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“Hate’s a strong word,” Clint said. “He just wouldn’t be my first choice to become my replacement.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t trust Doug Knowles, but the guy he was training to take over his job seemed too green, too eager, too damned hungry, to give each job its proper attention. There was something a little secretive about him as well, and Clint had a suspicion that Doug would take the easy way out, maybe let some of the little details slide on a job. “On second thought, I’ll handle the Stewart project.”
“Figured,” she said, her red lips twisting a bit. “Oh, and wait!” She hurried out of the room and returned a few seconds later with a candy dish that she set on the corner of his desk. “Halloween candy for your clients with sweet tooths, er, teeth.”
“I don’t need these.”
“Of course you do. It’s that time of year. Don’t be such a Grinch.”
“I believe he’s associated with Christmas.”
“Or whatever holiday you want. In this case, Halloween.” She unwrapped a tiny Three Musketeers bar and plopped it onto her tongue.
“Okay, so I’m a Grinch. Don’t hate me.”
Laughing, she gave him a wink as she turned and headed through the door to the reception area of the building that housed all the city offices. Built in the middle of the last century, the structure was constructed of glass and narrow, blond bricks; it had a flat roof and half a dozen offices opening into the central reception area. The ceilings were low, of “soundproof” tile, the lights fluorescent, the floors covered in a linoleum that had been popular during the 1960s. Now, it was showing decades of wear. “Just take a look.” Rhea clipped away on high heels as a phone started jangling. She leaned over her desk and snagged the receiver before the second ring. She did it on purpose, he suspected, knowing he was still watching her as she gave him a quick glimpse of the skirt tightening over her hips.
“Stewart’s Crossing City Hall,” she answered sweetly. “This is Rhea Hernandez.”
She had a nice butt, he’d give her that, but he wasn’t interested.
Attractive and smart, Rhea had been married and divorced three times, and was looking for husband number four at the ripe old age of forty-two.
It wasn’t going to be Clint, and he suspected she knew it. Rhea’s flirting was more out of habit than sincerity.
“. . . I’m sorry, the mayor isn’t in. Can I take a message, or, if you’d like, you can e-mail her directly,” Rhea was saying as she stretched the cord around the desk and took her seat, disappearing from view. He heard her start rattling off Mayor Leslie Imholt’s e-mail address.
Clint picked up the stack of papers she’d dropped into his in-box. Plans for the complete renovation of Blue Peacock Manor, the historic home set on property that backed up to his own ranch, was the first request. No surprise there, as he’d heard Sarah was returning to do a complete renovation of the Stewart family home. The preliminary drawings were already with the city engineer for approval; these had to be renovations to the original plans. A helluva job, that, he knew, and to think that Sarah was taking it on and returning to a place she’d wanted so desperately to leave. He eyed the specs and noted that he needed to see what work had already been accomplished on the smaller residence on the property—the guesthouse, as the Stewart family had called it.
Until the mayor had hired Doug Knowles, Clint had been the only inspector in this part of the county and had checked all the work himself. Now he could hand jobs off to Doug if he wanted. Clint had already decided that was generally a bad idea. It certainly would be in this case, he thought.
But if he took on Blue Peacock Manor, no doubt he would see Sarah again.
Frowning, he grabbed one of the damned bits of candy, and unwrapping a tiny Kit-Kat bar, leaned back in his chair. He and Sarah hadn’t seen each other for years, and if he were honest with himself, he knew that their split hadn’t been on the best of terms. He tossed the candy into his mouth, then wadded up the wrapper and threw it at the waste can.
High school romance, he thought. So intense, but in the larger scheme of things, so meaningless, really.
Why, then, did the memory of it seem as fresh now as it had half a lifetime ago?
His desk phone jangled, and he reached for it willingly, pushing thoughts of Sarah Stewart and their ill-fated romance to the far, far corners of his mind.
Chapter 2
“That’s it. I’m outta here,” Rosalie Jamison said as she stripped off her apron and tossed it into a bin with the other soiled towels, aprons, jackets, and rags that would be cleaned overnight, ready for the morning shift at the three-star diner. She slipped her work shoes onto a shelf and laced up her Nikes, new and reflective, for the walk home. “I’ll see you all later.”
Located a few blocks from the river, the restaurant had been dubbed the Columbia Diner about a million years ago by some hick with no imagination. It was located at one end of the truck stop about a half mile out of Stewart’s Crossing. Rosalie had spent the past six months here, waiting tables for the regulars and the customers just passing through. She hated the hours and the smell of grease and spices that clung to her until she spent at least twenty minutes under the shower, but it was a job, one of the few in this useless backwoods town.
For now it would do, until she had enough money saved so she could leave Stewart’s Crossing for good. She couldn’t wait.
“Wait!” Gloria, a woman who was in her fifties and perpetually smelled of cigarettes, caught up with Rosalie before she got out the door where she stuffed a few dollars and some change into Rosalie’s hand. “Never forget your share of the tips,” she said with a wink, then continued, “They keep me in all my diamonds and furs.”
“Yeah, right.” Rosalie had to smile. Gloria was cool, even if she continually talked about how long it would be before she collected Medicare and Social Security and all that boring stuff. A frustrated hairdresser, she changed her hair color, cut, or style every month or so and had taken Rosalie under her wing when a couple of boys, classmates from high school, had come in and started to hassle her with obscene comments and gestures. Gloria had refused to serve them and sent them out the door with their tails between their legs. The whole scene had only made things ugly at school, but Rosalie had solved that by cutting classes or ditching out completely.
“If you wait a half hour, I’ll give you a ride home,” Gloria said, sliding a fresh cigarette from her pack as she peered outside and into the darkness. “I just have to clean up a bit.”
Rosalie hesitated. It would take her at least twenty minutes to walk home on the service road that ran parallel to the interstate, but Gloria’s half hours usually stretched into an hour or two, and Rosalie just wanted to go home, sneak up the stairs, flop on her bed, and catch an episode of Big Brother or Keeping Up with the Kardashians or whatever else she could find on her crappy little TV. Besides, Gloria always lit up the second she was behind the wheel, and it was too cold to roll down the windows of her old Dodge. “I’d better get going. Thanks.”
Gloria frowned. “I don’t like you walking home alone in the dark.”
“It’s just for a little while longer,” Rosalie reminded her, holding up her tips before stuffing the cash into the pocket of her jacket, which she’d retrieved from a peg near the open back door. “I’m gonna buy my uncle’s Toyota. He’s saving it for me. I just need another three hundred.”
