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“You never mentioned that, Gramma.” Mila went to lean against the porch post. When Sam started to rise to offer his chair, she shook her head.
Jessica lifted her chin and smiled smugly. “I do not tell you of all my interactions with lawmen. Or with men in general, for that fact. A grandmother’s got to have some secrets, don’t you agree, Chief?”
“If people didn’t keep secrets, I’d be out of a job.”
Jessica’s smile broadened at his words. Mila’s eyes darkened, and she stared down at the floor.
Sam had assumed Mila just wasn’t a social person until he’d met Jessica. Then he’d thought maybe, with a grandmother so friendly and larger-than-life, Mila had never had the chance to develop conversational skills. When Jessica was around, he doubted there were many moments for anyone else to jump in on a subject.
“None of my secrets are policeworthy, I’m afraid, are they, sweet girl?” Jessica went on. “More along the lines of that old bat living next door to me will never know that these baby blue eyes aren’t my natural color, and I will deny having a face-lift until the day I die. And if you forget to bury me in my Spanx and my five-inch red high heels, Mila, you’ll have to wear them for the rest of your unnatural life.”
Jessica’s accent was more Southern than the women in his family, but Sam could practically hear his aunts Loretta and Leah and Goldie in her. It was thanks to them that he even knew what Spanx was. The only good thing about acquiring the knowledge was they hadn’t tried to show him. Goldie would have—“They cover as much as my shorts do!” she’d protested when his mother made her stop.
Thank you, Jesus.
“If you’re not here, you’re going to have trouble making me wear those red torture devices.” Mila slid to the top step, her back against the post. “Besides, you’re not dying for a long while, Gramma.” There was a hitch in her voice, a little quaver, and a responding hitch to Jessica’s smile.
Instead of making a big deal about it, though, Jessica laughed. “I tell you, Mila, heaven’s not ready for me and hell can’t handle me, so I’m going to be around a good long time. Now…all three of us are sitting here in slightly less than pristine states, and I don’t know about y’all, but my stomach’s reminding me it’s about dinnertime, so here’s my suggestion. Let’s each of us go to our own homes, clean up and meet back here, and I will provide dinner. Does that work for you, Chief?”
“Sam.”
“Thank you. You can call me Jessica.” Sam hesitated. There wasn’t a single reason why he should have dinner with the Ramirez women…and more important, no reason why he shouldn’t. Yes, Mila was very loosely involved on the very periphery of a case, but it wasn’t even his case. He got invited to dinner by people in town more often than he really wanted just because he was chief, and if he could eat with the mayor and his wife—who was the most abysmal cook in the entire county—he could share a meal with Jessica and Mila. He could assure himself that Mila wasn’t just giving the right responses to his questions, that she really was doing okay or if she needed help to cope.
“I’m older than your mama, son. I don’t think the gossips will find anything to talk about,” Jessica said. “Just agree and give me a ride home so I can get back with the food.”
He looked at Mila, whose expression was somewhere between normal, resigned and panicked. Yeah, he would bet on his cop instincts that Jessica was looking for someone to share Mila’s life, even if Mila did seem perfectly happy with Poppy and no one else. But if she didn’t absolutely hate the idea…
She looked up, caught his gaze on her and gave the tiniest of shrugs. It wasn’t a glowing agreement—oh, sure, great, stay and have dinner with us—but it wasn’t a frantic please go away signal, either.
“Come on then, Jessica,” he said. “I’ll give you that ride.”
* * *
“What do you think they’ll talk about?” Mila watched the pickup drive away, Gramma leaning forward to wave, then closed the front door. Poppy watched her, posture alert, ready to spring this way or that, even drooling a bit in anticipation of a treat.
