In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(3)

She got out of the cruiser, her breath fogging in the cold, clean air.

“Hey, Em!” called a voice. Lorelei Buzzetta and Gerard Chartier waved as they went into O’Rourke’s, and Em waved back. Gerard was a firefighter and paramedic. Em saw him nearly every day at work (and also saw Lorelei, who owned the bakery and could make the angels weep with her chocolate croissants). The two had started dating a while back.

Through the windows, she could see Colleen O’Rourke, now Colleen Campbell, kissing her gorgeous husband, Lucas. There was Honor Holland and her husband, the lovely Tom Barlow. Paulie Petrosinsky and Bryce, who ran the animal shelter and had fixed her up with her puppy just two weeks ago.

Seemed like couples’ night at the pub.

Maybe she’d stay in tonight. She and Sarge could watch YouTube videos of hostage negotiators, eat Kraft Mac & Cheese (don’t judge, it was delicious). Maybe binge-watch The Walking Dead. She had a stack of books from the library, too. Or she could call around the Bitter Betrayeds, the name her book club had given itself, and see who else was climbing the walls.

Suddenly, the weekend spread vast and empty in front of her. No shifts till Monday. No plans other than a hockey game on Sunday—she played in the town league. She could do laundry and clean. Um...maybe buy some new towels. Go to the shooting range. That’d be fun, if solitary.

Her feet were getting numb. Time to get moving. Still, she stood there on the tiny town green, looking into the cheerful pub.

Maybe she’d drive to Penn Yan and see a movie, but it was a half an hour away, and there was more snow in the forecast. And after the big accident, everyone was feeling a little wary about winter driving.

Speaking of that, there was Jack Holland.

He stood outside O’Rourke’s, staring at the building as if he’d never seen it before. Maybe she should check on him. They played hockey together, and he was her boss’s brother-in-law and an EMT, so it wasn’t as though she didn’t know him.

He didn’t move, seeming to be trying to decide whether or not to go inside the bar.

Em crossed the street. “Hey, Jack,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Hi, Jack,” she said again. He jerked, then looked at her.

“Hey, Emmaline,” he said, forcing a smile.

“How you doing?”

“Great.”

He was so not great that her heart ached, looking at him stalled there, dead in the water.

Poor choice of words.

But he was clearly not great.

“You going in?” he asked, aware perhaps that too long a pause had elapsed.

“No. I’m headed home. I just got a puppy. Sarge. He’s a German shepherd. Very cute. Hopefully he hasn’t pooped on the floor.”

Oh, yeah, the babbling thing. See, in addition to all the above, Jack Holland was ridiculously gorgeous. As in, Hi, I’ve just dropped down from Mount Olympus. How you doin’? Tall and blond with eyes that were so clear and perfect and pure that they made a person think of all sorts of ridiculous synonyms for blue—azure and cerulean and aqua. His smile stopped traffic and made trees burst into flower and all that crap.

So yes, he rendered women stupid. Even women who were slightly prejudiced against very, very good-looking men. But everyone, including Emmaline, also knew that Jack was a tremendously nice guy.

“Jack? You okay?”

“Yeah!” he said too quickly. “Sorry. Just a little tired. You take care, Emma.”

No one called her that. More than likely, Jack Holland had just forgotten her name. He opened the door to the pub. There was a roar of “Jack!” and “Hey! The hero!” and general cheering. The iron bell behind the bar clanged; the O’Rourke twins rang it in times of celebration.

Poor guy.

Emmaline knew that the good folks of Manningsport—and America—had been quite dazzled with what Jack Holland had done. So had she. How many people could have done what he did, after all? It was dazzling.

Which didn’t explain the look on Jack’s face.

Well. He had a big family and a lot of friends. Everyone loved the Hollands. He’d be well taken care of.

With a deep breath of the frigid air, Emmaline went around the corner to her house, a little bungalow. She’d left a couple of lights on for the puppy, and her little house fairly glowed with welcome.

Emmaline wasn’t a Manningsport native, but she’d gone to high school here, living with her grandmother in this very house. Nana had died four years ago and left the house to Em and her sister, Angela, who lived in California. But to Em, the bungalow meant more than just home—it was where she’d found refuge and normalcy back in the day...and again when she’d moved here three years ago. She’d kept a lot of Nana’s furniture, bought some of her own, painted here and there, and the result was a pleasing mix of old and new, no real style per se, but comfortable and cheery, and it never failed to make her smile.

She scooped her mail from the little brass mailbox, unlocked the door and got down on all fours. “Mommy’s home,” she said.

The scrabbling of paws and yips of joy were happy music of the soul.

Sarge ran to her, Squeaky Chicken, his favorite toy, in his jaws as an offering.

Emmaline gathered the puppy into her arms and kissed his furry head. “Hello, puppy,” she said. She resisted the strong urge to indulge in baby talk to the dog to preserve his dignity and her own, but she couldn’t help laughing as he licked her face, wriggling like a little otter.