The Sheriff's Second Chance. Michelle Celmer

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СКАЧАТЬ her wildest dreams, yet always waiting for the ax to fall. For him to realize how much better he could do. She truly believed it was only a matter of time before he dumped her and moved on to someone else.

      Her mom replaced the pan lid and set down the spoon, saying offhandedly, “So, did anything interesting happen at the diner this morning?”

      Way to be subtle, Mom. “Did Dad tell you?”

      “We talked,” she admitted. “He said there was tension.”

      A minimalist point of view. “Dad was being kind.”

      Her mom winced. “It was that bad?”

      “At first Nate wouldn’t even look at me. Like he thought he would turn into a pillar of salt should our eyes meet.”

      “What did you expect?” she asked, looking puzzled. “A hug?”

      Caitie blinked. Whose side was she on? “No, of course not. But—”

      “You knew you would see him. You had time to prepare. Imagine if Nate had just suddenly shown up unannounced. Would you have reacted any differently?”

      She sighed. “Probably not.”

      “It’s also possible that deep down he still has feelings for you.”

      “He has feelings all right. He hates me.”

      “He did stop to help you.”

      “Only because he had to. It’s his job. It was obvious he didn’t want to be there.”

      “He drove you home. And let you wait to fill out a report. He didn’t have to do that.”

      Let’s give him a medal. “Why does it seem as if everyone is on his side? Yes, I left, and I didn’t do it very well, but I spent most of those first few months miserable, lonely and missing him, while he was back home knocking up and marrying my best friend.”

      “Just remember that there are two sides to every story.”

      “I don’t care about his story. It’s done. I’m over it. I’ve moved on.”

      “It seems to me that if you had truly moved on, you wouldn’t care what Nate did or didn’t do.”

      Oh, ouch. A direct hit. And the worst part? She was right. When it came to speaking her mind, Betty Cavanaugh rarely held back. She didn’t sugarcoat either, sometimes making her keen observations a bitter pill to swallow.

      “I really hate it when you use your Vulcan logic on me,” Caitie said, dropping her chin in her hand. She wouldn’t bother trying to deny that she and Nate had unresolved issues. Issues that he clearly had no desire to work through. And she just flat out didn’t see the point. They’d had their inevitable, awkward confrontation—which, if anything, made matters worse—and now it was over. The trick was to avoid him as long as she was here, and then, after she’d returned to New York and got back to her real life, she could forget all about him.

      As if.

      After seven years, she still hadn’t figured out how.

      “Any plans for the rest of the day?” her mom asked, and Caitie was grateful for the change of subject.

      “Job hunting.” Caitie grabbed an energy drink from the fridge, but as she was walking through the doorway to the living room, she had a thought. She stopped and turned back to the stove, where her mom was stirring the sauce again. “Just out of curiosity, Mom. Why did Dad send those papers home to you?”

      Her mom blinked, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

      “Couldn’t he have just brought them home tonight? Since you said yourself it was nothing urgent. Or better yet, why didn’t he just email then to the home computer?”

      Her mom sighed, realizing the jig was up. “Your dad said you were very upset after seeing Nate. He just wanted an excuse to get you out of the diner. But he knew if he tried to give you the rest of the day off you would balk.”

      He was right. “Did Deb really come back early, or did he have to find someone else to cover the rest of the shift?”

      “He called someone in. Though I’m sure he wouldn’t have sent you home if he knew it would become such a fiasco.”

      “I could have worked. Yes, I was upset, but I would have gotten over it.”

      “He was just trying to help.”

      She knew that, and she loved him for it. But she was a grown woman now, and this was one problem she needed to figure out on her own.

      * * *

      On his way back to the station, Nate checked his phone, which had been ringing almost nonstop for the past thirty minutes or so, and saw that his ex-wife, Melanie, had left him three messages. He didn’t have to hear them to know what they were concerning. Paradise was a hotbed of gossip, and Mel’s salon was the main hub, with Simmons Hardware trailing at a close second.

      Nate stuffed his phone back in his pocket. This was a conversation they needed to have face-to-face.

      He drove to the salon and steered his cruiser into an open spot on the street out front. The door jingled and the stench of acetone and perm solution assaulted him as he stepped inside. Being the only salon within ten miles, business was steady. All but one of the six hair stations had customers and two nail techs worked on manicures. Meaning fourteen pairs of curious eyes settled on him.

      Clearly everyone had heard the news.

      Nate usually took comfort in the fact that when he walked down the street, or entered a local business, nearly every face there was a familiar one. Today, he longed for a modicum of anonymity. Or at the very least, a little personal space.

      “Good morning, ladies,” he said.

      Mel stood at her station finishing a comb-out on Mrs. Samuels, who at ninety-two still kept her flat black hair teased into a beehive and sprayed to the consistency of fiberglass. Which not only added six inches to her four-foot-eleven-inch frame, but gave her papery skin an ethereal, grayish cast. Nate had seen corpses with more color. Once, a few years back, when Mrs. Samuels had dozed off under the dryer, she was so pale that Mel thought she had shuffled loose the mortal coil right there in the salon. Everyone had been too weirded out to try and wake her. Ultimately they’d held a hand mirror under her nose to make sure she was still breathing.

      Regina, one of the stylists, smiled sympathetically at Nate and said, “We all heard.”

      One sharp look from Mel shut her down, but Nate could feel the silent tension growing.

      “All finished, Miz Samuels,” Mel said loudly, helping her client up from the chair. Mrs. Samuels was by no means spry, but considering her advanced age she still got around fairly well. At least once a day she could be seen tooling around town in her mint condition, canary-yellow 1970 Mustang Fastback. A gift from her husband, Walter—God rest his saintly soul—on her forty-fifth birthday.

      As Mel opened the door for her, her eyes snagged on Nathan’s and a silent understanding passed between СКАЧАТЬ