Orchid Beach

CHAPTER

23

Holly set down the drinks, got the Beretta from her handbag and went and stood behind Jackson, straining to see past him. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Looks like a light-colored truck of some sort,” he replied. “Hard to tell much, it’s getting dark.”

“Who’s in it?”

“Can’t see anybody.”

“Is it coming toward us?”

“No, just sitting. I can hear the engine idling.”

Holly changed positions and saw the dim outline of the vehicle. “Maybe it’s not a truck,” she said. “Maybe it’s an SUV, something like my Grand Cherokee.”

“Or a Ford Explorer,” he said.

“What’s going on, Jackson?”

“My guess it’s somebody who’s interested in the lack of continuing good health of one of us.”

“So who’s after you?”

“You remember, I told you about my ex-partner?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“He’s not the kind to forget.”

“And you think whoever this is could be after me, instead?”

“That’s why the Beretta was in your bag, wasn’t it?”

“It’s department policy for officers to go armed when off duty—increases police coverage. But yeah,” she admitted, “I had that in mind, too.”

The vehicle continued to sit there, idling.

“They know I’m here,” she said. “They can see my car.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re still sitting there,” he said. “They know somebody else is here, not necessarily you.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“Nice having police protection.”

She pinched his backside. “Any time.”

The vehicle reversed back down the driveway and disappeared. A moment later, the chime rang again. Jackson waited for a minute, then closed the door, put the safety on the shotgun, and returned it to the unbrella stand, where the barrel barely peeked out. “I hope you meant that,” he said.

“What?”

“The pinch.”

“Oh, I meant that. That chime is kind of a car bell, then?”

“Yeah, it offers notice of visitors.”

Holly returned the Beretta to her bag.

“How about some dinner?” he asked.

“You bet. What are we having?”

“My famous crab cakes.” He walked toward the kitchen, switching on lights.

“Famous to whom?”

“To them that has eaten them.” He took several items from the fridge and began to put together their dinner.

Holly watched with interest. She was a good, plain cook, but Jackson had obviously had a lot more practice. He had half-prepared everything in advance, and in twenty minutes they were sitting at the table consuming a very fine dinner.

“Your cue,” he said.

“Oh, terrific crab cakes,” she said.

“The best you’ve ever had?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good guest. Like the wine?”

“It’s perfect, what is it?”

“Robert Mondavi Reserve Chardonnay, ’94, one of the best of the vintage, which is said to be the best ever for California chardonnays.”

“I believe you,” she said, sipping her wine. “So, how come you’re still single, Jackson?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“That’s my line.”

“We’ll share it.”

“Never married?”

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. When I was in the army I wasn’t much interested in being married to an army man. Too many complications—transfers, assignments, et cetera. And being married to a civilian would have been even worse.”

“And now that you’re out of the army?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about it.”

“I’ve had all the time in the world to think about it, but I haven’t, much.”

“Is there a shortage of single women in Orchid?”

“Not really. I’ve managed to stay reasonably busy in the evenings. Am I the first guy to hit on you?”

“You hitting on me?”

“You betcha.”

“Yeah, you’re the first. Well, I did catch our esteemed city council president looking at my tits a couple of times.”

“I don’t blame him,” Jackson said. “Considering that the alternative tits were Irma Taggert’s.”

“Oh, he would have looked anyway,” she said smugly.

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m smug about only a few things,” she said.

“What else?”

“I’m a very good pistol shot. I’m smug about that.”

“Great. What else?”

“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

“I can’t wait.” He got up and took their plates to the kitchen. “You want some dessert?”

“What’ve you got?”

“I’ve got freshly made apple pie, à la mode.”

“I’ll have the pie, hold the à la mode.”

“Smart girl,” he said. Shortly he returned with two plates, one à la mode.

“I’m not as skinny as you are,” she said. “A girl has to watch her figure.”

“Don’t worry, John Westover and I will do that for you.”

“That’s a load off my mind.”

They finished their dessert and Jackson produced two cups of espresso. They sat on the sofa before a fire, drank their coffee and watched it get dark outside. When they had finished, Jackson took her face in his hands and kissed her for some time.

“You taste like espresso,” she said while he moved his kisses to her neck.

“You taste like girl,” he replied, moving down. “Everywhere, so far.”

“That’s good.”

“You smell good, too,” he said, pushing his prominent nose between her breasts.

“I bathe.”

“You do a good job.” He began working on her buttons.

“If you keep that up, you’re going to have to make love to me,” she said.

He didn’t stop. Now he had unhooked her bra and had a breast in his hand. “Shall I throw you over my shoulder and take you upstairs?”

“I’m still ambulatory,” she said, standing up and removing her blouse and bra. “But not for much longer. My knees are getting weak.”

He held her against him and kissed her some more, taking her buttocks in his big hands and pulling her toward him. Then he took her hand. “This way,” he said, leading her through the living room and up a flight of stairs to a large bedroom with a large bed, both of them shedding clothes along the way. Daisy followed, her claws clicking on the hardwood floors.

“Lie down, Daisy,” Holly said. “Time to go to sleep.”

Daisy lay down and rested her head on her paws, watching them.

“Good dog,” Jackson said, struggling with Holly’s jeans.

“I hope to god you’ve got a condom,” she said as he laid her on the soft bed, “because I foolishly didn’t bring anything.”

“Not to worry,” he said.

And she didn’t.