Page 42 of A Gathering of Secrets

Choking out a laugh, I elbow him. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”

He laughs. I love the sound of it. I want to stop this moment. Freeze it. Put it away. Save it for all of time, because both of us know how precious and rare this kind of happiness is.

“Chief?”

“Yup?”

“You’re not crying, are you?”

“Something in my eye.”

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You, too, evidently.”

He reaches for my hands and pulls me around so that we’re facing each other. The sound of the chicks fades to the background when I look into his eyes, and I know something is about to change. Something solid and good and forever.

“We haven’t talked about making this arrangement of ours … official,” he says.

“You mean getting married.”

“You’ve been skittish.”

When I don’t respond, he looks away, then back at me. “How do you feel about setting a date?”

It’s not easy to cry in front of Tomasetti. He’s been through so much. We both have. More than our share, probably. For me to break at a moment like this seems … ridiculous.

“Hopefully, those are happy tears, if there is such a thing.”

“There is.” I let go of his hand and swipe them away. “Sorry.”

“I kind of like it when women weep over me. It happens more often than you think. They just sort of line up and the floodgates open.…”

We’re facing each other. Hands clasped. I look down at the chicks, then back at him. “The Amish marry after harvest, usually in November or December. Maybe January.”

“It’s almost October.”

“I’m a practical woman. I thought we might … keep it simple.”

“One of about a thousand things I love about you, Chief Burkholder.”

“Only a thousand?”

“And counting.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer, and, side by side, we start toward the door.

CHAPTER 10

I arrive at the station a little before eight A.M. to find Mona, Lois, and Pickles in the midst of relocating the coffee station to the corner by the window. Lois dons the dispatch system headset while Mona and Pickles heave and ho the old desk to its new home.

“Morning, Chief.” Hands on her hips, Lois directs. “Move it to the right, guys. Six inches or so. It needs to be centered.”

“Your six inches is my ten,” Pickles grumbles.

Mona bursts out laughing. “Don’t even go there.”

“Well, it’s not centered,” Lois snaps, then looks at me. “We’re almost finished here, Chief.”

The coffee station is an old metal and laminate desk we inherited from a motel that closed back in the 1980s. It weighs close to a hundred pounds, and with Pickles being seventy-five years old, I question the wisdom of him moving it and I jump in to help.