Chapter Eight

Cliff would never describe the town square of Calista as booming or excitable. It was a sleepy place; even during peak hours, it could never rival even the calmest of cities. With the exception of town movie nights, when films where projected onto a screen dropped in front of Town Hall, he could not remember the last time he visited at night. Eerie. The streets whistled with emptiness. The darkened windows of the shops might as well have been the open jaws of monsters, desperate to swallow another hungry victim. Not a creature stirred.

“Did the Rapture happen when we were at the pond?” he asked, whispering, though he wasn’t sure quite why.

“Couldn’t have been the Rapture,” she dismissed. “If it was, I definitely would have been saved.”

Smirking, he chose to ignore her comment. “It’s spooky.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s harmless.”

“You walk alone like this? All the time?”

“What’s gonna happen in Calista, huh? Someone’s going to smile at me to death? Besides, the police station’s a block away. I’d be more worried living at your place. That place is totally the isolated farmhouse where the cute coeds go to get stabbed in a slasher—”

They both stopped, him a half step behind her, his stride breaking so sharply it almost gave him whiplash. Unlike the other stores on the block, the tea parlor’s lights were not out. In fact, they were all on, wailing into the street.

Pebbles of glass from the now-shattered windows covered the pavement and the store’s guts like stray fireworks. Jagged pieces left in the window frame jutted out, sharp remains of the handy work of a few well-thrown bricks. Inside…tables were tossed, china smashed, table cloths ripped, books torn from their shelves, knick-knacks destroyed. And the cash register was overturned, but unopened.

“Holy shit,” he cursed.

“Wh…what…” Her mouth quivered as if every word was a struggle. “What happened…?”

Cliff knew what happened. It happened once to his mother’s Country Store on Highway One, back when she’d been making headlines all over the county for being a “brilliant small businesswoman,” though by then, she’d already had controlling interest of Ridgewood Ranch and all of its subsidiaries for nine years.

“I’ll call the cops.” He reached for his phone, but kept an eye trained on his shaking companion who walked closer and closer to one of the stalactite glass fragments.

Like Sleeping Beauty drawn to the spinning wheel, she was in a trance. “Why would someone…?”

“Don’t.” He touched her shoulder with his free hand. “You don’t want to get hurt.”

The other end of his cell line continued to ring. And ring. And ring. “Damn cops aren’t answering.” What kind of asshole cop doesn’t answer when someone calls nine-one-one?

For her part, Bridgette didn’t seem the least bit interested in his tangle with law enforcement. The broken façade of her life’s work dwarfed her.

“I don’t understand why someone would do this.”

From her shaking shoulders and modulating tone, he could tell she was desperate to keep herself from crying. He dialed nine-one-one again.

“Bridge—”

“I’ve never crossed anyone.”

“Of course not—”

“I don’t have any enemies…”

“I know, but—”

“This store is my life,” she whispered.

Five words. That was all it took. Those five tiny words lit the fire of justice in his bones. In any other order, in any other circumstance, and from any other person, they would have been insignificant. But from her, they transformed him into a protective animal.

The nine-one-one line went dead once again. Pale-faced Bridgette did not deserve to stand another minute on this sidewalk in the shadow of her store, waiting for this town’s inept police force to do their jobs.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I—” She swallowed. “I have to…” Then she ran a hand through her still-damp hair. “I have to do things. Uh, this was…this was really nice. Real good work tonight. But you need to go. You need to give me some room to work.”

Cliff watched the torturously small movements that she made, the slight twitches of her muscles betraying how hard she was fighting to keep her emotions in check. As she grew up, she seemed to grow out of her emotions, picking up instead a mask of respectable strength. Now, that strength cracked. And from between those cracks, puddles of tears started to well under her eyes.

“It’s okay to cry,” he reminded her.

“I know that.”

“Then why are you fighting it so hard?”

“Shut up.” She sniffed, and though she looked away, she ran a hand under her eyes. “I am not.”

Tonight, under the glare of the northern California sky under which he spent countless unremarkable nights, he saw Bridgette more clearly than he could remember ever seeing her under the spotlight of the sun. When she accused him of abandoning her, he knew it was true. He never admitted it to himself before, but he gave her up when her brother commanded it.

Was it his fault she felt she couldn’t cry in front of him? He’d left her, and alone, she was forced to take care of everything herself. In the absence of friends, she carved herself into a one-woman island. The others bore responsibility, too, of course, but he took the blame squarely on his shoulders.

He would right this wrong. It was the least he could do.

Nudging her with his elbow, knocking her out of the trance-like state she lulled herself into as she counted shattered teacups, he promised, “I’ll take care of it.”

“What?”

“I’ll take care of everything.” Wild horses of emotions stampeded inside of him, but he managed to keep his exterior under control. He wanted to exude quiet assurance, wanted her to follow his instructions with the confidence he would follow through on his promise. “You go to bed. Cry about it up there, if that makes you more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to cry. I want to fix it!”

“Bridge.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her count of the teacup pieces. “You’re not fixing anything. I am. You’ve done nothing but take care of me lately.” He tipped her chin upward, tilting it so he could see the fullness of her eyes. Almost as soon as he did, her tears finally started to slip. “Let me return the favor.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll handle the police report.” Pulling away from her blazing cheeks, he shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to avoid the appearance of a fibbing teenager trying to avoid questioning by a nervous mother. “Sweep up the glass. The easy stuff.”

“I can do all of that,” she protested.

“Of course you can. But tonight, you don’t have to.”

She paused. “Are you sure?”

He had been asking himself similar questions ever since they rekindled the dying flames of their friendship.

Are you sure? Are you sure you want her help? Are you sure you want to get back together with Lauren? Are you sure you know what you’re doing with your life? With your heart? Are you sure what you’re feeling for Bridgette isn’t love? Are you sure you aren’t sure of anything at all?

“Positive.”

She didn’t say anything, not for a long time. When she did finally manage to open her mouth and pry words from within her, the whispered, “Thank you,” rattled his ribs with their quietly booming sincerity. The simple sentiment was sheepish. Nervous. But true. He appreciated the enormity of the almost whispered thought. She was often on her own. Built a business and a life practically on her own. Lived on her own. She didn’t have much occasion to thank anyone.

“You’re welcome. Now, get your beautiful backside upstairs before I carry you myself.”

A rope of tension between them had slackened this evening, but it stretched taut as her eyes flashed.

“You wouldn’t,” she challenged.

He remembered her first visit to his cabin, the way he scooped her up and dropped her on the front porch. This time, if he had to carry her somewhere, it would be to her bedroom. To her bed. She didn’t need him to make love to her, but he wanted it.

“Wanna bet?”

Apparently, she didn’t. A demure shake of her head answered him, and she allowed herself to be escorted to the back of her building. A back staircase wound up the wall like clinging ivy, a metal contraption she mentioned once during a story about having to rescue a neighbor’s pet corn snake from a tree.

The walk was quiet. It didn’t need words. Not until she began the ascent up the stairs without saying goodbye.

“Goodnight, Bridge,” he called after her.

She paused on the steps but didn’t look back. He spied the roundness of her cheeks growing, a sure sign she was smiling.

“Goodnight, Cliff.”

He watched her go up to her room and enter through a window. It was only when she waved back down to him, acknowledging her safety, that he began his tear through the streets of Calista, heading straight for the police station so he could give whatever no-good cop was behind the desk a piece of his mind.

The station kept their lights on all night long, but the fluorescents apparently didn’t stop Officer Mabin from sleeping at his desk. At the sight of him sitting there, his head down and his eyes closed, soft snores bubbling from his leathery throat, Cliff’s hands involuntarily clenched into fists.

“Hey. Hey!” he raised his voice and began banging on the front desk’s service bell. “Hey, asshole!”

Officer Mabin woke with a start, reaching for his gun. “Wh—?” He stopped when he realized who had woken him up.

Mabin had graduated a year above in high school, and though they’d never been on the best of terms, Cliff always saw him as a decent guy. Now, he almost considered the man his enemy.

“Oh, Masters, it’s you.” He yawned. “What d’you want?”

“I wanted to know why you aren’t answering your calls, but that’s clear now.”

“Hey. You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to do my job.”

“Listen, you lazy piece of shit.” He practically lunged across the desk, almost knocking noses with the man who had let Bridgette get so cruelly violated. “Someone threw bricks through the windows of Bridgette Shaw’s tea parlor and trashed her place. It’s completely destroyed, totally wrecked. I wanna know who did it, and I want them to pay.”

A long, thin smile grew along the officer’s round face, a cold and malicious smile only served up by men who enjoyed lording their tiny power over others.

His stomach turned.

“I’m the only one on duty tonight. Can’t leave the horn. I’ll look into it in the morning.” He leaned back in his chair, oh-so pleased with himself.

Tomorrow? This can’t wait until tomorrow.

If he waited until tomorrow, Bridgette would wake up without answers. He promised her he would sort this out, and he would see it through, whether Mabin was going to help him or not.

Cliff shoved away from the front desk. “Don’t bother,” he said.

“Why?”

He returned to the street, making another promise. “Because I’ll handle it myself.”

****

Bridgette didn’t have any trouble falling asleep. It was probably due to the fact she sobbed in bed for half an hour and self-medicated with her favorite brand of sleepy time herbal tea, which always put her out in a matter of minutes. Regardless, when she woke up at seven in the morning to the sound of hammers, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or her groggy mind hallucinating the noise.

Sometimes, the community garage behind her place was rented out for art installations, and they always created some kind of neighborhood disturbance. She rolled her eyes, letting her mind internally criticize the bearded, white hipster man who dumped a can of black paint onto a canvas and then brought it in from San Francisco so he could pretend he was a “real artist” for a while.

Bridgette entertained this internal mockery for as long as she could, putting off going downstairs. She didn’t want to face the music, didn’t want to see the destruction of her dreams in the harsh light of day. All she wanted to do was lie in bed with a good book and wait for her Fairy Godmother to show up and fix her problems with a simple wave of her magic wand. It would be so much easier than facing it alone. Cliff might have told her he would take care of the police report, but she couldn’t expect him to stick around and pick up her messes. He had his own job and life. No matter what he said about them being friends, she knew the score. She was on her own…just like always.

“Let’s get this over with,” she mumbled, reaching for the nearest set of clean work clothes as she mentally created her to-do list for the day. She would have to call her clients for tomorrow’s birthday party. They would need a refund, too. Better take care of the customers first, so they could have as much time as possible to find a replacement venue.

Normally, she would have written these things down, but time was short. She moved down the narrow staircase, deciding to take the inside route today so she could fully survey the damage.

To her surprise, the kitchen was spotless. Glistening, even.

An impossibility.

She checked the cabinets and the refrigerator. Her obscenely expensive cooking equipment—even the broken mixer—was still intact; the only thing missing appeared to be a tray of Victoria sponge cakes.

Once she was satisfied nothing had been stolen, she breathed a thankful breath and scoured the kitchen for damage, carefully checking crown molding and backsplashes, only to find nothing out of place. Once, she thought she caught a hairline fracture in one of her white counter tiles, and while there was a thin, gray line in the marble, it almost looked like it had been repaired. It must have been a defective tile from the start, something she didn’t notice at first because the lighting was wrong.

“All right, boys. Put your backs into it.”

The sound of Cliff’s voice shocked her straight out of her skin, and she clutched her chest to steady her breathing. What is he doing here? Who is he talking to? Was she even hearing his voice or just imagining it?

Bridgette tiptoed across the room and pressed the swinging door open, just a crack, just far enough to see through…and she gaped.

Two teenage boys were putting the dining room of her humble tea shop back in order. In the center of the main room were two more young men, probably barely out of high school, opening buckets in obvious preparation to repaint the chipped walls. Scattered around them on the floor were tools and repair kits of every shape and description. The glass had been swept away. Broken pottery pieces were nowhere to be found, and the crooked pictures and overturned tables had been returned to their natural state.

And beyond the now-glassless windows, out on the street corner, stood Cliff Masters. He wore his usual uniform of boots, jeans, T-shirt, and a cowboy hat, adding a pair of oversized sunglasses. He looked like a prison guard overlooking a chain gang, especially with the baseball bat at the ready in his left hand.

“What’s going on in here?”

The four young men flinched in unison and turned to face her. She hadn’t asked the question unkindly or even accusatorially, but their gazes soured with guilt.

“Just doin’ a little spring cleaning, aren’t we, boys?” Cliff, the pseudo prison warden asked, swinging the baseball bat like a dandy’s cane in a nineteen thirties’ movie.

“Yes, sir,” they groaned in unison.

“Did I tell you to stop painting?”

They rushed to return to their work. With the way these boys were quaking at his every command, she wondered if her dining room hadn’t turned into a Dickensian workhouse overnight.

“Remember. The sooner this place is back in ship-shape condition, the sooner you get to go home.”

Careful to dodge the painting boys, she crossed the clean-swept main floor of her parlor and stepped through the vacant front window so she could talk to the man in charge.

“What the hell is going on here?”

She stood beside him in order to share his view of the room. With just a few more touches—and replacements to nearly all of her teapots and cups—it would almost look as good as new.

“These are the kids who trashed the place.” He nodded to them, as if she didn’t realize who he was talking about. “I went to the police station, but Officer Mabin was on duty…so I took the law into my own hands.”

“Meaning…?”

“Your neighbor, the guy who owns the bookstore…” As if mentally searching for the name, he then snapped his fingers. “Marcus. Yeah, I noticed he has a few security cameras, so I went, knocked on his door—woke him up by accident—and asked to see the footage.”

Terrible manners. But…she couldn’t argue with his results. Even so, it was no excuse to leave Marcus with a bad impression.

“You should send him an apology card.”

“Then,” he said, ignoring her. “I took one of the stills from the security footage to Hal’s.”

Without a touch of pretense, he carried on in a matter-of-fact manner, never once fluffing his feathers or trying to make himself seem like some sort of big hero. Which, in her opinion at least, he absolutely was.

“The liquor store?”

“The only liquor store that notoriously serves to underage kids,” he added. “I showed him the picture, and he says, ‘Yeah, those guys were in.’ He lets me look at his security footage, and I got their license plate number.”

“Which you then called into the police station?” she guessed, thinking of what she would have done in the same situation.

“No, I didn’t want to chance it, so I called Rebecca Monroe—”

“Who owns the used-car dealership?” she interjected, seeing where this was going. She wanted to be a part of the adventure, even if just as a bystander in his storytelling.

“She ran the license plate number and gave me the main kid’s address.” The baseball bat swung up and pointed at a boy who looked like every preppy asshole they went to school with, the kind who thought they could get away with anything because they were white and wore collared shirts all of the time. “When I got to his house, he quickly ratted on the other three. Sung like a pretty little canary, didn’t you, Buzz?”

The kid muttered a miserable, “Yes, sir.”

“How’d you get them to come here?” she asked, lowering her voice so they wouldn’t be overheard. “And work so hard?”

It was a small miracle to see young men their age working at all, as far as she was concerned. Though Cliff did the sensible thing and went straight to work after high school, her brother spiraled for a while, falling in with the wrong crowd and loafing around town until the Masterses offered him a job at Ridgewood.

“I told them if they didn’t, I would beat their skulls in, and the cops wouldn’t care because my dad’s the mayor.”

“Corinne Giroir is the mayor,” she reminded him, hand on her hip. “And you’re not related to her.”

He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, giving her a flash those sexy eyes of his, then winked. Bridgette fought to keep from melting on the spot.

“You think these kids know either of those facts?”

She disapproved of threats of violence. Or lying…but she couldn’t argue with results. Not only did he find the culprits, but the job that would have surely taken her weeks to accomplish on her own was almost finished.

No one had ever done anything like this for her before. How did one respond in this scenario? A thank-you note hardly seemed appropriate.

“Well. I can’t…” Her heart sat too high in her throat to manage speech. “I mean…I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to. What else are friends for?” He shoved his glasses back up his nose. “Now, why don’t you get your ass back upstairs and take your first real day off in, what? A year?”

“Two years, and I can’t. I have to call—”

“The Angela Horton birthday party?” he cut her off, unexpectedly finishing the exact thought for her. “I already called her, and they want to move the party to next week. I told them it was fine since I saw the day was free on your calendar, but she said she would call back tomorrow to confirm it with you first-hand.”

It took her a moment to respond as she mentally tabulated all that he’d done for her in just one night, all of the lengths he’d gone to, to make her feel safe and secure once again. This relationship was meant to be a business transaction, something that dissolved as soon as he returned to his old life. But this…this was something else entirely. These weren’t the actions of someone who would disappear in a few days.

“How did you—?”

“Everything’s in your calendar.” The shock flooding her must have showed on her face, because he shrugged with a warm smile. “I told you. I will handle everything. Oh, and these boys have something they want to give you. Todd?”

The kid with the mop of hair and green-striped polo shirt retired his paintbrush and dug in his pocket for something. Eventually, his hand emerged, and he handed her a wad of cash.

“For your lost wages today,” he said, a sentence he must have practiced, because his nervous gaze flickered to Cliff for approval.

“Oh…”

Her eyes welled up with tears. She hated them for it, but no amount of annoyance at herself would keep them back. Here she had thought this entire thing would dig her into a deeper financial hole, but…but…but Cliff fixed it. For once in her life, someone took care of her. Someone cared for her.

She was determined not to let them see her cry, so she blinked back the tears. “This is…”

“Don’t get choked up,” he advised. “It’s just their weed money. Now, go.” He nudged her with the end of his baseball bat. “Upstairs. Rest before I have to carry you up there myself.”

The naughtier half of her mind contemplated calling him on his repeated challenge, but her sensible side decided it would be most unwise to be carried by him. She didn’t need the rich, pine-drenched smell of his cologne or the solidness of his arms. What she needed was time alone to go upstairs and figure him out.

From the moment she realized what was going on, her mind was incapable of playing any refrain but the one Lauren kept repeating during their talk about Cliff.

“We were in a fight because he came over to my parents’ place and didn’t do anything to help. Didn’t offer to help my mama unload the groceries or cook or anything. He didn’t open doors, he didn’t text me goodnight…”

She had no doubt Lauren was telling the truth about how he treated her, but it just didn’t match with the man who had run around Calista County all night to find some hoodlums and make them fix her shop. The man Lauren described, sure, she knew him, too, once upon a time. He was the guy who abandoned her in high school. But this was a different man. The Cliff Masters only she got to see.

What did that mean?

Instead of facing reality and her feelings head-on, she went back to her bedroom and took a three-hour nap.

Perhaps she didn’t want to know what it meant.