Every parking space on Main Street was filled, so Jamie rounded the block where the diner was located and, since her luck was running high today, a car pulled out of a large space on the side street next to the diner. Jamie figured she’d call in her order and ask for a callback when it was ready. She and Petunia could patrol Main Street while they waited.
Jamie surveyed the street while she fished her phone out of her pocket. Always know your surroundings. The habit had begun in the desert, but didn’t stop when she returned to the States. She was about to scroll through her contacts for the diner’s number, when her eyes settled on the F-450 dually parked under the No Parking Anytime sign. Well, well.
“Stay, P.” Glad she’d remembered to get a fresh ticket book and a new ballpoint, Jamie grabbed both from the seat and clicked the pen repeatedly as she strolled over to Trip’s truck. This had to be a record number of parking violations by one person. She opened the pad to a fresh ticket, then hesitated. Was it wrong to blame Trip after eighteen years? Until that drunken night, Trip had been her best friend.
The magnet school that she was bused across town to attend had landed her with a bunch of white kids who lived in real houses with yards, two parents, and a family dog. They were wakened by bacon sizzling or lawn mowers buzzing, not guns popping and sirens wailing. Trip grew up like those kids. Jamie was the girl who didn’t fit in because she came from the projects downtown.
College was a new playing field, new players, with new teams forming. It stripped away the people who’d been dragging you down. It also stripped away the ones who’d propped you up. She remembered the first time she saw Trip.
Jamie stood with a small group of other female athletes she’d met in the two days she’d been on campus, and they eyed the striking blonde who stood by the older model, but well maintained, truck that was loaded with boxes. She was holding a map of the campus, turning it one way then another, and frowning.
“I say she’s tennis,” one girl said, her Brooklyn accent instantly revealing her hometown.
“Nope. She’d be wearing those little tennis skorts instead of cutoffs,” a girl from Memphis said.
“I’m guessing volleyball. She’s tall and thin enough. And blond. All those girls are tall and blond.”
“Softball.”
“Get out. You don’t gotta be tall for that. You just have to have a ponytail.”
The girl was biting her lip and looking hopefully their way, but Jamie’s new friends just stared back. She suddenly saw herself standing on the playground in that upper middle class neighborhood while the other kids stared but didn’t invite her to join them.
“Hey, where you goin’?”
Jamie ignored Brooklyn’s challenge and crossed the parking lot to greet the stranger. When she approached, the girl smiled uncertainly. “Hey,” Jamie said. “Need some help?”
“Uh, yeah, thanks. I just got here and was trying to find where the basketball team stays.”
That had surprised Jamie. Maybe she was looking for somebody she knew. She pointed to the building behind them. “Looks like you found it. That’s the dorm. Are you looking for somebody?”
The blonde tugged a paper from her back pocket and unfolded it. “I’m looking for room 620.”
Jamie held her hand out. “Can I see that?” She took the paper and stared at it. “You’re Tripoli Miranda Beaumont?”
“Trip. I play small forward.”
Jamie looked up, then took the hand Trip offered. “Jamie Grant, point guard. Seems you’re my roommate.”
Trip’s grin was wide. “No shit? That’s great.” Then her smile faltered. “I mean, I think it is. Unless you were hoping to room with somebody else.”
Jamie turned and waved over the other girls, who were still watching them. “We’ll help you carry your stuff up, then I’ll show you where to check in over at the athletic office.” The others trotted over. “This is Trip Beaumont, our new small forward. We’re going to help her take her stuff up.”
The girls watched as Trip lowered the tailgate after a few kicks to knock it loose. Then she begin pulling boxes to the rear.
“Where are we taking this stuff?” Brooklyn asked.
“She’s assigned to room with me,” Jamie said, then turned back to Trip. “Do you have a foot odor problem or sing in your sleep?”
Trip scratched her chin. “No foot odor, but I do sing a little blues before a history test.”
Brooklyn clutched her sides in an overly dramatic display of laughter. “Is that accent for real?”
Trip selected another box from the truck, lifted it easily, and shoved it into Brooklyn’s hands. Brooklyn staggered back a few steps as she struggled with the heavy load. “That’s funny,” Trip said, grinning. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Is Trip your real name?” Memphis asked. “Or a nickname because you trip people on the court?”
“Real name.” She wasn’t done with Brooklyn. “I hope you won’t mind Rooster. He’s in the truck. I wanted to bring my lucky rabbit, but Mama said no way they’d let me keep Rooster and Cottontail, so we ate him for my lucky farewell dinner. Daddy saved his paw, too, and made a charm I could rub for luck before each game. But no foot odor. No, sir. Not since Granny taught me to put a fresh clove of garlic in my tennis shoes each night when I take them off.”
The girls all stopped and stared as Trip took the last box from the truck bed and turned to follow them in.
“She’s kidding, you guys,” Jamie said, motioning with her head for them to go on into the dorm. “You are kidding, right?”
Trip grinned. “Yeah. I’m kidding. We didn’t eat Cottontail.”
Jamie turned away and headed across the parking deck. Her new roomie had a sense of humor. She liked that.
“I’m saving him until Peter gets big enough for a matched pair to make bunny slippers.”
If Jamie had known that day that everything was a joke to Trip, she would have never befriended her. Trip’s flippant attitude toward life had ultimately been the knife that severed their friendship and stabbed Jamie in the back. She wrote the ticket with a flourish, tore it from the book, and pinned it to the windshield with a satisfying slap of the wiper. Trip was likely at the diner, so Jamie decided to alter her lunch plans. She needed something quicker anyway if she was going to Cahill’s Garage to check on the impounded vehicles.
She hopped back into her cruiser, drove through Doug’s Dogs—a local hotdog specialty joint—and ordered, then headed out to the highway and backed into her favorite spot for eating a quick lunch while catching speeders.
* * *
Trip ordered an omelet with a side of grits and a half pecan waffle. She loved that the diner served breakfast all day. She’d need the carbs as well as the protein to get through her busy afternoon of farm calls.
“Coming right up, hon,” Jolene said.
The bell jangled brightly, and Trip looked up to see Clay push through the swinging door. Their eyes met, and Clay headed over to share her booth.
“Hey there, Clay.” Clay seemed to be dragging a bit. Her expression lacked Clay’s usual sultry nonchalance, and her stride was stiff, rather than her usual relaxed saunter.
“Hi.”
“I’d say you look like you just lost your best friend, but I’m sittin’ right here.”
“I’ll bring a menu over, hon.” Jolene waved to Clay from behind the counter near the register.
“No rush.” Clay smiled weakly at Jolene. Clay pushed her hat back and rested her elbows on the table.
Jolene approached with Trip’s omelet and waffle balanced on one arm and a coffee carafe and mug in her other hand. “You want a coffee?” Clay nodded, and Jolene plunked down the mug and poured before handing the menu tucked under her arm to her. Then she slid Trip’s meal onto the table. “Just wave at me when you’re ready.”
Trip didn’t know why Clay was reading a menu. She always ordered the same thing. “I expected you to be a little tired, but a happy sort of tired.”
“What are you talking about?” Clay looked up.
“I called the shop when you didn’t answer your CB, and Eddie said you were out at Lynette’s place. I know she’s carrying a big torch for you.” Trip plopped two pats of real butter on top of her grits to melt.
“Her battery was dead.” Clay frowned.
“And the only thing you jump-started was her car? I’m starting to worry about you.” Trip stuffed a big bite of waffle into her mouth and smiled as she chewed.
Before Clay could reply, the bell over the door jangled again. River paused when she stepped inside and spotted them. Well, well. This day was looking up for Clay.
Trip swallowed quickly as she stood and motioned for River to join them, ignoring Clay’s frantic No, no, no signal.
“River, would you care to join us? Clay hasn’t even ordered yet, so your timing is perfect.” Trip made a gallant show, completely ignoring Clay’s glare, and extended her arm to the empty half of the bench seat on her side of the table.
“Hello, Dr. Beaumont.” River gave Clay a sideways glance. The expression on her face signaled uncertainty, and Clay made no move to make her feel welcome. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“It’s Trip, and please join us. I insist. Maybe you can help me cheer up my friend here.”
Clay looked ready to bolt, so Trip moved her dishes across the table and slid in next to Clay, blocking her exit.
“Are you sure I’m not interrupting something?” River seemed to be picking up on Clay’s unease.
“Not at all. Please, sit.” Trip took the menu out of Clay’s hand and handed it to River. “They serve breakfast all day, and the burgers are good.”
“Thank you.” River accepted the shiny trifold menu.
“If I’d known I was going to have company, I’d have waited to order.” Trip figured she’d have to prime the pump with a little friendly chatter since Clay was doing her best imitation of an inert lump. “Y’all don’t mind if I start without you, do you? This omelet won’t be good if it gets cold.”
“Don’t wait for us.” Clay’s eyes flitted around the room, and she quietly tapped one finger against the tabletop. Yep, Clay was as skittish as a wild mustang in the presence of this woman, and Trip found that very amusing.
Jolene reappeared. “I see you picked up another guest. Y’all ready to order?”
Clay ordered her usual chicken fried steak, eggs, and hash brown potatoes, but River ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Trip would have figured her for a grilled chicken salad kind of girl. Apparently also surprised, Clay looked directly at River—more than a glance—for the first time since River had entered the diner.
“So, River, rumor has it that you’re from the big city. What do you do in New York?” Trip asked.
Clay suddenly appeared to find the sugar canister more interesting than hearing River’s response.
“I own an art gallery.”
“Really?” Trip took a swig of her sweet tea. “Did you know that Clay’s a painter?”
Clay tilted her head, but the brim of her cap didn’t quite hide the dagger her eyes shot at Trip.
“What do you paint?” River asked.
“I don’t paint anything,” Clay said in a tone that ended that conversation but fueled Trip’s determination that she and Grace indeed needed to mount an intervention. Something in her gut said this was an opportunity for Clay.
The food arrived, saving them all from an awkward pause, and even Clay joined her in watching as River daintily hoisted the huge burger and took a big bite.
Then Trip talked about the new renovations at her clinic and told a couple of funny incidents with her clients. But Clay certainly wasn’t contributing much, so Trip decided it was time to just throw her in the river, so to speak, and hope she would swim. “Well, I better get going. Duty calls.”
“Oh, so soon?” River glanced nervously at Clay.
Too bad. She was sure River had paddled among plenty of sharks in New York City. She’d do fine with Clay. Clay was good people through and through, and Trip wanted to bitch-slap the woman who’d taken the light from her eyes. “Yep, afraid so. I have to do ultrasounds on two of Virginia’s Hanoverian mares.” Trip dropped a twenty on the table and folded her napkin under the edge of her plate. “Virginia’s meeting me there, and it’s best not to keep her waiting.”
She stepped out into the summer heat and waved farewell at River as she passed their booth on the other side of the diner’s plate glass front, then chuckled at Clay’s glare. The amusement died when she rounded the corner and saw the telltale flutter. Damn that Deputy Grant to hell. She stuffed the ticket into the glove box with all the others without looking at it. Grace wasn’t going to be any help, so she probably needed to total them later and pay up before this Deputy Do-right decided to call Clay to tow her truck next time. Trip smiled. Clay would never do that. Then she frowned. Unless this deputy was really hot, like Grace had said.
* * *
A huge oak tree provided shade and adequate concealment so speeders who blew past that first speed limit sign coming into town never saw Jamie until she flipped on her lights and pulled out in pursuit. Normally, she’d put out her wireless radar and give a break to the drivers who were in the process of decelerating, but she only planned to eat and count the cows in the pasture across the two-lane highway today.
Counting was what her military therapist taught her during rehab to cope with PTSD. Even after her physical wounds healed, part of her refused to leave the desert. Refused to accept that Sonar, her bomb-detection dog, and most of her patrol were dead. That part kept dragging her back to relive, and maybe try to change, what had happened. Nightmares at first, then daytime flashbacks too. The absence of Sonar, who’d been at her side for five years, was like a missing limb.
The Army refused to assign her a new dog until she was cleared for duty, but their doctors drugged her until she was little more than a zombie. Then a new doctor rotated in at Fort Bragg. He weaned her off the drugs so she could function again. Their counseling sessions were often long walks in quiet areas of the sprawling base with his golden retriever keeping pace between them. He taught her to count so she could cope without mind-numbing drugs. But in the end, he’d been honest. He couldn’t recommend that she ever return to her old job detecting and disarming bombs. Instead, he strongly suggested she accept a medical discharge and use her dog training knowledge to build a career in the civilian world.
He knew some guys in the private sector that trained security dogs for high profile firms, but Jamie had opted for law enforcement when she realized her discharge contained nothing about her mental frailty, only her physical injuries. She liked the rank and order of the military, and law enforcement was the closest she could come to that. She needed the unchanging rhythm of routine and order. Like counting. Two always came after one, three always after two. No surprises. No exploding bombs. Petunia understood routine, and always huddled close when something still triggered an occasional flashback. She could never let another human see her that vulnerable. If anyone knew, they could revoke her gun license. How could she be a cop without a gun?
Before she dug into her lunch, she peeled back the lid from a small container of Petunia’s special diet food and placed it on the seat. Petunia sniffed it but turned away and drank from her water in the cup holder instead.
“Come on, P. Aren’t you hungry?”
Petunia looked at her with liquid eyes. Jamie was worried about her. She’d eaten very little in the past few days.
Jamie pushed aside her good sense and offered Petunia a very small piece of her hotdog, but Petunia barely sniffed it. Maybe Jaime should make an appointment. She didn’t have to see Trip. Grace had mentioned there was a new vet who mostly kept the clinic hours while Trip made farm calls. An exam could indicate whether Jamie should seek out another specialist—maybe at the University of Georgia Veterinary School.