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“Oh, Dad,” Marianne said, her shoulders slumping. “Don’t make this into some kind of sad, star-crossed lover thing, okay? This isn’t Romeo and Juliet for God’s sake. Remember, we’re talking about Helene here. Helen of Joy.” She cast him a sorrowful glance and then, shaking her head, headed out the door, whispering “Jesus” under her breath.
Montoya escorted them out and Bentz headed back to his office. He’d just sat down when Kristi appeared in the doorway. “Hey,” she said, “you got a sec?”
“For you?” He rolled back his chair, smiled up at her, and winked. “Never.”
She actually grinned as he waved her into one of the side chairs wedged between the two facing desks and the wall. “What brings you down here?”
“I thought I could buy you lunch.”
That was odd. He felt his eyebrow shoot upward. The grin had disappeared and she looked suddenly tired.
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s do it.” He was already on his feet and grabbing his jacket. Once in the hallway, he ran into Montoya, filled him in, and then walked out of the building and three blocks to a little bistro where, at two in the afternoon, they were still serving lunch.
They took a table outside, in an enclosed patio where palm trees in huge pots offered shade and lights had been strung overhead, for the evening crowd. Now the sun was out, bright enough that they each wore sunglasses as they ordered. Bentz decided on a hamburger basket, she a plate of deep-fried prawns, fries, and a salad. A waitress brought them each a sweet tea after they were ordered.
As they were waiting to be served, Kristi seemed to gather herself. “I have something to tell you.”
His gut tightened as he braced himself. He expected her to explain that she’d gotten herself into some kind of trouble again, or that she was falling apart because she’d been suddenly thrust into being a widow, or that she was deathly sick—cancer or something.
She shoved her sunglasses onto the top of her head and her eyes were shimmering with tears. But she was smiling and took his hand. “I wanted us to be alone when I told you.”
“Told me what?” He was still worried.
“That you’re going to be a grandpa,” she said, and for a second he didn’t know what to say.
Then, still stunned, he said, “But—”
“In the spring. A baby is coming.” Tears spilled from her eyes to run down her cheeks. “Jay—Jay didn’t know.”
“Oh, honey.” Springing from his chair, he nearly knocked over the table as he reached her and, bending down, gathered her in his arms. “Oh . . . oh, Kristi. A baby?” And he felt his own eyes becoming hot and wet. Was she serious?
She was nodding. “Yeah. I didn’t know it, but—” She sniffed loudly and laughed. “I’m gonna be a mom.”
He gave her a squeeze and tried to process it all. A child? His daughter was going to be a mother? As well as a widow. He finally released her as she blinked and wiped her eyes with one of the napkins on the table.
“I know . . . weird, huh?” Then she added. “Well, what isn’t these days?”
“Are you okay? Happy?”
“Yeah.” She nodded rapidly. “Oh, yeah!” Then she said, “Are you?”
“Of course.” He grinned widely and settled back in his chair, then dabbed at his own wet eyes. “It’s unexpected. A shock, I guess. But yeah. Wow. A baby.” The waitress came then, bringing their meals, interrupting further conversation, and Bentz didn’t admit what he really felt, that he was worried sick, even more so now that he knew about the baby. The phraseNow you’re vulnerableentered his thoughts, but he had the good sense not to mention it. She knew. It was written all over her face, and though he wanted to caution her, to come up with all kinds of paternal wisdom, for once he held his tongue. This wasn’t the time.
Instead he hoisted his glass of sweet tea up and encouraged her to do the same. They clinked rims. “To the baby, and ever-growing family.”
“To the baby,” she said, and for the first time since Jay’s brutal death, Bentz saw his daughter smile, her eyes shining with hope along with her tears. His heart squeezed with new fears for the as yet unborn child. “But,” he added as he picked up his hamburger, “just so you know, I’m much too young to be a grandfather. Much too young.”
* * *
Walking to his car in the late afternoon sun, Montoya punched in the number of Detective Wyatt Strange of the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and waited. He’d already checked the guy out, found out he was legit, and decided he had no choice but to return the call.
Strange picked up on the third ring. “Detective Wyatt Strange.”
“Detective Reuben Montoya, New Orleans Police Department. I’m returning your call.”
“Oh, yeah . . . Montoya.” The guy had a west Texas accent that didn’t sound anything like Oregon. “Hey, we’re lookin’ for Cruz Montoya, and found out he was related to you.”
“That’s right. Why are you looking for Cruz?”
