The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club Read online

  The bells over the door jingled again. A group of folks dressed in church clothes filed in for the breakfast special before Sunday School.

  “Gotta go.” Jake slid out of the booth to take care of his customers.

  “Me too.” Daniel put his hat back on, and when he looked down at her, one side of his mouth lifted. She would have given her last penny for the thought behind that half smile. “It’s good to see you, Lacy. Welcome home.”

  His lips parted as if he was about to say something else, but then he turned and walked away. Still looked pretty incredible doing it, too, but Lacy didn’t need to ask that other question anymore.

  She’d seen the ring on his left hand.

  Chapter 2

  Once a marine, always a marine. I was born to kick butt and take names, sir. I’ll just have a little more titanium in my kick from now on.

  —Jacob Tyler to his commanding officer, after coming out of surgery for the injury he received in Afghanistan

  Back in Boston, the streets had been rimed with crusts of dirty snow, the remnants of a late-season nor’easter. Lacy had chased warmer weather half the way across the country and arrived in Coldwater Cove in time for full-blown spring. Crocuses and daffodils pushed through the red clay soil and forsythias erupted in a yellow riot on every block.

  In her parents’ yard, the War of Squirrel Insurgency began afresh.

  Lacy had never actually seen the squirrels in action, but her dad was convinced they broke off twigs from his oak trees and threw them down into the yard for pure cussedness. Of course, it didn’t help matters that her parents’ neighbor, Mr. Mayhew, put out bird feeders that had the (hopefully) unintended effect of enticing even more squirrels to the Evanses’ yard. According to Lacy’s dad, the feeders were supply depots for the enemy. As she pulled up, the first casualties of this year’s opening salvo littered the grass.

  Dad was out front, gathering fallen twigs from under the ponderous oaks. Fergus, his little Yorkie, nosed around the trunks, always alert for the stray “rat with a fluffy tail.” Her dad had been warned not to break out his shotgun in town anymore, so Fergus was all the firepower he could muster against the furry foes.

  Still, the battle must be enjoined each spring.

  Again, Lacy was glad some things didn’t change, however ridiculous they might be.

  She was barely out of the car before her dad had her in a solid hug. Sometimes, her parents’ affection was like being smothered by a blanket of molasses, too sweet to resist and too sticky to escape. But now Lacy sank into her dad’s loving acceptance with gratitude, blinking away tears.

  She was the baby of the family. On a scale measuring good behavior, Lacy fell somewhere in the lower middle between her perfect sister, Crystal, and her black sheep brother, Mike. It had been tough going through school with teachers expecting her to either be as brilliant and good as her sister or as wild and irresponsible as her brother. Lacy was never given the benefit of a totally clean slate either way.

  When her dad patted her back, the years sloughed off, as she’d feared they would, and she was reduced to childlike dependence again. Amazingly enough, that wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. For a few moments, she allowed herself the fantasy that she had ever been that innocent. Then she pulled away.

  She was back in Coldwater Cove because she hadn’t been careful, because she hadn’t been professional. Because she wasn’t . . . good enough to cut it in the big city.

  “Lacy-girl, we weren’t expecting you till this afternoon.” Dad’s resonant voice echoed off the stand of trees. If he’d been a trial lawyer instead of a tax and estate planning attorney, he’d have been a terror in the courtroom. His James Earl Jones–like tone would carry every argument. As it was, every self-respecting squirrel within earshot ought to have been shaking in its little rodent boots. “You must have driven all night.”

  “The car seemed to know the way and I didn’t feel like stopping.” Lacy had a fear of bedbugs, so hotels held zero charm for her, even if she could have afforded a higher-priced room, which she couldn’t. And besides, once she was horizontal, it was anyone’s guess whether she’d sleep. Bradford’s face had a nasty habit of hovering at the edges of her vision just as she started to drop off.

  “How’s the Volvo running?”

  Gas mileage and odd knocking sounds in her motor were topics of intense interest to her dad. To Lacy, they had the charm of being safe to discuss, so she gave him the latest report. That way, she didn’t have to revisit the reason she’d run home like a scalded dog. Besides, if Dad wanted more details, he’d be sure to ask.

  “Coffee’s on.” Dad unloaded her suitcase from the trunk and led the way into the house.

  The home Lacy grew up in had been built in the 1920s. It was a lovely two-story Colonial with decorative dentils under the eaves, a carved wooden pineapple on the newel post at the foot of the stairs, wainscoting in the dining room, and crown molding throughout.

  Really good bones.

  Unfortunately, it was filled to the rafters with stuff. Not quite at hoarder levels yet, but every room in the place was crammed with furniture of various vintages ringing the walls. It would be hard to find space on those walls for even one more eight-by-ten photo. Occasional tables jutted into the hallways and every horizontal surface was covered with bric-a-brac, collectibles, and doodads.

  Mom never met a garage sale she didn’t like.

  Lacy followed her dad into the kitchen and perched on one of the bar stools at the island. He poured her a cup of vile, dark liquid and, like a good penitent, she drank.

  Her dad’s coffee was a cross between Starbucks on steroids and about six Red Bulls. Even though she’d been driving for thirty-some hours, the cobwebs in her brain began to dissolve.

  Dad took a sip and made a face. “Well, that’ll make a grown man tremble. Brewed it a might stout today, even for me. Let’s sweeten it a bit.” He took down a bottle of Bailey’s from the top shelf and liberally dosed both their mugs. The creamy liquor emitted pleasantly alcoholic fumes. “Don’t tell your mother.”

  Dad was of the opinion that the apostle Paul’s admonition to Timothy to “take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake” extended to distilled spirits as well. Mom was a more literal theologian. They argued the point on a regular basis, but without a definitive winner.

  Lacy was the pragmatist of the family. Anything that made her dad’s coffee drinkable was aces in her book.

  “So how did you leave things back east?” he asked.

  “I sold everything. The matter is settled to the DA’s satisfaction.” At least, she hoped it was.

  “Did you have to take on some serious debt, daughter?”

  What? Did he have some sort of weird dad-radar that pegged out when one of his kids got in over her head? She wasn’t about to tell him that as part of the deal that kept her from being indicted along with the absent Bradford, the district attorney had required her to liquidate all she owned to make reparations. When that wasn’t enough, she had taken out a huge loan for the rest with no idea how she’d pay it back.

  “I’m OK, Dad,” she said, more to convince herself than him. She’d had no choice really. It was accept the loan that almost miraculously became available from the O’Leary brothers or face jail time.

  Lacy had lost everything. It made her chest ache every time she realized afresh that her trendy design studio was gone. In this economy, she wasn’t the only one whose business had gone south, but her misfortune was the result of bad judgment rather than bad luck.

  She really blew it when she took on Bradford as her business partner. As an Endicott, he was so well connected, so old money. Lacy figured he’d be able to bring in seriously well-heeled clients with discerning tastes. She’d counted on the patina of his Boston Brahmin status to cover the fact that she was from the sticks. As it turned out, it didn’t seem to matter where she’d grown up. Once she’d completed a few projects, her designs were what brought in the work. Then “old money Brad” h
ad used her to make off with a boatload of new money.

  She was such a rotten judge of character. Maybe she deserved to lose everything. Lacy was grateful when her dad interrupted her increasingly depressing thoughts.

  “What did they ever find out about that Endicott fellow?”

  “The case is still open, but the trail is pretty cold. He made it to Belize, but the authorities there show no signs of wanting to return him.”

  At least, not until he spends all the money he wired to an account down there.

  “Well, I was wondering if somehow the Irish mob was behind it. You know, putting your partner up to the scam.” Lacy’s dad had retired from a legal practice consisting mostly of drawing up wills and settling disputes over water rights. But in his heart, he was a big fan of true crime. He could rattle off the names of mob bosses as easily as some men spout baseball stats. She suspected he’d always wanted to work with an Eliot Ness type who spent his life putting away bad guys. “The police don’t think you’re in danger, do they?”

  “If someone was angry enough to come after me, they’d have done it before now.”

  At least, that’s what she wanted her dad to believe. She’d repaid her clients and suppliers. But if she missed a loan payment, someone might well come. The O’Leary brothers weren’t the sort who accepted payment by check. She’d already arranged to wire funds monthly to her friend Shannon, who would leave the cash in an unmarked envelop at a certain bar in the North End. By borrowing from the O’Learys, Lacy probably had made a deal with an arm of the Irish mob, but what else could she do? She couldn’t exactly waltz into a Bank of America and get an unsecured loan to cover a debt of this size.

  She didn’t think there was a connection between the mob and Bradford. Other than greed and the chance to lie beside Ramona on a tropical beach, she didn’t know why he’d betrayed her.

  Her father gave her a sidelong look. It was the same face he’d made when he caught her sneaking out of the house after curfew when she was fifteen. The expression was a mixture of skepticism over her excuses and frustration that he hadn’t raised her better. The “look” hurt worse than a whipping.

  Of course, Lacy had never had a whipping, but she imagined the “look” was still worse. It made her insides ache instead of her backside.

  “Well, whatever’s happened, you’re always welcome here. You know that,” her dad said with a shrug. “Your mother’s been doing up the spare room and trying to empty a couple of drawers for you.”

  There was no question of getting a whole closet for her things. Even the one in the guest room was as full of her mom’s “treasures” as the rest of the house. Her dad tipped back his mug, drained it, and poured himself another. Lacy marveled at his capacity for self-inflicted caffeine-buzz.

  “You just stay as long as you like,” he said.

  “About that.” Besides needing her space, and a chance not to feel twelve all the time, if anyone from Boston did come looking for her, she didn’t want to lead them to her parents. “I’ll be getting my own place right away.”

  “I understand, though your mother may not. She’s been in a tizzy since you called to let us know you were coming. You can probably find something decent to rent in the Gazette.” He pointed to the local paper, folded neatly on the counter. “No trailers, though. Promise me, Lacy. I won’t have any kid of mine in one of those death traps.”

  “I promise.” Growing up in Tornado Alley had instilled a healthy respect for solid walls and cinder-block basements.

  Suddenly from the second floor, Fergus launched into a barking frenzy. The Yorkie bounced down the stairs ahead of Lacy’s mom, like a furry little herald announcing to all and sundry, “The Queen is awake!”

  Awash in a cloud of Estée Lauder, Mom gave her a big hug and kissed both her cheeks with resounding smacks. Then she palmed Lacy’s face and eyed her critically.

  “You’ve let your bangs grow too long, sweetheart,” she said. “But never mind. We can fix it. You should see the cute new haircut Crystal got yesterday. Your sister looks like something out of Vogue.”

  “When did she not?” Lacy muttered.

  “Come on. I’ll crank up the curling iron and we can catch up while it heats.”

  Her mom had never given up the delusion that with enough primping, Lacy could be remade into the likeness of a country western star. She’d tried to tell her mother more than once that big hair was dead, even in Nashville, but she let herself be dragged up the stairs anyway.

  Sometimes, resistance really is futile.

  * * *

  By 10:30, the church-folk breakfast rush petered out. They’d be back for bacon burgers and onion rings or the fried catfish Green Plate special once the last “hallelujah” was sung. The only customers left in the Green Apple Grill were members of a slightly pagan drum circle who met there for coffee and icebox rolls with religious regularity. While the rest of the town celebrated the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, those old hippies were more likely to lift their spirits with a little weed they brought back from Colorado.

  “Rocky Mountain high,” Jake muttered. Then he asked Ethel, his decidedly long-in-the-tooth waitress, to refill the drum circle’s mugs.

  “Maybe I can sweet-talk them into that leftover coffee cake, too,” Ethel said as she bustled off.

  Ethel was a blue-haired wonder. She was old enough to collect both Social Security and her deceased husband’s pension, so she didn’t need the money she made at the grill. However, she did need the company and she liked working at the Green Apple. Even if her service was a little slow, most folks enjoyed being waited on by a grandmotherly sort who called them “honey,” “sugar,” or “darlin’.”

  At first, Jake thought it was because Ethel had forgotten their names, but she never forgot an order and didn’t use a notepad to jot them down either. Once the meal was over, she convinced diners that because they’d cleaned their plates, they deserved blackberry cobbler with homemade walnut ice cream.

  No doubt about it, Ethel was good for business.

  Jacob gathered up the garbage and headed for the Dumpster in the alley. He shifted the bag onto the shoulder over his good leg. Too much weight on the wrong side and his stump would ache like the devil later that night. Sometimes it felt as if his absent toes were cramping and he couldn’t massage them into submission. Then, too, even if everyone else “deserved” their piece of cobbler, Jake had to exercise and watch his weight lest an extra pound or two change how his prosthetic leg fit.

  But he was dealing.

  What he wasn’t dealing with was the way folk treated him since he came back from his stint with the Marines. Oh, he was welcomed home and hailed a hero, right enough, but he’d never get used to those sidelong stares. The slight shake of the head when they glanced at his leg. Or the way a conversation would dry up as he approached—a sure sign he’d been the topic of gossip.

  Or, most especially, the way women reacted to him.

  Not that he was conceited or anything, but Jake knew he had a way with the ladies from the time he sprouted his first chin hair. He couldn’t help it. He loved them and they loved him back.

  Of course, he didn’t love any of them very long.

  Now they wanted to take care of him, like he was some pathetic invalid.

  Except for Lacy Evans. She seemed to take his new leg as nothing particularly tragic, just something that had happened. She’d expressed as much sympathy as he could bear, which wasn’t much, and moved the conversation on to greener pastures. He was the same guy. She was the same girl. They’d known each other since they were in kindergarten. Even back then, she’d caught his eye by showing off her underpants while she flipped around on the playground twirly-bars.

  He slung the garbage up and into the Dumpster, where it landed with a dull thud, followed by the sound of a shattering pickle jar. Jake was instantly hyper-aware of his surroundings. The hair on the back of his neck rose to attention. He could have counted a gnat’s eyelashes.

  The j
angle of the smashed jar seemed as loud as an explosion. The sound went on and on. It shivered down his spine and sent him back to his unit. He expected bits of glass to come flying out of the Dumpster. The real world phased out around him for a few heartbeats. Light flashed, blinding him, as the windows blew out of the Humvee. Blood trickled down his cheek.

  Then his vision seemed to return. Barren hills with vibrant poppy fields in the hollows burst on his sight. Sandy grit filled every crevice and made his eyes sting. Fire shot up his leg. His buddy’s scream was an ice pick in his ear. Everything was awash in angry red. He couldn’t tell if it was poppies or blood.

  A hoarse cry tore from Jake’s throat.

  “Hey, man, you trippin’?”

  Rough hands seized his shoulders. They gave him a shake and the world turned round to its right colors again. Breathing hard, Jake found himself looking into the weatherworn face of Lester, Coldwater Cove’s resident homeless vet.

  Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Lester didn’t live in the town year-round. The former army grunt liked to winter in Brownsville, but he complained that summers in Texas were “hotter than hell.” He was in no hurry for a preview of what he considered his final destination. So Lester always thumbed his way back to Coldwater Cove’s green hills by the time the first azaleas were ready to bloom.

  “No, I’m not tripping. I’m OK,” Jake said, though his heart still pounded like a jackhammer. If someone had to catch him in a flashback, he was grateful it was Lester. Anyone else would go all frantic on his butt and demand he seek immediate help from a VA shrink.

  Like I could get an appointment with one anytime this decade. Anyway, Jacob didn’t want anybody poking around in his head. It got crowded enough in there with just him.

  Then he noticed a pile of greasy-looking army blankets. Lester had made a pallet for himself by the Dumpster. “Look, you don’t have to stay here in the alley. Samaritan House always has a few beds.”