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She had been dreading this. She wanted to see him, but was reluctant to do so.
“You were supposed to call me two weeks ago,” he said.
“Jackson, I’m sorry. Look, let me lay my cards on the table. I feel that I’m under the gun here. The city council has already told me they’d prefer to have somebody else in this job, and I don’t want to give them anything to use against me. I think they might frown on a police officer seeing somebody who’s on the opposite side in the courtroom.”
“Do you really think that’s a legitimate concern?”
“No, but it’s a concern.”
“Let me ask you straight out, Holly: do you have any interest in me?”
“Yes, I do,” she said without hesitation. “But I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t think we should be seen together in restaurants and at the movies, not until I’ve got my feet firmly on the ground here and have more political support.”
“That’s prudent, and I understand completely.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” she said.
“I think the solution to our problem is not to appear together in public.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“I think the immediate solution is for me to cook you dinner at my house tonight.”
She laughed. “Well, I guess that’s not too public. Can I bring Daisy?”
“Do you go anywhere without that dog?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Here’s what you do: When you leave your trailer park, turn right and drive three point three miles south—I measured it—then turn left into a dirt driveway. There’s no sign, not even a mailbox. Follow that road to its end, and you’re there. Seven o’clock?”
“Okay, you’re on.” She hung up and sighed. Her resolve had vanished at the first opportunity.
Holly missed the driveway and had to turn around and hunt for it. It was no wonder: the narrow dirt road was nearly overgrown on both sides, and branches scraped against her car as she drove. Daisy was sniffing the air.
“Smell the ocean, Daisy? It’s got to be down here somewhere.” It was. By the time she came to the house, she could hear the surf. The house appeared to be fairly old and was neatly painted white, with green hurricane shutters. Jackson Oxenhandler was standing on the porch, waiting for her.
“You’re fashionably late,” he called as she got out of her car, walked up the stairs and presented her lips for a light kiss.
“My mother brought me up not to appear too eager,” Holly replied. “What
a nice place.”
“Come on inside,” Jackson said. He led her into a large room that seemed to cover most of the first floor, along with a kitchen, separated from the living room by only a counter.
“Wait a minute,” she said, stopping and looking around her. “How does a public defender who wears unpressed suits and drives a fifteen-year-old car afford a place like this in Orchid, and right on the beach?”
“You’re a suspicious person,” Jackson said.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Well, I’m only occasionally a public defender. A decent litigator gets paid fairly well in Orchid, and occasionally I get a plum. This place was a plum. Come have a look out front.” He led her out onto a broad front porch overlooking dunes that led down to the sea, less than a hundred yards away.
“This is just perfect,” she said. “Tell me about the plum.”
“I defended a rather well-off citrus grower who was stopped by the cops for speeding, and who turned out to have twenty kilos of cocaine in his trunk, which came as something of a surprise to him.”
“Did you get him off?”
