Consequence (10 page)

Bridget flipped the cover of her steno pad
and used a mechanical pencil to make a list of keywords she
intended to search for on the Internet.

In the corner, Morty raised his head and
growled. At her feet, Squirt exhaled softly. Seconds later, Bridget
heard the bang of Boone’s car door and his boots thump against the
stoop before coming inside.

“I’m in the office,” she shouted, not wanting
to move. If she did, it would disturb Squirt, who rested her head
on Bridget’s sheepskin slippers.

Boone stepped into the chilly sunroom and
took off his jacket. He bent to kiss Bridget and spied the papers
on the desk. “What’s this?”

Bridget’s heart fluttered a little faster. I
could become used to this.

“I met with Mrs. Surratt at the school today
and we found the little girl’s records. Not only her records, but a
lot of other bits and pieces, including a school photo. See?” she
said, handing him the printout.

As Boone examined the photo, Bridget shuffled
through the papers. “Her name is Cherry Jefferson and her mother’s
name is Ethel. She left school sometime in the spring of 1961. She
was in the fifth grade at the time, in a Mrs. Talbot’s class. Do
you remember her?”

“No, she was before my time,” he said turning
a report card over to read the comments on the back. “We’ve got a
signature here of an ‘Ethel Jefferson.’ Let’s scan it and add it to
the file.”

A low rumble from the corner of the room
alerted Bridget to where the small dog laid, his head resting on
paws, his dark, bulging eyes pinned on Boone. “Oh look, Morty has
finally accepted you.”

At the mention of his name, the dog raised
his head and the rumble deepened into a growl.

“Yeah, aren’t I the lucky one,” Boone said.
He reached into his jacket pocket for a stick of jerky. He tore it
into two, unequal pieces and tossed the smaller one to Morty, who
caught the treat in mid-air. Boone squatted, handed the other piece
to Squirt, now sitting up in anticipation. He ruffled her ears.
“Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite,” he whispered.

He stood and rested his hands on his hips,
tucking his thumbs under his gun belt. Bridget’s eyes slid up his
lean, tall frame, from the black leather belt to the crisp tan
shirt with its keystone badge, to the white T-shirt peeking out of
his collar, to his chin with its five o’clock shadow. His lips
quirked in a half-grin and his eyes narrowed with smoky desire.

“What were you thinking about for dinner,” he
asked.

She blinked. “I hadn’t. I don’t always think
about eating. Guess I should, huh?”

She pushed her chair away from the table and
turned in a half-circle. “What are you thinking?”

“You’re busy here. Why don’t I go into the
kitchen and see what I can scrounge up for us?” Boone
suggested.

Bridget crossed her hands over her chest. “Be
still my heart! You are my hero!”

“No promises,” he warned, then turned towards
the door. “I’ll call you when I have something ready.”

She wagged her eyebrows at Morty. “See, I
told you he was a good guy.”

Morty lifted his head and sniffed the air,
then sprang from his bed and followed the sounds of the
refrigerator door opening and containers being moved around. Squirt
watched the little dog leave the sunroom, its toenails clicking on
the wood floor, then turned mellow, questioning eyes to
Bridget.

“Go ahead,” she urged the large dog. “You
know you want to.”

After several seconds of staring into the
doorway, Squirt made up her mind and padded out of the room.

Bridget turned back to her computer screen,
her hands poised over the keyboard. She glanced at the list of
keywords, typed “Ethel Jefferson” into the form and pressed Enter.
Seconds later, the screen filled with results.

“Oh goody, 30 million hits,” Bridget
murmured.

As she inched her way down the list, she saw
the first few items were obituaries. Of course, she expected to see
obits. She calculated Ethel Jefferson to be in her seventies or
eighties by now. It wouldn’t be surprising if she had died.

She minimized the web browser and to the
right of the window, she made a folder on the monitor’s desktop and
named it “Jefferson.” When searching for hits on the Internet,
she’d found it more efficient to view links in a new tab, and if
they were promising, click-and-drag the bookmark into a separate
folder. Then she could go back at her leisure and look through the
sites. She decided to save all obits since they were goldmines of
info, including location and relatives.

She didn’t count on finding much with the
social media site hits, but she still saved them since she didn’t
want to take the time to login to her own accounts. Social sharing
sites didn’t always show you a person’s profile unless you have
your own account.

People would be surprised by how many
eighty-year-olds have their own social media page, she thought.
What began as an outlet for college students, spread to 900 million
users. Now great-grandparents kept in touch with their families and
friends through the Internet.

The professional social sites would be less
helpful, she considered, since most people linked to the system to
seek better jobs.

She doubted the “Ethel Jefferson” tweeting
would be the person she sought, either, but tucked it into the
folder anyway.

Bridget dismissed the sponsored ads
promising, “We found Ethel Jefferson” since they required an
upfront fee. She always resisted paying someone else to do what she
could do herself, since working as a freelance columnist meant she
lived frugally. Besides, the IRS limited her deductions to certain
expenses.

As she moved down the page of search engine
results, she noticed a link on a “grave found” website for “Ethel
Jefferson Holmes.” When she clicked the link, she noted the birth
date as 1920 and the death date in 1996. It was a possibility Ethel
had remarried. She made a notation on the steno pad to do searches
for “Ethel J.”

After the fifteenth page on the search
engine, it was obvious there were many leads to check. “Ethel
Jefferson” was a popular, yet unique, name and most of the people
were located in the Southeast.

She heard a gentle murmur from the kitchen as
Boone talked to the dogs and sniffed with appreciation when the
scent of fresh-brewed coffee wafted into the sunroom. She tended to
get lost when searching for clues on the Internet, blocking out the
world. She often found herself sitting in the dark, working through
a mystery as day gave way to twilight.

She’d made good progress on Ethel, and
considered stopping and heading into the kitchen to see what Boone
had cooking.

Instead, she flipped through the steno pad
for the next keyword and typed “Ethel Jefferson” with “Cherry
Jefferson” in the advanced fields of the Internet search
engine.

This time there were fewer hits. Gleeful, she
stored the links in the desktop folder.

“This is going to be a piece of cake,” she
bragged aloud, her fingers clicking the mouse button through a
variety of websites that aggregated census data.

“Dinner’s ready,” Boone called from the
kitchen. Bridget turned her head towards the sound. Morty raced
into the sunroom, danced about, then raced away. She chuckled at
the dog’s excitement, stood up and followed his lead.

That night, she lay in Boone’s arms in the
dark bedroom, her soft hand draped on his chest.

“Thank you for dinner,” she whispered.

“Thank you for desert,” he quipped.

She snickered and snuggled closer. “This is
nice, Boone. Having you here.”

He didn’t answer, but tightened his arm
around her in a gentle hug.

“I know it’s only been a week, but if you
want, you could ... uh, leave your stuff here. If you want,” she
said, stumbling over the invitation.

“Bridget, are you asking me to move in?” he
teased.

“If you want,” she mumbled again, burying her
head into his side.

“What would Mama say? I don’t think she’d
appreciate you making a kept man out of me.”

“Oh.”

“We’d be living in sin,” he added.

“Never mind,” she said hastily. “I’m sorry. I
forgot your Mama is Catholic.”

He stretched out, crossing his arms under his
head. “You know, it would work if we were married.”

“What? No, no, no. That’s not what I’m
saying. Let’s forget it, okay?”

She felt his chest shake and wondered if he
were laughing at her.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Can’t
take it back now.”

“I was trying to make it easy for you,” she
said. “You know, you could keep some clothes here, maybe a
toothbrush. That’s all. For nights when you stay over. I wasn’t
trying to entrap you.”

Boone flipped over, pinning her to the bed.
“What if I want to stay every night?” He kissed her nose.

“Well, that’s fine too. You can bring over
more than a toothbrush,” she hedged.

“So, let me get this straight. I can bring a
toothbrush and some clothes, and I can stay every night, but you’re
not trying to trap me into getting married. Right?”

“Right,” she squeaked when his free hand
cupped her breast and kneaded it.

“So, you don’t want to marry me?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I ... uh, um. What was the
question?” Bridget found it difficult to think while Boone’s hand
roved. “Bridget, will you marry me?”

She grabbed his hand, halting his
exploration. “Wait a minute. You don’t even love me.”

He sighed. “Of course I do, sweetheart.”

“But you haven’t said it,” she protested, her
voice breaking. “A girl needs to hear it, Boone.”

He entwined his fingers with hers and
grinned, his bright teeth gleaming in the dark. He lowered his head
and kissed her throat, his hot mouth sliding across her fevered
skin until lips closed around her breast.

He lifted his head and whispered, “A guy
needs to hear it, too.” His tongue teased her hardened nipple. “Say
it, Bridget.”

“No, you say it,” she bargained.

Boone, however, was on a quest and his mouth
was busy, trailing soft kisses on the underside of her breasts,
down the curve of her waist, across her belly. He nibbled her hip
bone and made her giggle. He raised her knees and worked his way
between her thighs. His tongue dipped inside, his carnal kiss
drugging her.

“Say it,” he commanded.”

Bridget bucked in his embrace. “I love you!
Just don’t stop.”

He smiled at the easy victory. “And I love
you.”

Then his wicked mouth carried her over the
edge. With eyes closed so tight she saw sparks, she heard his vow.
“So, it’s settled. We’ll get married.”

Her heart flip-flopped as she murmured her
assent. For a moment, she regretted the lies she would have to tell
when someday, her children asked about their father’s proposal.

CHAPTER TEN

Boone agreed to live in the farmhouse and
closed his small cabin in the woods. He didn’t have much in the way
of fixtures, having bought it furnished then living an austere
lifestyle.

Holding pressed police uniforms on hangers,
Boone stood in front of her closet and searched for space.

“If you’re not comfortable here, we can use
the master bedroom,” Bridget suggested.

He noted the girlish decor, including the
teddy bear ballerina lamp on the white bedside table. “It is a
little on the small side,” he said.

Bridget sprang from the bed and put her hands
on her hips. “Okay, then. Let’s take a look.”

She walked out of the room and down the short
hall to her parent’s former bedroom. After Kieran Cormac died, his
wife, Fiona, packed all of his belongings and donated them to
charities. The clothes she didn’t want to use in Florida, she also
donated. Although their personal items were long gone, the
fragrance her mother wore lingered on the old bed sheets. The
prints her dad favored still hung on the wall. Their presence
remained and Bridget found it oppressive.

Boone appeared at the door, empty-handed. He
looked around the room, then cocked his head toward Bridget. “It’s
a lot bigger,” he bargained. “The closet is twice the size and
there’s a connecting bath.”

She sighed heavily. “I know. I’ve been
ignoring this room for years. I need to clean it out.”

Boone understood. Cleaning out the room meant
removing the essence of her father, of her mother, of her family.
He also understood it was time to move on, to make room for their
own family.

“How about a shopping trip?” he said. “Let’s
go out this weekend and get a new bedroom set.”

Bridget smiled shyly. She hadn’t bought new
furniture since taking over the farmhouse. Honestly, the thought of
renovating was tempting. The house was comfortable, but stodgy.
Caught in a time warp, it hadn’t changed in the past forty years or
so.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said, eyeing the
orange shag carpet. “Let’s not stop at a bedroom suite, though.
This place needs a major redo.”

Boone regretted his words when she spun
around. “In fact, I’m going to get started today, while you’re at
work. I’ll call Alvin over at Peachy’s and see if he will come by
today and pick up this stuff. I’ve seen worse junk in his
second-hand shop.”

“Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Boone
murmured, retreating.

By the time he was showered, shaved and
dressed in his uniform, Bridget had wrestled the old mattress and
box spring against the wall, dismantled the pine bed frame and was
carting it down the stairs.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” Boone
said, taking the headboard from her. “I thought you were going to
call Alvin. He has employees who will move the heavy
furniture.”

Bridget turned the corner and leaned the
footboard against a wall. “I did. He’s coming over soon. I wanted
to get a start on things. You’ve inspired me,” she said, moving
closer to Boone and wrapping her arms around his neck. He settled
the headboard on the floor between them and returned her kiss.