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Stormy knew what the woman meant.
When her name was called, and she realized her case had been assigned to a woman, she sighed with relief.
Nonetheless, Mrs. Lowery, though in her late fifties, was not the grandmotherly sort. She was trim, tough, and thorough. After reviewing countless rules and regulations, she leaned back in her chair, giving Stormy fair warning. “Work with me, and I’ll work with you. If you don’t, I’ll recommend your parole be yanked. You know what that means?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stormy said, assuring the woman she understood.
“Good. How’s the job hunt going?”
“Not as well as I expected,” Stormy admitted.
“If you feel you need it, there’s a new program called Project Independence. I can recommend you for it.”
Stormy declined. “I’ll find something. I’m not destitute or homeless—yet.”
“Let me know when you start work. I’ll visit you on the job and have a word with your supervisor.”
Stormy blanched. “Is that necessary?”
The older woman’s expression was not unsympathetic. “I’m afraid so. You’re a convicted felon, Stormy. Your employers have a right to know that.” She gave Stormy her business card. “If you have any problems, call. Fair warning, though, don’t miss your appointments with me.”
Dismissed, Stormy fled the office, chafed. She was out of prison yet still in one.
The late-March sunfelt so good on Stormy’s face that she bypassed her parked car and walked across the old market square to the bay front.
St. Augustine was the oldest city in the United States. It was also a family town. During the day, the historic district was clogged with tourists, the beaches flowing with snowbirds from all points north. The locals ran the city, the shops, the museums, the tourist hot spots, filled the church pews every Sunday, and kept the city pulsating.
Tourists scuttled past on their way to hiring horse-drawn carriages, take a trolley tour, or to ride the sightseeing boat that toured Salt Run and Matanzas Bay.
Stormy found a vacant bench on the seawall near the Castillo de San Marcos. Old and young loved exploring the Fort. She made a mental note to include it as a play day with Liane. The public dock was cluttered with watercraft of every description, driven to safe harbor, perhaps, by the storm that had finally blown itself out to sea last night. Sailboats and sleek sloops, yachts, and catamarans were anchored serenely, with dinghies bobbing behind them to get sailors to and from shore. Flags raised on the Bridge of Lions waved in the soft breeze. Before her arrest, she had taken all of it for granted. From her favorite eatery to the old cemeteries, she missed them all.
Her gaze went back to the dock. For a moment, she entertained the thought of sailing to a faraway island and leaving her troubles behind. She’d grab up Liane—
“Coffee?” A large hand thrust a paper cup in her direction, interrupting her thoughts.
The coffee smelled wonderful, but she refused it, wondering how much her expression revealed. “Do you really mean to plague me day in and day out?”
“Yep.” Tyler Mangus sat beside her, put the unaccepted coffee on the bench between them, and took a sip of his own. “Nice view.”
“Goodbye,” she said and, in a fluid movement, was on her feet.
He grabbed her arm. “Hey! Hold it. A man’s life is at stake here.”
Stormy drew up short. “Whose?”
“Mine. If you don’t talk to me, I’ll die of a broken heart or get fired.” Waiting for her reply to his silly volley, he flashed her a bemused smile.
“That is too adolescent,” she told him. She tried to shake his hand loose, but he continued to hold her.
“Adolescent? How old do you think I am?”
“Listen, you don’t need me to feed your vanity. Turn me loose.”
“I’m forty-two—long past adolescence. However, I’m told I can pass for thirty-five.”
“For all I care, you could pass for dead. Turn me loose, or I’ll scream.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
