulders, Gracie squealed with laughter and Elvis laughed with her.

Across the room at table five Ruby's coffeepot hung suspended in the middle of pouring refills for two housewives, the steaming stream of coffee cut off mid-stream as all three stared with open mouths at their local sheriff. Two farmers over at the counter lowered their forks and also gawked.

Emma felt as if she'd just been slugged in the stomach. She'd already sort of figured out that she might have overreacted last night. From things he'd said at the time, which she had thought about once she'd cooled down, she had come to realize he'd obviously had experiences in his life that were entirely beyond her realm of comprehension. And so, perhaps he had reason, or at least something of an excuse, for being so suspicious of her motives. She'd therefore already been predisposed to give him the benefit of the doubt when next she saw him. They might never be the best of friends, she'd decided, but they could at least be civil to one another.

She hadn't envisioned anything like this, though, and seeing him laughing and dancing with her daughter just about nailed her to her seat.

"Oh, no, Gracie honey," Nadine was saying, her fingers all aflutter, "you've got it all wrong. My Elvis is named for the King, honey. The King is Elvis Presley, not Elvis Donnelly, see? And he's the King of Rock and Roll, not—"

"Oh, give it a rest, Mom," Elvis said. "She's three years old, for Christ's sake. She doesn't give a rip."

Gracie beamed up at him. "I'm fwee, you know."

He smiled down at her tenderly. "Yeah, sweetheart, I do know that. You're a real big girl."

Emma watched them helplessly. Oh God, Oh God, what was she going to do? She could not fall in love. Her life was already too crazy as it was.

"I've located her, boss."

Hackett's announcement caused Grant to set his scotch and water down on the armrest of his leather chair and sit up straight, both feet hitting the floor. "Give me the layout," he commanded. Tapping his ring in an impatient tattoo against the chunky crystal highball glass still in his grip, he listened intently to his man relate the details of Emma and Gracie's life in Port Flannery.

Except for the chime of the ring against the rim of his glass, there was an instant of silence when Hackett's recitation came to an end. The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat, and Grant said in brusque warning, "I'm thinking."

"Yes, sir."

Grant sat silently for a few more moments. Then he leaned back in his chair and reached out a foot to hook the ottoman, which he had shoved away at the other man's announcement. He took a sip of his drink then set the glass down on the end table. "All right," he said, "to begin with, this is what I have in mind." He talked at length. "What do you think?" he finally said. "Is it possible?"

"It'll depend on two factors," Hackett replied. "Let me look into them."

"You do that. Then get right back to me."

Gracie was in an agony of impatience. Clutching her little American Flag in one hand and her mother's hand in the other, she danced in place at the curb, leaning out every two seconds to look up the street. "Stawt now, Maman?"

"Any minute, angel pie." They could hear the high-school band tuning up somewhere around the bend and Gracie fidgeted harder. The adults around them responded to Emma's wry expression with commiserating smiles.

The sidewalks that lined the waterfront and wound their way up the hill to the square were filling rapidly. Emma hadn't realized so many people lived on Flannery Island, but it seemed that not only was the community more vastly populated than she'd imagined, the entire population was gathered today in front of Mackey's General Store right along with her and Gracie.

She'd tried to talk Gracie into watching the annual Port Flannery Fourth of July parade from their room window, as the square directly below was where it all culminated, but Gracie had seen the gathering crowd; knew she looked good in her little navy sailor dress, white lace tights, and red patent leather Mary Janes; and campaigned vigorously to join the throng. As her daughter was jostled into the street by the crowd that swelled behind them on the sidewalk, however, Emma began to question the wisdom of caving in to a three-year-old's demands.

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry," apologized the young woman who had nudged Gracie off the curb, and along with Emma helped the toddler back up onto the sidewalk. "Somebody bumped me and I lost my balance. You're Gracie, aren't ya?" she demanded, stooping down and brushing nonexistent dust from the pleated front of Gracie's dress. She glanced up at Emma. "I'm Mary Kelly, Mrs. Sands," she said. "Ruby's daughter."

"Why, how nice to meet you, chere!" Emma laughed with relief and felt a bit foolish. For pity's sake, Em, get a grip, she warned herself. It's a small town parade, not Vice Central. She was allowing the events of the past six weeks to color her judgment, and that was obviously making her paranoid.

"I'm Gwacie," Grade piped up. "I'm fwee!"

"Yeah, I've heard rumors to that effect," Mary replied. Grinning, she straightened the hem of Gracie's dress over the stiff little petticoat beneath. "What a pretty dress you have on."

"Pwetty," Gracie agreed, looking down at her apparel in satisfaction. "You yike my wed shoes?"

"She loves to dress up," Emma confided. "I was such a tomboy when I was a kid, it always startles me I could have given birth to someone so feminine."

Mary stared at the tall blonde in wonder. To her eyes, Emma Sands was all that was feminine. She looked like a model to her, from the sophisticated chin-length wavy bob, to the simplicity of her stark white T-shirt with its three-quarter-length sleeves pushed up to her elbows and the wide, lacy cut-work panel encircling its V-neck, to the pleated olive-drab shorts and white Keds she wore. Between her looks and that accented voice she seemed wonderfully exotic and cosmopolitan, worlds removed from dinky little Port Flannery.

"When do y'all get summer around here?" Emma wanted to know. "Back in N'Awlins it'd be swelterin' by now, but here it's so cool."

"Yeah." Mary snorted. "That's the Pacific Northwest for ya."

"Actually, I kind of like it," Emma confessed. "Being able to sleep at night with the window open is great, and it's so nice to breathe real air. Summers in the South are so sticky that from June until about the end of September it's rare to suck anything into your lungs that hasn't been conditioned to within an inch of its life."

"At least you have a summer," Mary said, but then she shrugged. "Now that the Fourth's here, though, we should be gettin' ours any day now, too."

With only a couple of discordant notes, the band struck up a rousing Sousa march and began militarily stepping up the street. Gracie squealed with excitement and craned her neck to see. Afraid she'd rush out into the street for a better view, Emma swooped down and scooped her up, settling her astride her shoulders. She held her daughter's ankles in her hands while Gracie clutched fistfuls of her hair and bobbed up and down in excitement. Feeling the narrow doweling of the little flag they'd purchased from the veteran in front of the VFW hall dig into her scalp, Emma reached up to tweak it a little higher in Grade's grip. She felt Mary's eyes on her and grinned down at her. Giving her a friendly little bump with her hip, she said, "This is Gracie's first parade. I guess it shows, huh?"

A drum and bugle corps followed the marching band, and Gracie clapped so hard for the synchronized high-stepping girls, with their white-tasseled boots and swingy short skirts, that she dropped her flag. Mary retrieved it for her.

The drum and bugle corps was followed by the Independence Day Princess and her court, each young woman seated atop the back seat of a brand-new convertible with the name of the island Buick dealership on the door. They turned slowly from side to side, smiling Beauty Queen smiles and waving that parade-royalty hand rock, and Gracie was completely enthralled, particularly with the princess, a dimpled brunette who wore an elaborate rhinestone tiara and rode in her white satin evening gown atop a bright red car.

Then came the clowns. Emma fully expected Gracie to be as delighted by them as she'd been by everything else she'd seen that day, and she did enjoy them until one came right up to her. He only wanted to present her with a piece of candy, but he got too close. Emma wasn't sure if it was the make up, the fright wig, or what, but he ended up scaring Gracie half to death.

She screamed in terror, shrinking away from the painted face and frantically clutching her mother's hair in little fists. Emma swung her down off her shoulders and into her arms, where she held and comforted her. But her daughter refused to be consoled. She kept her face buried in Emma's throat, clinging to her neck with desperately strong little arms and continuing to sob. Finally, Emma looked over the top of her head at Mary and shrugged a shoulder. "I'm going to take her into Mackey's and get her an ice-cream cone," she said. "If you'd like to come along with us, Mary, I'll buy you one, too." Then the cacophony around them caught her attention. "Mais no," she exclaimed, "what am I thinkin'? You came here to see the parade, and it's probably not even half over yet."

Mary snorted. "Who cares? I've seen every parade Port Flannery's ever put on since the day I was born. I'll take an ice cream cone any old day." It wasn't the promise of ice cream that drew Mary; it was her fascination with this exotic off-islander and her baby. She cleared a path for them toward the storefront.

It was warm and quiet inside the store and Gracie started to relax almost immediately in Emma's arms. Her hysterical crying ceased, only an occasional shuddery little sob whispering out of her throat as she lay quietly against her mother's breasts. Pegging it a case of overexcitement, Emma rubbed her daughter's back as she strode to the back of the store where the old-fashioned soda fountain was located. There, to her surprise, she found Elvis Donnelly and Sam Mackey seated on padded red leatherette stools, drinking coffee together and talking to each other with the ease of longtime friendship.

"Well, hey," she said, sliding onto a stool herself and settling Gracie. "Y'all are friends, huh? I didn't know you two even knew each other." Given the size of the island, not to mention the brief time she'd been on it, it was probably an asinine thing to say. But ... the local bad boy turned sheriff and the respectable store owner? It wasn't one of those natural friendships that automatically leaped to mind.

"Everybody knows everybody in this burg," Mary commented as she took the stool next to Emma's.

"That's the truth," Sam agreed. "But me and Elvis know each other especially well. We go way back, don't we E?"

A small smile tipped up the corners of Elvis' mouth. "We ate paste together in Mrs. Olsen's kindergarten," he agreed.

Sam laughed. "Yeah, we did, didn't we? And he was best man at my wedding to Clare."

"Mon Dieu, you're Clare's husband?" Emma demanded, incredulous, and then felt like a perfect idiot the minute the question left her lips. Oh, smooth, Emma Terese, she berated herself, very smooth. She'd seen this guy around, of course; she knew he was a Mackey. It was just . . . well, she'd also seen Clare working with him, and her friend treated him more like a ... a brother or something other than a lover.

"I-I . . ." Emma swallowed dryly, wondering how to extricate her foot out of her mouth with a modicum of grace. She stroked Gracie's hair, more for her own comfort than her daughter's. Taking a deep breath, she blew it out.

"I'm sorry, cher," she said to Sam. "That must have sounded incredibly rude. Don't ask me why, but I was under the impression you were Clare's brother-in-law."

"Nope. You're looking at the sole surviving Mackey male." He stood up, all easy masculine grace, and walked around behind the fountain. Her assumption was a direct hit, but his expression didn't show it. "What can I get you ladies?"

"Three cones, please. I'll take French vanilla; Mary'll have . . ." She raised a brow at Mary.

"Chocolate Ripple."

"... Chocolate Ripple, and Gracie'll have . . . Hmmm, let me see." She looked down at Gracie's dress and then up at Sam again, cocking an eyebrow. "Got anything in navy blue?"

Gracie pulled her thumb out of her mouth. "Want stwaw-bewwy, Maman," she murmured into Emma's chest.

"Okay, strawberry it is. Make ours a single scoop. Give Mary as many as she can handle." Mary held up two fingers.

Emma settled Gracie more comfortably, and subtly presenting the remaining customer at the fountain with a cold shoulder, swiveled her stool around to make casual conversation with Mary.

She tried to ignore the fact that she was deliberately ignoring Elvis; it felt too much like junior high school. She'd never been a particularly shy woman, but she was about as self-conscious as she could get every time she thought of how she'd rubbed herself all over him up in her room last week. Piled on top of that were memories of the way she'd felt when he'd danced Gracie around the cafe. She wanted to be cool and indifferent—desperately she wanted that. This behavior was too darned adolescent for words. Unfortunately, coolness and indifference were difficult attitudes to maintain. It was all she could do these days just to meet his gaze.

And Elvis wasn't playing the game—apparently he wasn't in the mood to be ignored. He climbed off his stool and came over to squeeze himself between her perch and the empty one next to it. Leaning an elbow on the countertop, his hips braced against the edge of the stool and his long legs stretched out, he was too big and too close for comfort as he stared down at her.

Knowing she could no longer pretend he wasn't there without looking foolish in the extreme, Emma aimed a cool social smile somewhere in the vicinity of the Coca-Cola sign over his left shoulder.

"Sheriff," she acknowledged.

"Emma," he retorted, and then demanded, "what's the matter with Baby Beans?"

Emma met his eyes reluctantly. "She was frightened by a clown."

Gracie swiveled her face around and peeked up at Elvis, the first time she'd come up for air since her mother had carried her into the store. "Didn't yike him," she told the sheriff.

"No? Was he a scary guy?"

"Uh huh." Perking up, she wriggled and Emma shifted her so she sat sideways in her lap. Gracie peered up at the large man. "How come you call me Baby Beans?"

Elvis looked startled. "I don't know. There was a doll named that when I was a kid. All the girls seemed to have them. It looked like you."

" 'Kay." She accepted the explanation easily, impatient to tell him the really big news. "I getta ice cweam befo' yunch," she informed him.

His blue eyes focused on her, "Yeah? That's pretty neat "

"Pwetty neat," she agreed. "Mommy said I could."

"What the heck, life's uncertain," Emma said with a wry smile and a tiny shrug. "Eat dessert first."

Elvis watched with solemn concentration as her mouth formed the words and then slowly licked his lips. Emma couldn't tear her eyes away; she felt nailed in place by the sudden rush of heat that surged through her veins.

"Here you go, ladies," Sam said cheerfully, breaking the spell. "One Chocolate Ripple, two scoops"—he passed it over the counter to Mary—"one strawberry, one scoop—"