Part 11 (1/2)

”No,” she said, and promptly yawned. ”Well, maybe.” She tilted her head and smiled up at him. ”It's been a nice evening. I hate to see it end.”

”Me, too.” He kissed her then, for a long time, even though they were right out in front of G.o.d and everybody and dollars would get you donuts the neighbors across the street were stargazing from their porch swing. ”Do you maybe need help getting this dress off?”

She shook her head, her soft hair tickling his chin. ”I need to think about what I'm doing.” She raised her face so that their gazes met in the dim glow of the streetlights. ”I don't want to be like Crockett and your sister, barely speaking to each other because at some point in time, something happened between them that still stings. It's hard on them and it's hard on Gert. I intend to stay around, and I don't want a broken relations.h.i.+p littering either of our paths.”

Anger stirred under Boone's ribs. Holy horses.h.i.+t, couldn't they just have a good time? They were both adults, not the post-adolescents Kelly and Crockett had been when Kelly had decided she was in love with the guy who'd treated her like a sister most of her life.

”I'm not ready to make any promises,” he said, his fingers going still under the straps of her dress.

She stiffened-he could have sworn her skin cooled under his touch-but held his gaze. ”I'm not asking for any, nor do I have any to offer in return, but s.e.x isn't casual for me. I'm not going to pretend it is.”

There was nothing casual about it for him, either. At least, not anymore. In truth, holding Lucy in his arms was about as un-casual as it got. It made him think of things like permanence and moving, lock, stock, barrel and baggage, to Taft. He'd even held Micah and Landy's baby girl and exchanged solemn stares with her and thought maybe it was time to put that particular grief away and try again.

Live again.

Love again.

It scared the h.e.l.l out of him.

”How about we just go slow?” He didn't want to argue-the relations.h.i.+p was too new to withstand the coldness of anger. He drew his hands away, then put them back on her shoulders, meeting her eyes again. ”Slow, but not backwards. What do you think?”

”I'd like that.” She smiled, though the expression was more wistful than happy. ”And I won't expect any promises.”

Three minutes ago, that's what he'd wanted, what he'd said.

A lot could change in three minutes.

Chapter Eleven.

The smoke rose thick and acrid up the staircase as Lucy stumbled down it. She moved unerringly to where he stood at the huge commercial stove, pus.h.i.+ng onions and peppers around in a saute pan. He worked happily, singing something Irish in his rusty baritone. She grasped his arm, shaking it for emphasis.

”Dad? Come on. Let's get outside where it's safe. No, let's go out the back door. The fire's in the front.”

In her dreams, she was always in time, and when she woke, she grieved again because she wasn't.

Johnny Dolan was dead.

She'd slept well lately. Even the night of the trash fire at Down at Jenny's, she'd gone to bed thinking of Boone's kisses instead of encroaching flames. Tonight, however, the dream had come again, and it had been real enough that she still smelled a faint whiff of smoke.

She knew she wouldn't go back to sleep-the sun was already up-so she dressed in shorts and a tank top before draping Kinsey over her arm and going down the back stairs. The house was cool, but the humidity of early August made it feel uncomfortably close, as though a headache were hovering around the ceiling searching for a place to settle in.

She filled her cup even before the coffeemaker stopped grumbling about being awakened and went toward the sunroom, draping a kitchen towel over her shoulder. ”Let's go outside,” she murmured to Kinsey. ”And no chasing birds, okay? Those feeders don't hang in the trees to make things easy for you.”

The cat was sidetracked by the food and water bowls in the sunroom, so Lucy pushed her feet into flip-flops and stepped into the back yard alone.

She wiped a patio tabletop and a matching chair dry and sat. She loved early mornings, although this one would have been better if it had started an hour or so later, without the dream as an unhappy impetus. As much as she enjoyed the hubbub of the tearoom, she cherished the quiet feeling of no one being awake but her and the birds. And one frisky tuxedo kitten.

The flower beds were still alive with color, but the gra.s.s was already the paler, dryer green of late summer. She'd given up on any semblance of neatness in the vegetable garden-it had been taken over by tomato plants and greedy melon and cuc.u.mber vines, all of which were producing far more fruit than they could use. It even smelled different than it had just a few short weeks ago.

Not just different.

It smelled like smoke.

As if on cue, the sounds of sirens sliced through the air. Lucy's grip on her cup was so tight her fingers ached with it. She looked around, unable to see the gray haze that she knew accompanied the smell.

Boone's voice preceded him into the yard. ”What's going on?” He carried coffee in one hand and Kinsey in the other.

”Fire.” Her voice sounded as hollow as she felt. ”Can't you smell it?”

”Where is it?” He handed her the cat and dried a chair with the damp dish towel lying on the table. He didn't sit, however, but prowled the perimeter of the yard.

”How should I know?” Lucy asked sharply, her gaze following his movements.

”Get over yourself,” Boone suggested, scowling over his shoulder. ”I wondered if I needed to try to spray down the house.”

”Oh.” She petted Kinsey much harder than the cat liked. She meowed a protest and jumped out of Lucy's lap, running to sit on the back stoop and groom herself.

The sirens came closer. Closer. And stopped. Lucy's stomach clenched. What if someone was hurt? Unable to sit still, she got up and walked around to the front of the house.

Two fire trucks, a sheriff's car and another emergency vehicle filled the street at the end of the block. Feeling like an ambulance-chaser, Lucy started toward the corner. People were already outside, some of them still in nightclothes, standing in the street and on the sidewalks. The sheriff waved them back.

By the time she reached the small throng, Boone was beside her, his hand clasping hers.

”What's burning?” he asked the group of neighbors.

”Stan Morgan's garage. It was full of c.r.a.p. Kept trying to warn him,” said Mr. Ballard, whose house was beside the Morgans'. ”We'll be lucky if it doesn't take his house and ours with it, if the wind picks up.”

As if on cue, the never-present August breeze paid a visit and the flames veered toward the Morgan house. A shout from the firefighters preceded a preventative stream of water. Lucy flinched when a window shattered.

”Where is Mr. Morgan?” she asked. Dread moved through her in shuddering waves. When Boone released her hand and put his arm around her, she leaned into him.

”He's over there.” Mr. Ballard pointed. ”He lives alone. His wife died a few years ago, and all the stuff in the garage was hers that he never could make himself get rid of.”

Boone's arm tightened around her back, but the sensation disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

”Come on.” His voice was quiet. ”Let's go home. There's nothing we can do here.”

She went with him. ”I feel as though I'm being followed,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as they walked toward Tea on Twilight.

”Followed?”

”By tongues of flame or something. How long before everyone starts wondering about me like Kelly does? And who can blame them? As far as I know, fire isn't a commonplace occurrence in Taft. Or it wasn't before I came here.”

”I don't think two unrelated fires create a pattern.” Boone's voice was calm.