was it in the first place?” she murmured. “Who left me that scenario about some crazy gardener named Frank Frett killing off somebody’s lilacs? And where the hell did you get that scenario, anyway?”
He rubbed noses with her. “From watching you with your rose garden, of course. You almost leveled poor Sister Binny that day you caught her with a spray gun.”
She touched his lips with hers. “Only because I didn’t know she was using organic spray. And I made it up to her by letting her have all the lavender she wanted.”
“How kind of you. To be nice to a nun, of all people.”
“Not as kind as you, leaving that barn door open for me so I’d walk right into your snare, Frank Frett. I can’t believe you thought I’d fall for that.”
“Ah, but you did believe my fake death.”
“Okay, so I’m easy to fool where you’re concerned.”
Ben turned serious. “Easy to fool? What exactly does that mean?”
The way he said it made her think there was something she was missing. But she already regretted her choice of words. If there was something she was being a fool about, and lately her instincts had been telling her there was, she honestly didn’t want to know it. Not yet. Life was complicated enough, as her mother would say, without looking for dust balls under the bed.
“I didn’t mean a thing,” she said. “And by the way, don’t forget you promised to help us finish the remodel on the old friar’s chapel out back.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Abby. Dammit, this is it. It’s the second time you’ve been hurt during one of our paintball capers, and that wasn’t what the game started out to be.”
She grinned. “I know. But don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it. It’s our best sexual fantasy. If you hadn’t knocked me off my feet tonight, just imagine what might have happened.”
“I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to you.” He frowned. “Abby, ever since—Never mind. The point is, you’re way too reckless. What if you’d lost an eye?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ben. People play paintball all the time.”
“They get hurt all the time, too. There are thousands of cases every year of people being blinded by a paint-ball—and worse.” He swore. “I never should have taken you to survivor camp with me last fall. You’ve got to let this go, Abby.”
“But you agreed I needed to get my self-confidence back. And my experience there made a great article for Action Pursuit Games.”
“An article that barely paid you anything, and you already have more money than you know what to do with.”
“Not true. There’s the little chapel, and the Women’s Center for Learning needs expanding, and the old horse barn could use a ton of work—”
He groaned. “Look, I admire the fact that you decided to buy the Prayer House from Lydia and help the nuns out. But why do you have to live here?”
And now we’re getting to the real meat of things, Abby thought. What he means is, Why weren’t you happy enough living with me?
“I love your apartment in town,” she said. “But, Ben, you were out most of the time chasing criminals around Carmel, and I was alone. I wanted to be around people more.”
“You could walk around Carmel Village anytime and be up to your knees in tourists from every hemisphere.”
“But I can think better out here. It’s quiet. Besides, I can still drive to the village whenever I want to.”
The truth was, she didn’t want to all that often. Windhaven, the multimillion-dollar Ocean Drive house that she’d lived in with her husband, still held too many bad memories. Just driving by it gave her the willies.
“And as for chasing criminals around in quaint little old Carmel,” Ben said, “it’s not exactly the way I thought it would be when I moved down here from San Francisco. I thought having a chance to be chief one day would be the perfect job.”
“It’s not?” Abby was surprised. They had never talked about this before.
“It could be,” he said, “for the right person. But don’t you ever get the feeling that living in Carmel is like living in a bubble? We’re so isolated here. A two-hour drive to San Francisco, no direct flights out of Monterey to most cities…”
“Sweetie,” Abby murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “you’re not old enough to be having a midlife crisis.”
“Ha. I’m over forty.”
“No!” she said mockingly. “You’re that old? Good grief, what’s a young thirty-eight-year-old like me doing with the likes of you?”
“Growing old,” he said, grinning, “and way too fast, if you’re not careful.”
She punched him on the shoulder. “Okay, so how about this? You get a hobby.”
He snorted. “Like what?”
“Painting, maybe. Or golf.”
“Great. Then there would be three million and one painters in Monterey County. And four million and one golfers.”
She sighed. “You won’t let me make you feel any better, will you?”
“Depends on how you’re feeling now,” he said, pulling her close and nuzzling her ear. “Hey, ya know what? I just figured out my new hobby.”
She was about to agree that his new hobby was a fine one when the intercom next to her bed buzzed softly. Sister Helen, who acted as keeper of the front door at night, would never interrupt her when Ben was there unless it was important.
She pressed the button for two-way conversation. “What’s up, Helen?”
The nun’s voice was so raspy from allergies, Abby could hardly make it out. Turning up the volume, she put a finger over her lips to quiet Ben, who was still trying to nuzzle.
“There are two women here,” Helen said. “Rather, a woman and a teenage girl who looks old enough to be Hades.”
“Hades?”
“God of the dead. For heaven’s sake, girl, don’t you remember anything I taught you in high school? Anyway, the older one says they’re seeking sanctuary.”
“I haven’t had a call from anyone setting that up,” Abby said, looking at the clock. It read 2:38 a.m.
“I didn’t think so,” Helen said. “Do you think it’s safe to let them in?”
“Keep them in the reception room. I’ll be right there.”
Yet one more abused family, she thought wearily, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing her eyes. God, there were so many more than a year ago. And the little she did for them never felt like enough. Food, clothes, a bed for the
