4

The swivel chair rocked as Rachel bobbled her phone and broke into a full-body flush. She lifted her feet from the drawer and eased them to the floor, anchoring herself to reality and welcoming the coolness of the tiles against the soles of her feet. Was she having a hot flash? She should check with Lynn on symptoms. Then she re-read the text and began sweating in earnest. OK, so this wasn’t a hormone-induced hot flash. Not exactly.

Busy this afternoon? I could use some help.

Her gaze flicked from the message to the name at the top of the screen. What would Ian Smith want that she could possibly help him with?

Rachel set down the phone, lifted her hair from the back of her neck, closed her eyes, and expelled a deep, slow breath. She couldn’t fall into old patterns. Worrying about what he might want would only be a waste of time. The best way to figure that out was to ask him via a light and breezy response.

This was it. A chance to show the resolutions who was boss.

Twenty minutes later, while sitting at her desk with her shoes off and her lunch still half-eaten, and just before the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, Rachel finally hit send on a message that had taken entirely too long to compose, all things considered.

What do you need?

~*~

Rachel pulled into a space in front of the Palmetto Park Garage, furtively dabbing at her upper lip with one hand as she jammed the car into park with the other. She couldn’t blame the film of sweat at her temples and the damp patches under her arms on being outside for car line, either. Considering how mild Florida temperatures still were mid-January, she shouldn’t be sweating this much. Or, really, at all.

So embarrassing.

It wasn’t as if Detective Ian Smith hadn’t already seen her at her worst. That was sort of the point. He’d seen her flustered and bruised and battered and overwrought. From this point on, she’d been hoping to make a better impression. Not that she’d planned out exactly what it would be like if she were ever to see him again. But still. She hadn’t pictured it quite like this.

Rachel flipped down the sun visor and checked her reflection in the pocket-sized mirror. She almost wished she hadn’t. All the sweating had caused her mascara to migrate south. Half of her hair sprang sideways while the other half lay flat, and damp curls clung to her neck. With a shrug of sangfroid, she swiped her fingers under her eyes, flipped up the visor, pushed the sticky coils behind her ears, and hoped for the best.

Not a moment too soon. Here he was.

Ian Smith ducked his head as he slid into the passenger’s side. She hadn’t realized how much space he would fill until his left arm brushed hers. She shifted in her seat, removing her arm from the center console and placing her right hand on the gearshift in preparation to reverse.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take you in to the station,” she barked in what she hoped was a fair approximation of an old-timey policewoman voice. She glanced out of the corner of her eye, hoping to see his eyelids crinkle.

Not only did his eyelids crinkle, but the tips of his lips also twitched.

Success.

“My shift starts in twenty minutes.” He leaned forward and found the release lever, pushing the seat back as far as it would go. His knees still touched the glove compartment.

Rachel eased into traffic, exercising extreme caution. She’d never chauffeured a police officer before. She flicked on her turn signal and checked all her mirrors three times before she changed lanes. Although he couldn’t pull her over from inside her own car—could he? “What’s wrong with your car? I thought it was new.”

“It is. But I have an issue with the A/C.”

Rachel nodded, offering a small tsk of sympathy. In Florida, a dysfunctional A/C was an unacceptable state of affairs, even in winter.

“But it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Oh?” How would he know what she was thinking?

“It’s not that it didn’t work. It’s just that the smell had gotten unbearable.”

“The smell?”

He cleared his throat. “There’s meat and cheese in my A/C intake.”

Surely she’d heard him wrong. “There’s what… where?”

“There was an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

“A taco incident.”

“A taco incident.” It was more a question than a statement.

“Someone threw a taco, and it more or less exploded.”

“Someone threw a taco at you?”

“Not at me so much as near me.” His tone was mild.

“Who would do that?”

“One of my boys.”

He must mean one of the boys he mentored through his church. “Why would anybody throw a taco inside a vehicle?”

“He’s thirteen.”

“Ah.” Rachel checked her mirrors, glanced over her shoulder three times, and merged into a turn lane.

“Where are we going?” Ian asked.

“Didn’t you say you needed a ride to the station?” Would he ask her to stop by his house first? Would she see where he lived? Her palms grew slick against the steering wheel.

“I haven’t eaten dinner yet. Have you?”

“Dinner?” Considering that it was only 4:45, Rachel wondered that he would even ask. The light turned green, and Rachel turned left, passing a small shopping center.

“Pull in here,” Ian said. “I’ll grab some sandwiches.”

“Here?” Slightly panicked over this sudden change, Rachel only checked her mirrors twice before making the turn. Fresh sweat collected along her temples and the back of her neck. She turned her face into the blast from the A/C vent and willed herself to calm down and stop sweating before Ian Smith noticed he was trapped in a car with Old Faithful.

He was talking again. She had to focus.

This was a nightmare.

“Over there.” Ian pointed to the end of the shopping center, toward a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant. “You like Cubans?”

In the nick of time, Rachel realized he meant sandwiches as opposed to people. Not that she didn’t like both, but her response would have been embarrassing.

At her nod, he said, “Great.” He unfolded from the car and quick-stepped to the restaurant door.

Rachel left the car running while she waited, placing her hands against the steering wheel, lifting her arms, and pointing the air conditioning vents toward her armpits.

Through the glass-paned storefront, Rachel watched the scene unfold. The proprietors, a tiny man and truly miniature woman—seemingly husband and wife—rushed from behind the counter to greet Ian. They crowded in close as both alternately went on tiptoe to kiss him on both cheeks. Everyone talked at once. How Ian kept track of what they were saying was beyond her, but he nodded, said something, and gestured out toward the car. On cue, all heads swiveled in her direction. Rachel, caught with her arms outspread like chicken wings, dropped her elbows to her sides and froze. Only after she managed a tiny wave did they turn their attention back to Ian.

The woman, obviously cooing, resumed talking, flapping her hands in the air. The man reached behind the counter for a paper sack, all stapled shut and ready to go. This he handed to Ian, waving aside payment. The couple shooed Ian out the door, talking and patting his back and waving at Rachel.

Rachel plastered a smile on her face and waved back.

Ian opened the car door and slid back inside.

“That smells awesome,” Rachel said, hoping to distract them both from the tiny Hispanic couple who mashed their faces to the front window of their shop and watched as Rachel backed out of the space.

Ian made a sound almost like a hum. “They taste even better than they smell.” He pulled out a paper-wrapped sandwich. He peeled it open, offering it across the console. “Ladies first.”

Barely able to handle driving with him in the car, Rachel imagined what would happen if she attempted to eat a hot sandwich while fighting rush-hour traffic. She’d most likely kill them both—that, or deposit the entire contents of the sandwich into her own lap upon first bite. She couldn’t decide which would be worse.

“I’m driving.”

Ian retracted the proffered sandwich and took a healthy bite. Using a free hand, he folded shut the paper bag containing the other one and set it between them on the center console. “Later, then.”

With Ian focused on eating, Rachel relaxed. She pulled into the police station just as he finished. “Where should I drop you?”

“Just there.” He gestured toward a covered traffic circle abutting the front of the police station as he slipped his balled-up sandwich paper and used napkin into his own pocket.

“How will you get home?” Rachel asked, the picture of nonchalance.

“Garcia.”

Rachel nodded, gripping the steering wheel with sweat-slick palms. She couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved. As much as she’d like an excuse to see him again soon, she didn’t know if she could handle this sort of stress twice within twenty-four hours.

A trio of uniformed officers passed by on their way into the station. When Ian inclined his head toward them in greeting, they exchanged glances and shifted directions as a unit, heading directly toward Rachel’s car. She wished Ian would get out so that she could leave immediately. She would back up the entire length of the parking lot if necessary to avoid the oncoming officers.

“Thanks for the sandwich,” she said, attempting to infuse the comment with a note of finality. Surely he would recognize the implicit social cue.

Ian crinkled his eyes at her. “You’re welcome.”

Rachel stared at him with escalating panic. What was he waiting for?

“I really look forward to eating it,” she said. I really look forward…to eating it? Surely she hadn’t just said that.

It was too late. The officers flanked her car. Two of them—big, hulking men with arms like tree-trunks—sauntered around toward Ian’s side, while the other—a tall, expressionless officer with hooded eyes—approached Rachel’s window and rapped on it with his knuckles. Rachel reached a shaky hand to roll down both sets of windows.

The tall officer bent to peer into the vehicle. His gaze remained impassive as it landed on Ian. “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

“There’s no problem,” Rachel said.

Ian put a hand on her arm. He nodded to the tall officer and turned toward the other two on his side, now stooping to look in as well. “That’s Ramos and these are the Damelus brothers.” He patted her arm three times. It’s-O-K, the pats spelled out. “Don’t react. It’ll only encourage them.”

The Damelus brothers must be Haitian. They unwittingly confirmed Rachel’s suspicion by exchanging mutters in Creole. She hadn’t been a teacher in South Florida for the past decade for nothing. Were they really talking about her? She arched a brow and lifted her chin.

Watching her carefully, the brothers exchanged sly grins.

Ramos propped a hand on his belt near his service weapon. He braced the other against the hood of Rachel’s car and peered narrowly at Ian. “You can tell us if he’s bothering you, ma’am. We’ve had complaints about him before.”

Without missing a beat, Ian let loose a string of Spanish. Rachel didn’t catch much, but the officers all laughed. Ramos stood and the Haitian brothers stepped back, one opening the door for Ian.

Before he stood, Ian turned to Rachel. “Don’t worry. They’re not making fun of you. They asked if the pretty lady is tired of me yet.”

Rachel ignored the snickers from outside the car. The old Rachel would have pretended not to care and then spent the next few hours agonizing over the possibilities. The new Rachel clutched the reins and took the question at a gallop. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them we haven’t spent enough time together for that to come up.” He stepped out of the car, closed the door, and leaned back to regard Rachel, the tip of his mouth lifting on the left side. “Yet.”

That night as Rachel lay in the privacy of her bed, she congratulated herself for not freaking out over these developments. A few months ago, even the thought of Ian Smith texting her would have sent her into a flurry of second-guessing from which she’d never recover. Now he’d asked her for a favor, she’d complied without panicking too much, and he’d bought her dinner. Sort of. Did it count as buying dinner if she ate it alone in the car after dropping him off at work?

Rachel rolled over.

Fortunately, that wasn’t something she had to figure out. Not with the Resolutions to guide her. How incredibly freeing to realize she didn’t have to invest emotional energy in wondering why, of all the people in Ian Smith’s life, he would ask her to do him a favor. She didn’t need to lie awake wondering whether or not it meant anything.

After all, not everything means something.

Although it certainly did mean something that Rachel hadn’t contacted Lee about that ridiculous Save the Date yet.

Rachel rolled the other direction.

The night she’d received the invitation, she’d come home from Stu’s and tacked it to the fridge, determined to text Lee in the morning. Surely by then, she would have decided whether to congratulate him or just royally chew him out. Now several days had gone by, and Rachel still hadn’t done anything. Although part of her tried to chalk this up to the New Rachel keeping her Resolutions, the more honest part knew she genuinely wasn’t sure what to say.

Rachel sat up, fluffed her duvet, and flopped onto her back.

She liked Sharon Day. She loved Lee. She wanted them both to be happy and have a successful relationship. But she also wanted to warn them to slow down, carefully consider the seriousness of marriage, and get to know one another a little better first. After all, they’d only been dating for a short time. Relationships took much longer than that to develop properly. Didn’t they?

She rolled over and shrugged the duvet under her chin. She had to admit she really didn’t know. At least, not from personal experience. The last time she’d had a boyfriend, she’d been in braces.

She rolled the other direction. She wanted to call Lynn to ask for advice, but then she remembered the resolutions.

She sat up, snapped on her bedside lamp, and opened the notebook, skimming for clues.

According to her pastor’s sermon on Sunday about the Holy Spirit, one of the works of the Holy Spirit was to guide believers in truth. Rachel only needed to read as far as the second resolution—Resolved: To start paying better attention at church—before she knew what to do.

Leaning her head forward and pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Rachel prayed for guidance, freedom from worry, and—above all—she prayed to see the truth.

~*~

“No, not like that,” Coach Donovan said. “Ann, get over here.”

Abandoning the hanging heavy bag she’d been rhythmically punching, Ann jogged to Rachel’s side. She stood loosely, hands on hips, looking easy and competent. Beside her, Rachel puffed like a locomotive, lightheaded and wobbly from the last cardio burn. She decided that the next time she changed gyms, she would look for a place without full-length mirrors. The side-by-side comparison was just too demoralizing.

Donovan gestured for Rachel to stand up. “Watch how Ann does this.” He flipped the kick pad against his chest, braced his bare feet against the mats, and lowered his head. “Go ahead.”

Ann backed up, took a few running steps, launched from her right foot, flicked her left knee into the air, and slammed her foot into the pad. Donovan hopped backward as he absorbed the kick while Ann landed squarely, hands and eyes up.

“See?” Donovan said. “Easy-peasy.”

Rachel didn’t know whether to applaud or cry. “It’s not easy. Ann’s just really coordinated.”

“Ann’s focused. That’s what she is.” Coach Donovan and Ann exchanged a little fist bump.

“Focused and fit.” Ann grinned, looking entirely too pleased with herself. She swiped some flyaway hair from her forehead and migrated back toward the heavy bags. Within seconds, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet and punching steadily.

“I’m focused,” Rachel said. It was true. Given her new moratorium on worry, there was nothing in particular to distract her from mastering Donovan’s so-called flying teep kick—nothing but the niggling fear that she could easily snap another ankle. Or her back. Or her neck.

Rachel’s next few attempts at the kick were even worse than the first. She forgot which foot was her lead, then overcorrected and embarrassingly jumped from both feet at the same time. She ended the comedy of errors by executing a shambling run past Donovan without jumping or kicking.

Donovan gave her a two-minute break, which she spent squirting her water bottle over the top of her head so that nobody would notice her tears of exasperation. At the buzzer, she snapped the cap back on her water bottle, hitched up her metaphorical britches, and stomped back to meet Donovan on the center of the mats. By the end of the round, she had figured out her foot situation, but her jumps were so tentative she didn’t have enough hang time to complete the kick.

Donovan called a halt to her disastrous attempts and sent both women to the ground for some core exercises. As Rachel and Ann lay side by side performing synchronized reverse crunches, Coach Donovan shadowboxed in front of the mirrors, acting out an entire match in his head. Rachel was about to make fun of him, when she realized that she had, in essence, spent most of her adult life doing just that: fighting imaginary battles in her head, preparing for fights that never actually came to fruition.

No more.

It was so relaxing not to worry about whether or not Ian planned to pursue her, whether or not Lee and Sharon had rushed things, and whether or not her apartment was still full of spiders. Should any of these situations develop into actual problems, she would take steps. Until then, she’d content herself with knowing that she had, at last, learned to accept situations at face value.

Rachel had officially finished sparring with herself.