Out of Eden. Beth Ciotta

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СКАЧАТЬ A midsize pooch with big sad eyes—sort of like Travis’s. Instead of leaving with the gawkers, the dog leaned into Jack. “Who’s that?” she asked.

      “Shy,” he said.

      “Yours?”

      “No.” He gestured to Travis. “Who’s that?”

      “Travis Martin.” She knew he didn’t know Travis. The Martins had moved to Eden long after Jack had moved to New York. But she didn’t offer further information. Actually, aside from the fact that Travis worked at Hank’s Hardware, was a widower and wore a ten-and-a-half shoe, she didn’t have much information to offer.

      “Mr. Martin,” he called. “Stop what you’re doing and join us.”

      Travis abandoned his post, set aside his brush and wiped his hands on a rag.

      “I’m Jack Reynolds.”

      “The new chief of police.” Travis nodded. “Welcome to Eden.”

      “Jack’s a native,” Ray said.

      “I used to make him chocolate Cokes when he was a kid,” J.J. said.

      Travis just nodded.

      Kylie shifted as the two men studied each other. She sensed some tension, which was weird. They’d never met before today. “I’m doing some renovations,” Kylie said, wanting Jack to vamoose. “I’m allowed.”

      “No, she isn’t,” J.J. said.

      “My family owns this business.”

      “Doesn’t matter,” said Keystone. “It’s part of a historical block.”

      “You’re allowed to maintain the look of your storefront,” J.J said. “But you can’t alter it. Not drastically. You have to get a permit for that.”

      “You’re kidding.” She’d never heard of that. Then again, her family had never tried painting the storefront anything other than what it had been before. Tradition.

      Jack folded his arms over his chest, studied the storefronts. “Deputy?”

      “Anything to do with the building’s exterior is governed by the Historic Preservation Society,” Ziffel said. “She needs approval from them and the town zoning board.”

      “Told you,” said J.J.

      Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That’s mature.”

      “Kylie,” Jack said.

      “Yes?”

      “Get a permit.”

      J.J. and Keystone chuckled.

      Max, the contrary cuss, said, “Ha.”

      Kylie wanted to smack them all. She envisioned knocking Jack off his black utility boots with a side kick. But if she’d learned anything from her two years of jujitsu, it was self-discipline. She clenched her fists at her side and took a cleansing breath. It didn’t help.

      Deputy Ziffel cautioned the men about disturbing the peace and herded them back to their respective stores. The mutt stayed put.

      Jack glanced at the paint cans lined alongside the building, then focused on Travis. “Got any white paint?”

      “I could get some.”

      “Cover up your handy work until Kylie gets a permit.”

      Travis didn’t say anything. He just left. To get some white paint, she presumed.

      Dang.

      “How do you know that guy?” Jack asked.

      How do you know that dog? “He works at the hardware store.”

      “What’s he doing here?”

      “Working for me.”

      Jack squinted at the trim. “Pink?”

      “Moroccan spice.”

      “Looks pink.”

      Kylie just smiled. Actually, it was a muted tone compared to what she’d first had in mind.

      Jack met her gaze. He didn’t smile back. “You want to piss off your brother? Get a permit.”

      “You said that already.” Kylie couldn’t say what set her off, specifically. She was miffed about a lot of things. Not knowing about the permit, for one. Travis, for two. She’d felt some sort of bond with the man. He’d taken vacation time for her, committed to her cause. Then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d thrown in the brush. Okay, so Jack was the law and Travis was a law-abiding citizen. Still, she felt deserted and disappointed. Much as she had with Faye.

      “I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”

      She turned on her rubber heels and commandeered Travis’s brush. She eyeballed the stern-faced chief and, ignoring the skip in her pulse, dipped her weapon in Moroccan Spice.

      “Don’t do it,” Jack warned.

      “Don’t worry,” Ziffel said as he returned to the scene of the almost crime. “Kylie’s a sensible girl.”

      It was the exact wrong thing to say. She climbed the ladder, gripping the rungs with one hand, holding the paint-slathered brush with the other.

      “Used to be modest, too,” she heard Ziffel say. “Although her undies ain’t what I’d call sexy.”

      Kylie froze two rungs from the top. “Are you looking up my skirt, Ed Ziffel?” She glared down. “You are!” And so was Jack.

      He grinned. “Boxers?”

      “They were the only clean shorts I had!” Any further explanation was silenced when she misstepped. She grabbed the ladder with both hands, bobbled the brush. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling Ziffel’s curse.

      She glanced down and saw the slash and dribbles of pink—er, Moroccan Spice—on the deputy’s dark blue uniform. The brush had bounced off his shoulder and landed on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” she squeaked as the paint-splattered cement zoomed up to her face in some weird 3-D movie illusion, then slammed back down to earth.

      “You shook things up,” said Jack, sounding half amused, half pissed. “Happy now?”

      “Not really.”

      “Climb down.”

      She would if she could, but her legs wouldn’t move.

      “Now.”

      She broke out in a sweat, her vision blurred. She cursed the cosmos—the liquor kind—and her hangover. Hugging the ladder tight, she focused straight ahead. Which put her at eye-level to СКАЧАТЬ