Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (14 page)

N
ick rubbed his hand over his day-old beard and stared at the blinking cursor. Spending most of the night listening to Scott’s drunken ramblings did not make for fresh writing. It didn’t help that he kept seeing Taylor’s face and remembering they had a lunch date.

He’d debated cancelling the date. What if Scott woke up and took off again? Nick didn’t think he would, given the way his brother kept thanking Nick for coming after him and for letting him come home. If he woke, which Nick doubted since Scott didn’t go to sleep until four, more than likely he would go back to sleep—it would take more than a few hours for the alcohol to wear off . . . long enough to meet Taylor.

And that made for a whole new set of problems. Like having to tell her about the poem today—before someone else did. If only he could’ve gotten information from Scott last night. But his brother had been too drunk. Once Taylor found out Scott was here, she’d want to talk to him. That would be fine, except Nick had counted on talking to his brother first.

He padded down the hallway to Scott’s old room and looked in. He hadn’t moved since Nick got him to bed. In sleep, Scott looked so much younger than nineteen. Innocent too.

How did they get to this point? Scott accused of stalking,
maybe involved in a murder? Wrong choices, for sure, and not all of them Scott’s. Nick should have listened to Angie when Scott first rebelled. She’d told him to fight the important battles and let the others slide instead of nit-picking his brother to death. No, he’d chosen battles like Scott’s long hair and not attending church with them. By the time Nick had realized his mistake, his brother was gone.

Nick flexed his shoulders, trying to loosen tight muscles caused from too little sleep and too much time at the computer. He rummaged through Scott’s sack of clothes, trying to find something other than black, then gathered the grungy jeans and shirt he’d peeled off his brother when they’d arrived home. Holding them at arm’s length, Nick took them to the washer, turned the water on, and dropped them in.

He checked his watch. An hour and a half before he met Taylor for lunch. He wanted to check out the sound system at the restaurant for the Friday night crowd, but there was time enough for one last cup of coffee before he left.

In the kitchen, he eyed the nearly empty coffeepot. He didn’t remember drinking a whole pot of coffee. Nick poured the last dregs into his cup and set the pot in the sink. His gaze traveled to Angie’s cookbooks, settling on her favorite, and he took it to the table, where he reverently turned the pages. His heart caught at the sight of “Nick’s favorite rolls” scribbled in the margin.

He closed his eyes and imagined her writing the note. What they’d shared had been exceptional. So why couldn’t he remember her face sometimes? He closed his eyes and focused on her memory, recalling the curve of her cheek, the freckles splayed across her nose. No dagger to his heart today. Some days he couldn’t bring up a clear image of her features.

He’d loved his wife, still felt married. So how could he be so drawn to Taylor?

Maybe because it was time to move on, step out of the lonely half-life he’d created, and embrace life again. But how could he do
that when part of his heart died with Angie? Grieving had become familiar, almost comfortable.

Nick couldn’t deny his growing attraction to Taylor. Could he open himself up again to the kind of love he’d shared with Angie? What if something happened and Taylor died? After all, she was involved in a dangerous situation. Why couldn’t she simply be an uncomplicated college professor instead of living life on the edge?

He finished the bitter coffee and returned the cookbook to its place, then went to shave and get dressed. Before he left the house, he checked on Scott one last time. Judging from the sound of his snoring, his brother would probably sleep until Nick returned.

Traffic was always busy in Memphis, and today was no different. Nick pulled into the parking lot of the Blues Espresso at half past eleven, parked, and went inside.

“Hey, Nick!” Big Joe Tyson’s voice boomed across the café.

He turned and waved to the owner of the restaurant. The former linebacker for the Detroit Lions jerked his ebony head toward the pit area.

“You got your harp? Maybe jam a little?”

Nick patted his shirt pocket. “I don’t come to this place without it. Help me check out the sound system. Don’t want it messing up tomorrow night.”

Friday nights some of the regulars had started getting together and jamming. Big Joe on the guitar, a couple of ex-cops on the saxophone and drums, and Nick playing a mean harmonica, mostly as backup but occasionally solo. He flipped on the microphones and slipped into his regular spot beside Big Joe’s guitar. After a few riffs to warm up, he slid into “Walking by Myself.”

Someone wanted to kill her. Probably someone she knew. Taylor couldn’t get the thought out of her mind as she drove west on
Highway 72, crossing from Mississippi into Tennessee. The old pickup in front of her belched a plume of exhaust, and she slowed, changing lanes. She hoped Nick’s lead took her to Scott—even if he wasn’t the actual stalker, Scott might hold the key to his identity.

Her phone rang, and she glanced at the ID. Livy.

“Get my profile done?” Livy sounded hopeful.

“A preliminary one. Thought I would drop by your office after I have lunch with Nick Sinclair.”

“Ooh. Where are you meeting him?”

“Blues Espresso.”

“I love that place. Very romantic.”

Taylor could imagine Livy’s eyebrows doing a Groucho Marx. “We’re meeting to discuss his brother. How about we try for two o’clock again today?”

“Call me if you lose track of time.” Livy chuckled. “I know I would.”

“Not going to happen. See you then.”

Ten minutes later she swung off of I-240 onto Poplar. She found the café in a small shopping mall and spied Nick’s red convertible. After parking beside him, she stepped out of the Rav4, smoothing the wrinkles from her white capris, and glanced down at her strapless sandals. Taylor wiggled her hot-pink toes. Hot pink? What had possessed her? She always painted her toenails with a simple white coat.

“God has someone for you.”
Her mother’s words popped into Taylor’s mind, and she dismissed them. She wasn’t looking for anyone. Been there, done that. Had the broken heart to prove it. She squared her shoulders and hurried to the door but stopped long enough to check her makeup before she pushed it open.

Toe-tapping music stopped her. She scanned the eatery and found the source at the back of the café—Nick, blowing a harmonica, and a giant of a black man on guitar. She walked closer, drawn by the magic and the man with the mouth harp cupped in his hands.

If she had any sense, she’d fly back through that door and leave the music and memories behind, but it was as though her feet had grown roots, anchoring her to the floor. She closed her eyes as the notes wrapped around her and filled her soul. Soothed a dry ache . . .

When the music stopped, she opened her eyes and stared straight into Nick’s. His pleasure showed itself in the slow grin that started at his mouth and spread to his hazel eyes.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, his voice husky.

“I’m early.” The music played on in her head. “I didn’t realize you were so good.”

“You don’t know how good I can be.”

The wicked grin he shot her sent heat rising in her cheeks.

He tapped his harmonica in his hand and turned to the guitar player. “Good set, man. I think the microphones are fine. I want you to meet my friend, Taylor Martin. Taylor, Big Joe Tyson.”

Joe’s hand engulfed Taylor’s. “This is a good man,” he said, nodding toward Nick. “Don’t let anybody tell you any different.”

Taylor laughed. “That’s good to know.”

Nick took her by the arm and escorted her to a table by the window. “Is this okay?”

She nodded and took the seat he pulled out. “I love this atmosphere, but I thought all the blues places were on Beale Street.”

Nick waved his hand toward the pit. “This just sort of evolved. Do you know what you’re hungry for? The menu is on the wall, but I always recommend the shrimp po’boy.”

She was glad he suggested something because her mind hadn’t kicked in yet. “That sounds good. And sweet tea.”

Oh my word. Had she actually said sweet tea? How easy it was to slip into old habits.

Nick gave the college-age waiter their order, then turned to Taylor. “So, how do you like being home?”

“I liked it fine until that package arrived. I really need to talk to your brother. When are you going to tell me about this lead you have?”

A look she couldn’t decipher crossed his face.

“Let’s save business for after we eat.”

“But—”

He held up his finger. “How about for one hour we don’t talk about where Scott is, or that poem, or anything bad.”

Nick was good at slipping in and taking control. Which was fine—she could use an hour without thinking about the threats that hung over her like a guillotine poised to drop. She propped her elbows on the table and crossed her arms. “Okay. One hour.”

“Good. That’ll give you enough time to tell me about your family. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Her family? Was he just curious, or was it more? “There’s not that much to tell. You know about my mother—she was very pleased with the book, by the way. I do have a brother, and a niece, and an uncle. And that’s about it.”

“Your dad. Did he die?”

“No. Or at least, I don’t think he did.”

The waiter brought their tea, and she focused on the lemon wedge adorning the tall glass, avoiding the question in Nick’s eyes. She squeezed the lemon and dropped it into the tea before turning her attention back to Nick. The question remained. “Okay. He left for a business trip and didn’t come home.”

Nick sat back. “What happened to him?”

Taylor pressed her lips together and swallowed down the knot that jumped into her throat. “He just walked out of our lives. Your music brought back one of the good memories.” She worried a hangnail on her thumb. “Mostly I only have nightmares about him.”

“Are you certain something didn’t happen?”

“Memphis police investigated and concluded he abandoned the family.” Blood seeped from the hangnail, and Taylor dabbed a napkin against it. “I thought he loved us.”

“I know how you feel.”

“You couldn’t.”

“My mother left when I was five. Said she wanted to
find
herself
.
”

The grim set of his mouth . . . Yeah, maybe he did know how she felt.

“Can cause attachment issues,” he added.

“Don’t I know it.” Taylor spied Big Joe approaching their table. “Here’s our food.”

Joe set their plates in front of them with a flourish, then set a basket of fries in the middle of the table. “I hope you folks enjoy this.”

“Thank you, man,” Nick said. “You outdid yourself.”

The sandwich, framed by two dill pickle spears, looked delicious but messy. White capris may not have been the best choice. Using her knife, she cut the po’boy into bite-sized pieces, while Nick dug into his.

“This is good,” he said between bites.

Nodding her agreement, she picked up one of the pickles and bit into it, relishing the tangy-sour taste.

“Those attachment issues . . .” He tilted his head toward her. “Is that why you’re not married?”

Taylor almost bit her tongue. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed with you. And it’s really none of your business.”

His hazel eyes twinkled. “Maybe not, but a beautiful woman like you . . . I just wondered why some guy hadn’t snatched you up. Have you ever considered it? Getting married?”

“Again, none of your business.” He thought she was beautiful?

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I seem to have a knack for asking the wrong questions.”

He did that. She speared a shrimp that had escaped the bun as Michael’s image invaded her thoughts. She sighed. “I was engaged once. He married someone else. Can we drop it now?”

Nick dredged a fry through the ketchup and bit into it. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Attachment issues, fiancé abandons you, nightmares about your dad . . . ever considered all this is related?”