Consequence (3 page)

Boone peered over his newspaper when the
large, wood door swung open and Bridget entered the building. She
slammed the door, then strode to Boone and whacked his boots off
the desk. “You haven’t called me. What’s the big idea?”

Boone tossed the paper aside and stood. He
towered over her, a calm and authoritative presence in his
starched, khaki shirt and dark brown pants. Her eyes rested on his
gold shield, a star emblazoned across the keystone, then flitted up
his chest to his neck, where a white T-shirt peeked above his shirt
collar.

Agitated, she flung her coat onto the
deputy’s desk, stripping her baggy sweater in the process. She put
her hands on her hips and planted herself in front of Boone, her
eyes blazing.

Boone’s eyes fastened on her chest, heaving
with each angry inhalation. The cropped, tight T-shirt bared her
midriff and strained against her breasts. Her nipples were erect
and visible through the threadbare, pink cotton. He glanced down,
noting her low-slung, ripped jeans. Part of the pocket hung through
the frayed edges. Another hole crossed her knee and yet a third
hung in a flap by her calf. Through it, he could see a pink fuzzy
sock.

“Up here,” she snarled, her index finger
lifting his chin.

Boone gulped. “What’s wrong, Bridget? Why are
you here?”

“What’s wrong?” she repeated. “You’re asking
me ‘what’s wrong’? What’s wrong with you? You asked me for help,
remember? You tell me you’re going to call me and then ignore me
for nearly a week! And you want to know what’s wrong?”

“It hasn’t been a week…,” Boone began.

“Close enough. What am I? A skunk?”
Unconsciously, Bridget moved closer. “Are you avoiding me,
Boone?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve been
busy.”

Bridget sniffled, then rubbed at her nose
with the back of her hand. Boone chuckled at the childish gesture.
Sitting back on his desk he reached for a box of tissues and
offered her one. When she took two, he set the box down, put his
hands on her hips and guided her between his knees. Stoic, he
waited while she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. Sliding his
hands to rest on her shoulders, he bent forward and touched his
forehead to hers.

“Its okay, Bridget.”

“No it’s not,” she whispered. “You’ve never
ignored me before. That’s what you do to everyone else, Boone. Not
me.”

She snuggled closer, intoxicated by his
warmth and his aftershave, a popular, new brand. A bit overwhelmed
by his masculinity, Bridget considered flinging herself into the
police chief’s lap. She struggled for composure.

“I thought you wanted me to help with your
case,” she said.

Boone wrapped his arms around her and rubbed
her back. He could feel her relaxing against him, but
unfortunately, the same wasn’t happening to him. Her hair smelled
like apples and tickled his cheek. He felt a kick in his gut when
her heavy breasts pressed against him. His palms, warm on her back,
slowed. Then he pushed her away, took a deep breath and stood.

“Bridget. You can’t do this,” he said, moving
behind his desk.

“Do what?” she asked, looking at him in
confusion.

“You can’t come in here, looking like that
and making ….” Boone tapered off when Deputy Neil Boudin opened the
front door.

“Hello Bridget. How are you?” Without waiting
for an answer, he turned to Boone. “Have you seen the waterfall at
Weeping Woman Mountain? Frozen solid.”

Neil put his hat on top of the rack, hung up
his coat then headed for the restroom.

Bridget frowned and looked at her shabby
clothes. It dawned on her, she hadn’t even brushed her hair. Boone
didn’t want a frumpy, emotional female crying in his office.

“I’m sorry this doesn’t meet your approval.
It’s laundry day and everything’s in the wash,” she said plucking
the thin material away from her skin. Boone once again caught his
breath, and his eyes flitted toward the empty jail cell.

Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she
gathered her coat and sweater, put them on and headed for the
door.

“Bridget, wait. It’s not what you think,” he
said.

She paused at the door, reaching in her
pocket for the car keys.

Boone cleared his throat. “Look, let’s have
lunch tomorrow. I’ll meet you in town and we’ll talk. Okay?”

Bridget nodded, then opened the door and
walked out into the cold sunshine.

Boone sank to his chair and let out a deep
breath. Lately, the physical side of their friendship drove him
crazy. He couldn’t look at Bridget without wanting her. He ran a
hand through his hair. If he didn’t do something about it soon,
he’d explode.

Since she was already out, Bridget took
advantage of the clear weather and drove to Peachy’s, the region’s
closest thing to a shopping mall. The small feed store opened in
the 1840s and once it evolved into a general store, the family’s
retail instincts kicked into overdrive. Now a complex of specialty
shops and service outlets, it housed the area’s largest grocery
store and bakery, as well as a pet store, a beauty salon, and even
a family gym that housed a DVD rental outlet. The rental shop
enjoyed a cult following since it also offered films in Beta and
VHS. When other stores went out of business nationwide, it scooped
up a large selection of genre films.

As she approached the lot, Bridget noted a
white trailer parked beside the gas station. She pulled to the
pumps and turned off her engine. Cindy Peachy, owner of the
station, exited the glass-fronted service area. A fur-lined hood
shrouded her face, but there was no mistaking her identity. Cindy
stood six-foot, a willowy and athletic woman whose height and
unflappable demeanor intimidated most people.

Bridget stepped out into the frigid air. She
shoved her fists into her jacket pockets and hunched her shoulders.
“Are you busy today?”

“No. What do you need?”

Bridget glanced at her car. Mud and slush
enveloped it. She suspected Neil was responsible for the “Wash Me!”
message on the side panel.

“A car wash and an oil change. Replace the
filters?” Bridget squinted at a portable sign next to a rack of
transmission fluid. “How about the ‘Express?’ No wait, make that
the ‘Signature Service.’“

“Sure. Need gas?”

Bridget handed her the car keys. She
appreciated the personal, attentive service and friendly people of
a small town. It was nice to be home again. “Yes, can you fill it
up?”

Cindy twisted her wrist to look at her watch.
“It’ll be ready in thirty minutes. That okay with you?”

“Sure.” She slung her purse over her
shoulder, then pointed at the trailer in the side lot. “What’s
going on over there?”

Cindy snorted. “Jack’s moving along with his
grand plan for ‘Peachy’s Mall.’“

Bridget recalled the gawky youth, a couple
years ahead of her in high school. He’d been a bit of a geek then,
hanging around the computer lab and avoiding most of the school’s
social events. Some people thought it strange the son of Dave and
Miranda Peachy Frey, the health and fitness nuts who operated the
gym at Peachy’s, would be intellectual, preferring math class to
athletics. Now an architect, Jack Frey planned to modernize
Peachy’s.

Bridget scanned the complex and winced. It
did have a lackadaisical, patchwork appearance. Additions were
slapped to the whole as generations of Peachys joined the family
business.

“You don’t care for his plan?”

“So long as he doesn’t block my customers,
I’m okay with it. He’s a bit persuasive though, you know? And I’m
not going to let him gussy up my place. If he had his way, all of
the shops would be same.”

That would detract from Peachy’s ambiance,
Bridget thought, but there’s a lot to be said for moving forward.
She thanked Cindy and scurried towards the entrance, grabbing a
shopping cart from the kiosk on her way. She kept her parka on,
covering her laundry-day duds. She angled the cart towards the
fruit and vegetable aisle, choosing bananas and apples before
working her way to the dairy department. On auto pilot, she tossed
containers into the cart, her hand hovering over a tube of cinnamon
buns. She kept a package in the fridge for when Boone stopped by.
It was his favorite.

Her eyes flicked over the assorted
read-to-bake pastry. “Humph,” she muttered. “Too busy, huh? Fine.
Whatever.”

She passed over cinnamon for an orange swirl
variety and wheeled away before she changed her mind.

CHAPTER THREE

Bridget opened the large oak and
beveled-glass door and entered the town’s bookstore. Once owned by
the same family for more than one hundred years, the bookstore
recently changed hands. The former owners, the Sullivans, now lived
in Florida not too far from Bridget’s mother.

Bridget didn’t know the new owners, Erica
Moore or Robert Hall, well.

Erica was older by several years and from a
different part of town. She always kept to herself, although
Bridget recalled there had been talk about Erica when the high
school girl became pregnant. Bridget had been in middle school when
Erica graduated, the baby bump prominent under her commencement
gown. Small-town girls didn’t become unmarried teen moms often, and
Erica became the object of gossip.

As a young girl, Bridget never understood the
viciousness the older teens showed Erica. She seemed like a nice
person and her little blonde daughter, Daisy, was adorable. She
knew it must have been difficult for Erica to graduate from high
school, attend college, work and save money to open her own
business. And the mean girls who’d shunned Erica in school, now
shopped at the bookstore and tried to chat with her as if they’d
always been friends.

Robert Hall, an attorney in town, was the
same age as Erica. Sophisticated, intelligent and superstar
handsome, Robert hovered above the other residents of Eaton.
Although he worked as an attorney, his quiet indifference and raw
sensuality made him unapproachable. He bestowed his attention on
Erica, and his sister, Katrina Hall, another person whose beauty
and intellect intimidated people.

The rumor was, Robert preferred dating models
and spent his free time in New York City. Bridget, like many others
in the area, wondered why he stayed in Eaton when he could move his
law practice and hobnob with the rich and famous. She supposed he
stayed to be close to his sister and his father, a quiet widower
who lived alone.

A Philippine sculptor, Manolo Hall married a
young American woman serving at the Subic Bay Naval Station. Happy
and in love, they lived with their two beautiful babies until
Judith became ill, and Manolo returned with her to her hometown of
Eaton. A tragic story, Manolo’s young children lost their mother to
cancer.

Then, in June 1991, Mount Pinatubo exploded
and day turned to night when the volcanic ash blotted the sun.
Earthquakes, coupled with the torrential rain, lightning and
thunder of Typhoon Yunya went down in history as Black Saturday.
Their home in Subic Bay lay buried under a foot of sandy ash.

At the time, Judith’s parents were still
living. Manolo decided to stay, giving his children the opportunity
to know their grandparents. The Rhodes helped the young immigrant
during his struggles as a single parent, and grew to love his
quiet, gentle ways.

When they, too, passed away, they left their
property and modest wealth to the Halls. Manolo used the
inheritance to ensure his children received a college education,
and whatever remained he put into a trust for Robert and Katrina to
buy their own homes.

Manolo rejected the offers to live with
either child, choosing instead to build a small house near
Breakthrough Lake. More a studio than home, the bright, airy
location served as a backdrop for his work. Hikers who ranged close
to the property often encountered his cast-iron sculptures, melded
with the natural setting.

Katrina decided to cash in her trust and used
it to buy the family’s house from her brother. Then, they both
settled into the large, Tudor-styled structure, with Robert paying
Katrina rent. She worked for the local newspaper and gained a
reputation for being brilliant and ruthless when pursuing a story.
She enjoyed her beat, covering local crime stories.

Robert purchased a building in Eaton’s
downtown area, where he operated his law office. The property
overlooked the river, and he leased the open floor space for trendy
lofts. He could have lived there, also, but he preferred the quiet
neighborhood of the family home. Besides, he didn’t want to leave
Katrina alone.

A natural businessman, Robert’s investments
always turned a profit. He used his extra income to help his
friends begin their own businesses, and helped Katrina redecorate
the old Colonial home.

People were not surprised when Robert Hall
and Erica Moore opened East of Eaton and the shop became an instant
hit. The remodeled shop dazzled visitors with its spacious,
tasteful decor and its extensive inventory. No longer cramped, dark
and smelly, the store became a destination. It boasted a trendy
cafe, a stage for open-mic nights and musical acts, and a
children’s area where younger visitors could read, play or watch
movies in safety while parents shopped.

The store’s name, a clever play on the book
“East of Eden” by John Steinbeck, revealed its owners’ humorous
side. They dubbed the reading area with comfortable couches and
large club chairs “The Land of Nod” since many customers napped
there, magazines and books stretched across their chests or nestled
in their naps.

Perhaps the shop’s name and Nod were a bit
irreverent, but it didn’t hurt business. Bibles were the top
seller, and adorned the end of several aisles. It made it easier
for staff to explain the Genesis reference and the books flew off
the shelves.