of lemonade. Behind the table stood two prepubescent Boy Scouts, both grinning and looking at Mr. Wonderful like he was the funniest thing going.
“Here,” he said, holding a cup out toward me, “at least have some lemonade.”
“He spilled it on the last lady,” one of the Scouts volunteered.
“Yeah, I’d take it quick,” the other added.
The guy laughed and shot them a look that said they were all pals, anyway, despite the boys’ comments. And for a moment I was completely and totally charmed. I stood there watching him, frozen to the spot like a deer staring into a set of oncoming headlights.
“Is it all right? It’s a new batch but it shouldn’t be too…” He paused.
“Oh no,” I said, breaking out of my stupor. I took a huge gulp, choked and sputtered. “It’s great, really!”
And then I ran, darting across the room, where I stood examining the baked goods like my life depended on it, and wondering where in the hell Darlene was. I shot a glance over at him and found he was watching me, the same hundred-watt smile stuck on his face.
He was handsome, all right. Tall, maybe six foot two inches. I put him a few years older than me, perhaps in his early forties, with a salt-and-pepper, supershort haircut and faint lines that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. I realized with a start he was still smiling at me and that I was still, and most obviously, staring at him.
I flipped back around, pretending to study a display that covered the history of the tiny chapel. This was too ridiculous. What was I doing? I was no better than Darlene, getting myself all hot and bothered over the very gender I’d just sworn to avoid like the black plague. Men were a disease. They crawled under your skin and poisoned you into believing that this time it would be different.
“Fool me once, shame on you,” I muttered. “Fool me twice, shame on me.”
I took a deep breath, ignored the pull of infatuation at first sight and forced myself to walk right past him, outside into the brilliant sunlight. Darlene was probably lost in the ozone of her past lives and had wandered into another house, forgetting all about her sister in the process. She’d turn up, but when or where was anybody’s guess.
I walked slowly, turning down the side street where I’d seen Darlene last, looked for her and imagined what my life would be like if I lived here and not in crowded South Philly. I tried to see myself in every perfect garden, watering flowers with an ancient metal watering can, or sitting on a white wooden swing and rocking slowly in the moonlight. I tried not to worry about my sister. After all, this was New Bern and not Philadelphia. If someone was looking for me, he wouldn’t bother my airhead sister. Still, I felt the shiver of apprehension and suddenly wished like hell I could catch a glimpse of colorful ribbons up ahead in the crowd of tourists.
When I didn’t see her on the street in front of me, I turned again, wandering down a block shaded by ancient oaks. The sidewalk was bumpy brick, rippled with tree roots and narrowed by the paving of what had to have once been a cobble-stone street. Darlene stood outside a house at the far end, talking to an elderly woman and gesturing wildly with her hands. I heaved a deep sigh of relief. Now that I knew she was all right, I really was going to kill her.
I started toward her, walked maybe fifty feet and stopped. Behind a battered picket fence, behind a gigantic magnolia tree, behind overgrown bushes and weeds, sat my dream house, a battered brown-and-white cottage with a sagging porch and a rusted tin roof. In bad shape now, but, oh, what potential!
A For Sale sign, faded but firmly planted just inside the front yard, and brochures in a box beside the sign called to me. I grabbed a paper and stood looking up at the little house. I could see it all as it would be with a little attention, with a little hard work and, of course, a little money. I looked at Darlene, caught her eye and pointed toward the house. She waved, but made no move to join me.
I examined the house as I walked up the tiny driveway. It would take a chainsaw working overtime to actually make it possible to enter the house, but if it was structurally sound…Well, the possibilities were all there, waiting for the right person. I made my way down the length of the house, trying to look in through the grime-covered windows. The faint scent of the nearby waterfront mingled with the smells of honeysuckle and wild roses, and I found myself falling deeper and deeper into the trance of possibility.
The man I’d seen earlier suddenly reappeared, trying to take me as I pushed open the back gate. He lunged for me, springing out of the shadows that framed the back porch and rushing me. In his hand, he held an ugly black knife. I whirled, dropping my purse as I turned, and stepping into his move, hitting him low and inside with my body as I turned to grip his knife arm with both hands.
I yelled, guttural and hoarse, and brought his arm down across my thigh, heard the welcome snap of the bone breaking, and saw the knife skitter away into the bushes. His scream got caught short by the brick wall as I slammed him into it, bringing the useless arm up behind his back and working the weight and momentum of his big frame against him.
“Tell whoever sent you that Nick worked alone. I don’t have his money. I don’t have any of his nasty pictures and I sure don’t have whatever else it is you want. Tell him to leave me alone. You got that?”
When the man didn’t answer, I jerked his arm higher. His answering cry cut through the blood pounding in my ears as adrenaline sent my overworked emergency alert system into overdrive. How much longer was this shit going to go on? When was everybody going to finally figure out that I’d been even more hoodwinked by Nick’s betrayal than the rest of them?
In my world, Nick had been just a bad husband. Until the police had come through my front door with a search warrant and a squadron of uniformed officers, I’d only known about Nick’s day job as an accountant. So how could I possibly know anything about missing money?
I pushed the big man tight against the wall and stretched up on tiptoe to say my piece. He moaned, the fight gone out of his huge frame, and I thanked God for Vinny and Krav Maga. A year ago, I would’ve been this moron’s prey, but now I could take care of myself. In the two years since Nick’s arrest and our separation I’d grown up. In the past year I’d gotten divorced, watched as my ex-husband got convicted and sent to prison, and learned to kill a man ten different ways. Not bad for a kindergarten teacher.
I sighed and watched as my attacker ran away. I now understood the concept of, “use it or lose it.” I just didn’t like it. There was something wrong with having to defend myself against hairy ogres, irate husbands and loudmouthed police officers. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, I’d married Nick ten years ago, but aside from that, nothing. So why did everyone think I knew more than I did? Why did people keep coming up to me on the street, yelling about how their lives had been ruined by my husband? Hadn’t my life been ruined? How would I ever pick up the pieces?
My heart was pounding and my hands shook as the shock and reality of my recent attack set in and overwhelmed my body. It wasn’t the first time a confrontation had turned physical, but it was the first surprise attack and by far the worst. I closed my eyes for a second, seeing it all over again in my mind’s eye. The guy had meant business. He wasn’t another irate husband, or one of Nick’s former business associates accusing Nick of embezzling money, and he was most certainly not a cop. No, this guy had been hired help. Why had he gone to the trouble of following me on vacation? Did they think I had a suitcase full of stolen money and was coming to tiny New Bern to spend it?
People just kept turning up, out of nowhere, all saying Nick owed them money, or wanting revenge. Who were all of these people and when would
