Out of Eden (6 page)

“You could cut cost by renovating the interior only,” Travis said.

“Yeah,” Faye said. “It would save time, too. Also, Spenser would only be half as mad.”

It was the exact wrong thing to say. Kylie shook her head. “I want the whole sushi roll.” She nabbed the pencil from Travis and scribbled her own figure. “This is how much I have to spend on supplies and labor. Obviously, I need someone who’ll work cheap. And fast. Oh, and I’ll throw in free shoes.”

Travis looked at the figure.

Faye looked at the figure. She whistled. “You’re taking that out of the business account? Without Spenser’s approval?”

“No. I’m dipping into my personal account.”

“Dipping? It’ll wipe you out! What about your dream trip?”

“It’s just that, Faye. A dream. Sometimes you have to make lemonade out of lemons.” She shrugged. “Or in this case, cider out of apples.”

“I can’t believe you’re giving up,” Faye said. “You’ve worked so hard. Skimped and saved.
Again.
I can’t—” Her cell phone blared—ringtone of the month, Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life.” “I have to take this,” she said after checking the screen. “Hi, Miss Miller.” Sting’s kindergarten teacher. “He did what? He…I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Hold on.” Faye gestured to Travis and Kylie she needed to move outside.

Kylie wondered what planet she’d been on when she’d thought about enlisting Faye and Stan’s help. They had full lives. A business. A family. A marriage. They didn’t have time to indulge her life crisis. Especially when they were, possibly, immersed in their own crisis. Except, if that were the case, why hadn’t Faye confided in her? Which brought Kylie back to her initial worry that Faye’s anger was actually directed at her, not Stan. But why?

Dang.

“What about me?”

Kylie blinked out of her musings and focused on Travis. Her temples throbbed as she processed. “You’re offering to help me renovate?”

“I am.”

“But you work full-time and I’m on a tight schedule.”

“I have vacation time coming.”

“Wouldn’t you rather spend that time somewhere else? Somewhere out of Eden?”

“I would, but I can’t.”

Hmm. Maybe he was strapped for funds. “You could relax—”

“I prefer to keep as busy as possible these days.”

Or maybe he didn’t want to travel alone. She suspected keeping busy kept his thoughts off of his deceased wife. Three months back, Mona Martin had succumbed to cancer. Travis had been devastated. He was still damned somber. How long did it take to get over a spouse’s death? She hoped to never know.

Kylie crossed her arms over her middle, trying to decide what to make of the man’s offer. She asked straight out. “Why would you want to do this?”

“To shake up my life?”

Had he been in the bar last night? Had he heard her rant?

“Maybe you miscalculated that figure I jotted. To be clear, I can’t pay you close to what you’d deserve for your time and effort.”

He almost, sort of, smiled. “Happy belated birthday.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
T
10:00
A.M
., T
RAVIS
entered his boss’s office and put in for vacation time. If Hank had refused, he’d been ready to quit. But it didn’t come to that. The man felt sorry for him. Assumed he was still mourning Mona—which he was. Only this wasn’t about Mona. This was about two people stuck in a rut.

By 10:45 a.m., Travis had loaded several cans of paint and various other supplies into the bed of his truck. Hank didn’t carry the kind of lighting fixtures Kylie wanted. Not wanting to wait weeks for an order to come in, she’d been ready to settle for something more conservative. Travis didn’t want her to settle. He told her not to worry. He’d track down those contemporary fixtures or something damn close.

At 11:15 a.m., Travis pulled into his driveway. A burst of adrenaline made his hands shake. He’d broken his routine. He’d tempted fate. Again. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he felt about that. But this time he wouldn’t turn back.

He raided his work shed for a ladder and toolbox. He pulled a roll of canvas and a bin of paint brushes out of his attic. The whole time he’d been at work boxing up everything Kylie needed, he’d been mentally ticking off items he could bring from home. He’d try to save her what money he could. It bothered him that she’d given up on a dream. He knew all about giving up something important. It ate at your soul. It was too late to save his, but maybe he could save Kylie’s.

Mona wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t understand why he’d stick his neck out for a person he barely knew. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was that Kylie McGraw had unleashed the part of him that he’d kept locked away for seven long years. Time to shake up the life forced upon him.

Eleven-forty-five. He stashed his name badge and work hat in a drawer. Changed into a fresh T-shirt and a clean but paint-splattered long-sleeved button-down. He tugged on an Indiana Colts ball cap. In his heart, he rooted for the Eagles.

Lunch consisted of a ham sandwich—white bread, yellow mustard and American cheese, Lays potato chips and a Coke. Of the times they’d shopped together, three times Travis had reached for a package of provolone. Mona had nudged him away.

“They don’t eat provolone,” she’d reminded him after they’d reached the sanctity of home.

Not typically. Typically
they
ate American, Swiss or Cheddar. Travis had grinned. “I feel daring.”

“No, you don’t,” she said as she put away the groceries. “You feel like everyone else in this county. You dress like them, talk like them, eat like them….” She bobbled a can of Campbell’s soup. It should have been Progresso. “Anything out of the norm—”

“—is dangerous. I know.” He’d hated the fear in her voice. He’d pulled her into his arms and hugged her. He’d assured her that American cheese was just fine.

Only it wasn’t. And Mona was no longer here to reassure.

By 12:40 p.m., Travis was on the road and on his way to McGraw’s Shoe Store. Renovating Kylie’s business called to his artistic side. He’d liked the pictures she’d shown him, although he’d suggested slight variations in the color scheme so as not to deter the male clientele. He’d also recommended scattered throw rugs—a mix of abstract and art deco—as opposed to the wall-to-wall carpet. Less expensive. More impact. Splashes of vibrant color against the dark hardwood floors. Kylie had applauded his vision, naming him a kindred spirit. He didn’t know about that. But he sure liked the way she made him feel.

Alive.

He popped open another can of Coke and floored the Chevy. He knew he’d work hard and work late tonight. Maybe he’d reward himself later…with a bottle of Chianti and a wedge of provolone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

J
ACK SAT BEHIND HIS DESK
sorting through old newspapers, budget reports, trade magazines and assorted mail. A daunting task, complicated by the fact that he couldn’t concentrate. He’d played with fire this morning. First to soothe his ego. Then to satisfy his desire. He’d
wanted
to hold Kylie’s hand, to stroke that ivory skin. Watching her blush and ramble had been a turn-on. The more she denied an attraction, the keener his arousal. Growing up, given their four-year age difference, he’d never paid much attention to Kylie-the-kid. But Kylie-the-woman…she was a fascinating enigma.

Mesmerized, he’d imagined her in his arms, in his bed. He’d imagined her flexibility and fiery spirit. He wanted to lose himself in all that spunk and sweetness. He wanted to protect her from men like Ashe Davis and Bobby Jones. In that split second, he’d felt possessive of Kylie Ann McGraw. A sign that he was in deep shit. He wasn’t sure if he could shovel himself out. Worse. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Spenser was always bragging about his sister’s grounded, caring spirit. Connecting intimately with all that goodness could do wonders for Jack’s cynical soul.

Tempting.

The desk phone rang, jerking him out of his destructive musings. “Chief Reynolds,” he answered.

“Personal assistant to Chief Reynolds,” Dorothy Vine replied.

Jack frowned at the woman’s caustic tone. “What is it, Ms. Vine?”

“As requested, I phoned your sister on your behalf and invited her and her daughter to your house—or anyplace of their choice—for dinner.”

It had been a desperate act on his part, asking the squad’s administrative assistant to act as a liaison of sorts. But dammit, he’d been in town for almost a week and Jessie had avoided him at every turn. He knew she had to be heartbroken. She’d finally learned the truth about the Cheating Bastard. Frank Cortez was ruled by his dick, not his heart. That’s
if
he had a heart. Jack wanted to help Jessie through this. He wanted to help his young niece.

“Jessica Lynn asked me to give you a message,” said Ms. Vine.

“Okay.”

“She said…”

“Go on.”

“Fuck off.”

Disappointing, but not unexpected. Almost amusing coming from straight-laced Ms. Vine. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jack hung up and focused back on his paper-ridden desktop. Better than obsessing on his fractured relationship with his sister and nonexistent relationship with his niece. Better than obsessing on Kylie. According to Ziffel, Chief Curtis had had a filing system. Damned if Jack could figure it out, and he wasn’t about to ask Ms. Vine. Not today. The squad’s administrative assistant, a fifty-something woman with choppy silver hair, green cat-eye glasses and a fondness for polyester suits, had rolled in an hour late—eyes swollen from crying over the former chief, manner brusque. Ziffel was right. She didn’t like the coffee and she didn’t like Shy. She’d spent the next hour sweeping, dusting and dousing the air with pine-scented Glade.

Shy cowered under his desk. He didn’t blame the dog. She probably felt like Toto hiding out from the Wicked Witch of the West. He had to admit, Dorothy Vine was a little scary. Then again, grief caused people to act in strange ways.

Take the parents of the victim who’d instigated Jack’s breakdown. Instead of wanting revenge or, at the very least, demanding justice, they’d swallowed their misery and moved on. Their emotional lockdown had made Jack hyperaware of his own numb state.

“Chief.”

Jack looked up. His expression must’ve been fierce because Ziffel stepped back. “What is it, Deputy?”

“Got a call from dispatch. Disturbance at 1450 Main.”

McGraw’s Shoe Store. Given his previous dark thoughts, Jack tensed. “Define disturbance,” he said as he rose.

“Kylie’s making a scene.”

Shaking things up. He almost smiled. He definitely welcomed the distraction. Jack braced himself for another encounter with the woman—
Just don’t touch her for Christ’s sake
—and nabbed his jacket. “Let’s roll.”

Shy scrambled out from under the desk and followed them into the administrative office.

Jack tugged on his EPD cap, glanced at Dorothy who was tapping away at the computer. “Do you think—”

“Not a dog-sitter.”

Right.

Head down, Shy zipped ahead of the two men.

Dorothy spritzed the air.

“You,” Ziffel said to Shy as they left the building, “stay downwind.”

“Y
OU’RE NOT THE BOSS
of me, J.J.”

“Maybe not, but you don’t call the shots either, missy.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m ten years old!”

“Then start acting like a responsible adult,” said Ray Keystone.

Arguing with her elders wasn’t Kylie’s style. Nor was airing her dirty laundry, especially in broad daylight directly in front of McGraw’s. But she’d already been knocked dizzy by Faye’s prickly mood and Jack’s unsettling touch. She’d be danged if she’d be bullied into ditching her home-spun adventure just because these fuddy-duddies were opposed to change! Insulted, Kylie smacked a hand to her racing heart. “I
am
responsible. My family owns this store and we’re renovating.”

“Anyone in your family know about that aside from you?” asked Max.

Kylie felt a small pang of guilt for not running the idea by her mom and grandma. Although they’d never taken an active interest in the business end of things, they did consider McGraw’s a family venture. As for Spenser, well,
someone
had to take a progressive role. Moving McGraw’s into the twenty-first century would shake things up in a good way. She hoped. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could easily contact her brother or her mom and grandma due to their current exotic locales.
That
thought only fueled her determination.

“Just as I thought,” Max said. “She’s acting solo.”

J.J. and Keystone chimed in, citing last night’s inebriated rant and a pre-midlife crisis.

Kylie fumed at being ganged up on. First the owner of the pharmacy, then the owner of the barbershop. The two businesses flanking hers. She’d never known these two men could be such curmudgeons. To make matters worse, Max, who still had shaving cream on his chin, had followed Mr. Keystone out of the barbershop to add fuel to the inferno.

“Since when do you fan flames instead of putting them out?” she blasted.

“Just doing my civic duty,” said Max. “Wouldn’t be right if I let you deface property.”

“Damn right,” said J.J.

“I’m not…I’m just…” Spitting mad. She was so dang mad she couldn’t think straight. She lost her train of thought as a crowd gathered.

“Is that pink?” someone asked.

“Prissy pink,” said Max.

J.J. tsked. “If Spenser was here—”

“Well, he’s not,” Kylie snapped.

Keystone shook his finger at Travis, who was perched on the top rung of the ladder, painting the trim of McGraw’s storefront. “I’m warning you, Travis. One more swipe and—”

“You’re not the boss of me, Keystone.” He didn’t look down. He didn’t stop painting.

Kylie refrained from sticking her tongue out at the barber, but couldn’t hold back the “Ha.”

“That’s mature,” said J.J.

“Listen, you…” She trailed off as the crowd parted and Jack showed up on the scene. Darn. She met his bluer-than-blue gaze and ignored the flutter in her heart.
Just friends
, she told herself, then focused back on her dilemma.

All business, Jack looked to the crotchety trio. “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”

“No problem,” Kylie said.

“Big problem,” said J.J.

“Huge problem,” said Max. “She’s ruining the integrity of the landscape.”

“Sissifying our block,” Keystone groused.

“Since when is jazzing up and adding color sissifying?” Kylie shouted. “If you’d get your heads out of your—”

“Play nice,” Jack warned.

J.J. tsked. “She used to be polite.”

“You mean passive.” Not that she didn’t appreciate the benefits of meditation, but she was sick of squashing her restlessness.

“She’s bored,” said Max.

“Aren’t you?” Kylie asked, blood burning. Of course he was. A career fireman forcibly retired due to his age. She knew he’d rather be at the firehouse, but he’d made a pest of himself and they’d restricted his visits. Now he hung out at Boone’s, Kerri’s and Keystone’s.

“If you’re bored,” said J.J., “get a hobby. Don’t mess with history.”

“She tried to get me to drop my trousers,” Max told the ten or so bystanders.

They snickered and whistled.

Kylie flushed head to toe. “No, I didn’t! I just…I…”

“Deputy,” said Jack.

“Sir?”

“Move the spectators along.”

“Will do,” he said, and he did.

That’s when she noticed the dog. 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.