Part 18 (2/2)

”Well, s.h.i.+t.” Still lugging the grocery bag, I go down the steps, through the kitchen, and back outside. The doors of the barn and silo are closed, telling me he's not there. I stroll to the Explorer and look out over the pasture beyond. I'm about to reach through the window and lay on the horn when I spot the pond. It's a good-size body of water-at least half an acre. A big cottonwood tree demarks the north side. A stand of weeping willows flourish near the sh.o.r.e to the west. I see some type of dock from where I stand and I'm pretty sure the person sitting on that dock is Tomasetti.

Hefting the grocery bag, I start toward the nearest gate, careful to close it behind me in case he inherited cattle with the place, and I follow a dirt two-track to the pond. From fifty feet away, I see Tomasetti slumped in a lawn chair with his feet stretched out in front of him. He's wearing blue jeans, navy golf s.h.i.+rt, and sneakers-a far cry from his usual custom-made suits and Hermes ties. Next to him, a bottle of Killian's Irish Red sweats atop a good-size cooler.

I make it to within twenty feet of him before he hears my approach and glances my way. His usual inscrutable expression s.h.i.+fts, and it delights me to see surprise on his face. He's not an easy man to surprise. Smiling, he rises and faces me. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, contemplating, finding our feet, and the rest of the world falls away. After a moment, I look around and spot the fis.h.i.+ng pole lying on the dock, the clear nylon line running into the water.

”Tomasetti, are you fis.h.i.+ng?” I ask.

He bends and opens the cooler. I'm expecting him to hand me a Killian's Red. Instead, the cooler is filled with water and three good-size fish, which are swimming around. ”I'm catching dinner, actually.”

”Are those largemouth ba.s.s?” I ask.

”You know your fish. I'm impressed.”

”My datt used to take me fis.h.i.+ng when I was a kid.”

”Who knew? I could have used some pointers early on.”

”Looks like you figured things out.”

He replaces the cover and straightens.

”I'm sorry I didn't make it last night,” I say a little too abruptly.

”You're here now.” He unfolds a second lawn chair and sets it next to his. ”How's the case coming along?”

”Still looking for the driver.”

”Anything new on those bones?”

That's when I realize one of the reasons I'm here is to escape the pressures of my job. I know it's shortsighted; not only does Tomasetti usually offer pretty good insight and advice, but I'm well aware that the weight of both cases will drop back onto my shoulders when I leave. But I don't want tonight to be about work. I want it to be about us and this short stretch of time between us.

”Let's not talk about work,” I tell him.

He tilts his head, puzzled, and then shrugs. ”We could just sit here and fish.”

I look down at the bag I'm holding. ”I brought wine.”

He takes the bag, peeks into it. ”You want to go inside?”

From where I'm standing, I can smell the foliage and the water on the breeze. I can hear the buzz of insects and the coo of a mourning dove. ”I kind of like it out here, Tomasetti. If you don't mind.”

”I don't mind.” He sets the bag atop the cooler and proceeds to set out the things I bought. Wine. Grapes. The cheese and bread. On the other side of the pond, a family of red-winged blackbirds swoop across the water's surface and chatter from within the branches of the cottonwood tree.

Kneeling at the cooler, Tomasetti raises his brow at the plastic wine gla.s.ses. ”You came prepared.”

That couldn't be farther from the truth; I'm not prepared for any of this. Being here with him is like stepping into deep water when I've barely learned to swim. I don't want to choke, but I desperately want to explore the depths of this man and the relations.h.i.+p we're building.

He uses the corkscrew to open the bottle. ”We'll just let that breathe.”

”I like your new place,” I tell him.

”A little different from the loft in Cleveland.”

”More wildlife.”

”Or less, depending on your definition of wildlife.”

He's got paint on his s.h.i.+rt. A smear of white on the front of his jeans. It makes me smile. ”I like the new look.”

He grins. ”That's what all the female chiefs of police say.”

”You look happy,” I say. ”I like it.”

He's staring at me, a.s.sessing, weighing, as if he knows something's different about me, too, and he's trying to figure out what it is. The air between us is charged, and I'm left with the sense that we're dancing around some white elephant I should see, but can't. So much of our relations.h.i.+p has taken place during the hards.h.i.+p and stress of whatever case we're working on. Our pasts are always in the backs of our minds. So much of where we are now is derived from dark times. Being here with him, like this, is new ground that feels crumbly and uncertain beneath my feet.

I suppose I've always used my job-our work-as a buffer between us. I've used it as an excuse to see him. To spend time with him. Tonight, I can't fall back on that comfortable old ground, and there's a part of me that's terrified he'll know I'm here because I couldn't stay away.

”You're thinking way too hard about something,” he says.

I laugh self-consciously. ”I probably am.”

”Well, cut it out.” He shoves the lawn chair toward me. ”We need one more ba.s.s, Chief. Then we'll go inside and fry them up.”

”I didn't see a stove in that kitchen.”

”I've got a Coleman and cast-iron skillet in the Tahoe.”

I don't take the chair. I stand there like an idiot, staring at him, trying to put my thoughts and the things that I'm feeling into some kind of meaningful order.

”Kate...”

Before realizing I'm going to move, I'm crossing the distance between us. I hear my boots scuff against the wood planks. The red-winged blackbirds calling. The next thing I know my body is flush against his. He's lean and solid and warm against me. Somehow my arms find their way around his neck and then I'm pulling his mouth down to mine.

The force of the kiss sinks into me and goes deep. His lips are firm and moist. I take in the sweetness of his breath. When I open my mouth he's ready. His tongue intertwines with mine and for a moment I can't get enough. Vaguely, I'm aware of his essence surrounding me. His hands restless on my back. His breaths in my ear.

The sound of something sc.r.a.ping across the wood surface of the dock draws me from my fugue. I glance down to see his fis.h.i.+ng pole clatter across the planks. It takes me a moment to realize what's happening.

”I think you've got a bite,” I whisper.

”s.h.i.+t.” Tomasetti lunges away from me, s.n.a.t.c.hes the pole off the dock, and begins to reel. ”I think this might be the big one,” he says.

”That's what all you guys say.”

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