Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster

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СКАЧАТЬ then. Shade had been provided by wide-brimmed hats and parasols. Snow and large chunks of ice had been specially hauled down from the Sierras the winter before to provide cooling for the hand-squeezed lemonade. In the sepia toned photo, children and adults looked stiff and hot, but by all accounts, and old Joe’s journals, a rousing time was had by all.

      The history of my mother’s family, many of whom stared out from photos scattered around the house, belonged to the valley nearly as much as to me. My grandfather–that would be William Robert Martin–third generation military man, came home from World War Two, took a look around and saw a need of housing for returning vets, but he hadn’t liked the new style of tract housing.

      Being an officer, he’d been a bit removed from the plight of regular folk, so he chose a parcel of land on the northeastern corner of our spread, on the far side of the tiny town nearby, and started building. Modest homes to be sure, but not the miniature boxes being thrown up in squished-together rows as had been popular in other parts of the country. Full quarter-acre lots with room for large gardens and children. The semi rural lifestyle filled with peace and quiet appealed to many of those suffering what we now call Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Minor officers with young families snatched up the one hundred lots, and the building business boomed for a few years, expanding Bonchamps from a few hundred to a few thousand souls.

      Not long after my birth, my parents took a leaf out of the old man’s book, but looked closer to home. One acre lots, twenty of them, ten on each side of the long straight drive leading up to the ancestral home, backed by a wide swath of open land referred to as the green belt, ringed by eucalyptus trees. No backyard neighbors to worry about. Plenty of room for kids and pets in the clean air. Luxury homes for senior officers close to retirement from the Naval Air Station up in Lemoore, successful artists looking for a bit of country solitude, and a few minor celebrities and movers and shakers from Hollywood who couldn’t afford Malibu.

      Home, as I knew it, was a spot where I’d lived most of my life. The house, a Victorian built by my three times great grandfather, added onto by his son, and remodeled a few times, became too large for Dad and filled with too many memories of Mom after breast cancer took her in the late nineties. At Dad’s offer of mortgage-free living, Burt and I sold our Las Gatos house and moved home from Silicon Valley just before the big telecommunications market crash. The one that started falling before 9-11 and almost completely collapsed after. I started out part-time at the library while Burt took a civilian position at the NAS, which eventually turned into work for the county. We took our turn at renovating the old girl, bringing her back to life with elbow grease, authentic details and thoroughly modern appliances. All designed to look antique, of course, but packed with the latest in efficiency and comfort.

      Taking in the details, I slowly turned. My ancestors would have been pleased with the renovations. We’d carefully opened up most of the first floor and extended it out ten feet with a conservatory entirely enclosed by UV protected glass walls on the east side, giving my next door neighbor, Cyndi, a clear view of my kitchen, living room, and dining room. For privacy, blinds could be dropped and drapes closed. Although I tried, I couldn’t remember the last time we’d closed the drapes. It had been years since we’d made love on the dining room table, or the sofa. The very thought opened a hole in the pit of my stomach, which nearly doubled me over in pain. I did not want to throw up my iced tea.

      The openness of the first floor also let me see the car driving up the road. It wasn’t unusual to see a County Sheriff’s Department vehicle in the neighborhood, but this one mildly surprised me.

      Though there were a dozen plus deputies, I knew it had to be Dan Weston. I didn’t expect the Sheriff to arrive for another two hours and only Dan ever patrolled our exclusive little neighborhood. He couldn’t have possibly found any identifying marks on the box so soon, such as fingerprints, which were unlikely as our suspect had probably worn gloves to avoid contact with the highly irritating oil of the poison oak.

      Assuming he’d mosey on by like a hundred other times, I watched with only a smidgen of idle curiosity. Okay, maybe more than a smidgen. My heart leapt. Just a little. Funny how when I thought of Burt my heart sank, but when I thought of Dan it leapt. Possibly a message there? Maybe he had super detecting skills I knew nothing about… No, I knew enough to recognize wishful thinking on my part. In real life, forensic mysteries weren’t solved overnight. I knew that.

      However, I convinced myself that most of my mind was centered on trying to guess exactly when Burt would make it home and how I would confront him. Or not. Today or tomorrow? I hated fighting before a party because it meant we sniped at each other in front of guests. And of course, I always paid. One way or another.

      Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I’d confront him and start tossing his clothes out the window. Worked for me.

      I also managed to convince myself I had time for a nap, having had no more than two hours of sleep the night before, and I dismissed the presence of the official vehicle. I assumed the sound of tires crunching over gravel came from Dan turning into his brother’s drive. However, the sound of footsteps on my porch did catch my attention.

      Still enjoying the wind from the fan, I looked over my shoulder to see the deputy of my thoughts peering through a window. He did something of a double take at air blowing up my dress. At least the dress hung below my knees. No chance of him getting a peek up my skirt. I waved him in and reluctantly turned away from the fan, my heart sinking before kicking into double time. Could my heart take all the extra activity? Starting, stopping, speeding up…it made me dizzy.

      The door swung open and Deputy Weston, spit shined and polished in his perfectly pressed uniform, stepped inside. He held his flat-brimmed hat tucked under his arm. Even after working the parade, he didn’t look hot and wilted. Had he gone home to change?

      Before then, I’d never seen him looking so crisply official. It certainly emphasized the devil-may-care good looks that continually had him beating off women with his nightstick. Yes, he had the baton hanging from his fully loaded utility belt, along with his gun and a dozen other tools of his trade. Proper and by the book, he had at least one pair of handcuffs on that belt. Did he ever use those handcuffs for non-official purposes? For a heartbeat, I envisioned him handcuffing me to the banister and having his wicked way with me. Just how big was his nightstick? The one behind those pressed uniform twills.

      Mentally rolling my eyes, I let the thought vaporize. Like he would ever really unbend enough to have a personal conversation with me, contrary to the bantering of the night before. That had been business, and the chit-chat had served to make me talk. But then he went and did things like taking a good long look at me. Which he didn’t do then.

      Because of his younger age, I’d never considered Dan might find me appealing, and any mild attraction I might have felt for him stood no chance against our mutual avoidance, which had been in place as long as we’d known each other. I’d managed to convince myself his amazing woman comment was a part of my dreams while in a dead faint.

      In fact, other than Burt, I couldn’t remember any man ever looking at me that way because of my looks. Maybe Jim counted, but usually those looks had come because of the property I would one day inherit, never for me.

      I looked okay. No warts, clear enough skin of a berries and cream shade, which I generally protected with hats and sunscreen, but managed always to get a sprinkling of freckles across my nose every summer. Straight hair of a mousy tone hung to my shoulders. No perm, curling iron or rollers had ever made a difference. It had no gloss, it didn’t throw off sparks of red in the sunlight, it hung blah-ly from my head, neither thick nor thin. A few inches shy of medium height, I had a medium build including average breasts and slightly more than average hips. Pear shaped. Burt liked to say I had hips just right for fucking. Good handholds. Mr. Romance? Not.

      “Dan.” I greeted him СКАЧАТЬ