Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(106)

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I switched shifts with Roy for the week. Why are you here? Aren’t you still shot?”

“I’m healing. Might as well be sitting here doing paperwork instead of sitting at home being bored.”

She worked the lid off the box, her eyes dancing at the contents. “You’re setting a ridiculous standard that I hope you know I refuse to follow. If I get shot, I’m gone for a month, at least. Huckleberry twist?”

“Yes, please.”

She brought me the donut and took a bite out of a maple bar.

I took the knot of glazed huckleberry pastry. It was still warm. “You aren’t kidding. These are fresh.”

She grinned with her mouth full and held up one finger. She picked up my coffee cup and took a gulp, washing the donut down.

“Hey,” I said. “Sick person. Germs.”

“I’m not going to catch a bullet wound. I’ve been thinking about Ryder.”

My stomach flipped but I took a big bite so I couldn’t talk.

“About how he broke up with you in the hospital,” she added.

I had too much donut in my mouth to say anything, so I just glared at her.

Myra was still frowning, a piece of paper in one hand, her pen rocking between the fingers of her other hand.

“Did he say why?” Jean asked.

I stole back my coffee cup and drank. The donut had gone dry in my mouth and my appetite was gone. I didn’t want to talk about this with my sisters. I didn’t want to think about Ryder ever again.

Liar.

“Except that my sisters are suspicious and nosey?”

“He’s different,” Myra said.

“What?”

“Ever since he came back to town a year ago. It didn’t really hit me for a couple months, but there’s something different about him.”

“He’s eight years older?” I suggested.

Why are we talking about Ryder?

She shook her head. “Have you ever asked him about his college training?”

“Some. He got a degree in business and architecture. Why?”

Can we stop talking about Ryder?

“It’s hard to put my finger on it, but if you hadn’t told me what he majored in, I’d guess he’d gone into the military.”

I just sat there staring at her as the chill clenched my chest and stomach. She had just nailed the thing that had been niggling the back of my mind. How he’d come into the station when Margot was holding me at gunpoint. How he’d been calm, demanding, in control.

That wasn’t a small-town boy who had spent his autumns elk hunting. That was a man who knew how to handle firearms and people in life-threatening situations.

Jean hung up the phone. I hadn’t even heard it ring. “Mrs. Yates’ penguin is strapped to a surfboard tied to the jetty. And the tide is rolling in.”

I pressed my finger to my nose.

Jean did too, and Myra, who was seconds too late, swore. “Fine. I’ll go rescue the penguin while you two stay inside where it’s warm and eat donuts.”

“You told me to get some rest,” I said.

She stood and swung her coat on. “I told you to go home.”

“Well, maybe I will.”

I didn’t want to stay here and talk about Ryder any more, and I was pretty sure that was all Jean would want to do.

“What about me?” Jean asked.

“You get to stay and cover Roy’s shift just like you wanted to,” I said.

“Fine. But the donuts stay.”





Chapter 33


MY HOUSE was north of the station. I drove that way through the neighborhoods instead of the main street, weaving between yards peppered with tiny bungalows, rough-hewn cabins, and shiny new condominiums.

It would be easy to go home. It would be easy to rest, to take a few days off.

I had certainly earned it.

But I soon found myself driving out of town, north, just north, the road twisting against hills and fields, the ocean rolling deep and endless to my left. Towns even smaller than Ordinary huddled along the edges of the road, frequent and then fewer as more and more road stretched between them.

I found solace in the road, in the drive, the sound of the engine, the light and shadow of sunlight through trees soothing all my raw edges, inside and out. I tried not to think of Ryder.

All I thought about was Ryder.

Soon buildings were replaced by signs that pointed to rivers, trailheads, and campgrounds.

When the sign to Netarts came into view, I turned left toward the tiny community pressed up against the bay.

Curly’s was a chocolate-colored cedar shake one-story beach house with frothy white trim that perched at the highest end of a wide parking lot ending on a narrow beach and a couple boat ramps. The ice cream store had expanded by adding a barbecue smoker on the side porch, and the painted wooden sign declared desserts, espressos, and sandwiches were now served.

I smiled and got out of the Jeep. It was almost noon, and the day looked like it was going to warm up nicely.

Perfect day for ice cream.

I walked up the wooden stairs and across the covered porch. I stepped into the shop and the cheerful server, a young woman who didn’t know me, my job, my town, or my crazy life, guided me over to a table by the window.