Dance Upon the Air (5 page)

“I don't give a damn about winning,” Nell replied. Then she stepped out quickly and closed the door behind her.

N
ell found
the stream, and the wild columbine—like little drops of sun in the green shade. Sitting on the soft floor of the forest, listening to the stream gurgle and the birds chirp, she found her peace again.

This was her place. She was as sure of that as she'd been of any single thing in all her life. She belonged here as she'd belonged nowhere else.

Even as a child she'd felt displaced. Not by her parents, she thought, running her fingers over her locket. Never by them. But home had been wherever her father was stationed, and until his orders changed. There'd been no single place for childhood, no pretty spot for memories to take root and bloom.

Her mother had had the gift of making a home wherever they were, and for however long. But it wasn't the same as knowing you would wake up to the same view out of your bedroom window day after day.

And that was a yearning Nell had carried with her always.

Her mistake had been in believing she could soothe that yearning with Evan, when she should have known it was something she had to find for herself.

Perhaps she had, now. Here in this place.

That's what Mia had meant.
Like recognizing like
. They both belonged on the island. Maybe, in some lovely way, they belonged to it. It was as simple as that.

Still, Mia was an intuitive woman, and an oddly powerful one. She sensed secrets. Nell could only hope she was as good as her word and wouldn't pry. If anyone started digging through the layers, she would have to leave. No matter how much she belonged, she couldn't stay.

It wasn't going to happen.

Nell got to her feet, stretching up her arms to the thin sunbeams, and turned slow circles. She wouldn't
let
it happen. She was going to trust Mia. She was going to work for her and live in the little yellow cottage and wake each morning with a giddy, glorious sense of freedom.

In time, she thought as she began to walk back toward her house, she and Mia might become real friends. It would be fascinating to have a friend that vivid, that clever.

What was it like to be a woman like Mia Devlin? she wondered. To be someone so utterly beautiful, so sublimely confident? A woman like that would never have to question herself, to remake herself, to worry that whatever she did, or could do, would never be good enough.

What a marvelous thing.

Still, while a woman might be born beautiful, confidence could be learned. It could be won. And wasn't there amazing satisfaction from winning those small battles? Every time you did, you went back to war better armed.

Enough dawdling, enough introspection, she thought and quickened her pace. She was going to blow the last of her advance at the garden center.

If that wasn't confidence, she decided, what was?

They let her
open an account. Another debt to Mia, Nell thought as she drove back across the island. She worked for Mia Devlin, so she was looked upon kindly, she was trusted, she was allowed to take away merchandise on the strength of her signature on a tally.

A kind of magic, she supposed, that existed only in small towns. She'd struggled not to take advantage, and had still ended up with half a dozen flats. And pots, and soil. And a silly stone gargoyle who would guard what she planted.

Eager to begin, she parked in front of the cottage and hopped out. The minute she opened the back door of the car, she was immersed in her small, fragrant jungle.

“We're going to have such fun, and I'm going to take wonderful care of all of you.”

Feet planted firmly, she stretched inside to lift the first tray.

Hell of a view, Zack thought as he stopped across the street. A small, shapely female bottom in snug,
faded jeans. If a man didn't spend a minute appreciating that, he was a sorry individual.

He got out of his cruiser, leaned against the door, and watched her take out a flat of pink and white petunias. “Pretty picture.”

She jerked, nearly bobbled the tray. He noted that, just as he noted the alarm shoot into her eyes. But he straightened lazily, strolled across the street.

“Let me give you a hand.”

“That's all right. I've got it.”

“And a lot more. Gonna be busy.” He reached past her, took out two more flats. “Where're you going with them?”

“Just around the back for now. I haven't decided where I'm putting everything yet. But really, you don't have to—”

“Smells good. What've you got here?”

“Herbs. Rosemary, basil, tarragon, and so on.” The quickest way to be rid of him, she decided, was to let him cart the trays around. So she started across the yard. “I'm going to put in an herb bed outside the kitchen, maybe add a few vegetables when I have time.”

“Planting flowers is planting roots, my mother always says.”

“I intend to do both. Just on the stoop'll be fine. Thank you, Sheriff.”

“You've got a couple more in the front seat.”

“I can—”

“I'll fetch them. Did you think to get any soil?”

“Yes, in the trunk.”

He smiled easily, held out his hand. “I need the keys.”

“Oh. Well.” Trapped, she dug in her pocket. “Thanks.”

When he strolled off, she clasped her hands together. It was all right. He was just being helpful. Not every man, not every cop, was a danger. She knew better than that.

He came back loaded, and the sight of him, a huge bag of soil slung over one shoulder and a flat of pink geraniums and white impatiens in his big hands, made her laugh.

“I got too much.” She took the flowers from him. “I only meant to get herbs, and before I knew it . . . I couldn't seem to stop.”

“That's what they all say. I'll get your pots and tools.”

“Sheriff.” It had once been natural to her to repay kindness with kindness. She wanted it to be natural again. “I made some lemonade this morning. Would you like a glass?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

All she had to do was remind herself to relax, to be herself. She filled two glasses with ice and poured in the tart lemonade. He was already back when she came out. Something about the way he looked, big and male, standing in the middle of pink and white flowers, gave her a quick little jolt.

Attraction. Even as she recognized the sensation she reminded herself it wasn't anything she could or wanted to feel again.

“I appreciate the pack mule services.”

“Welcome.” He took the glass, draining half of it while that little jolt became a twitchy dance in her belly.

He lowered the glass. “This is the real thing. Can't think the last time I had fresh lemonade. You're a real find, aren't you?”

“I just like to fuss in the kitchen.” She bent, picked up her new garden spade.

“You didn't buy any gloves.”

“No, I didn't think of it.”

She wanted him to drink his lemonade and scat, Zack thought, but was too polite to say so. Because he knew that, he sat on the little stoop outside the kitchen door, made himself comfortable. “Mind if I sit a minute? It's been a long day. Don't let me stop you from getting started, though. It's pleasant to watch a woman in the garden.”

She'd wanted to sit on the stoop, she thought. To sit there in the sunshine and imagine what she would do with the flowers and herbs. Now all she could do was begin.

She started with the pots, reminding herself if she didn't like the results, she could always redo them.

“Did you, um, talk to the man with the dog?”

“Pete?” Zack asked, sipped at his lemonade. “I think we came to an understanding, and peace settles over our little island once more.”

There was humor in the way he said it, and a lazy satisfaction as well. It was hard not to appreciate both.

“It must be interesting, being the sheriff here. Knowing everyone.”

“It has its moments.” She had small hands, he noticed as he watched her work. Quick, clever fingers. She kept her head bent, her eyes averted. Shyness, he decided, coupled with what seemed to him to be a rusty sense of socializing. “A lot of it's refereeing, or
dealing with summer people who're vacationing too hard. Mostly it's running herd on about three thousand people. Between me and Ripley it's simple enough.”

“Ripley?”

“My sister. She's the other island cop. Todds have been island cops for five generations. That's looking real nice,” he said, gesturing toward her work-in-progress with his glass.

“Do you think?” She sat back on her heels. She'd mixed some of everything into the pot, stuck in some of the vinca. It didn't look haphazard as she'd feared it might. It looked cheerful. And so did her face when she lifted it. “It's my first.”

“I'd say you've got a knack. Ought to wear a hat, though. Fair skin like yours is going to burn if you stay out long.”

“Oh.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. “Probably.”

“Guess you didn't have a garden in Boston.”

“No.” She filled the second pot with soil. “I wasn't there very long. It wasn't my place.”

“I know what you mean. I've spent some time on the mainland. Never felt home. Your folks still in the Midwest?”

“My parents are dead.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” She tucked a geranium into the new pot. “Is this conversation, Sheriff, or an inquiry?”

“Conversation.” He picked up a plant that was just out of her reach and held it. A cautious woman, he decided. In his experience cautious people usually had a reason. “Any point in me inquiring?”

“I'm not wanted for anything, never been arrested. And I'm not looking for trouble.”

“That about covers it.” He handed her the plant. “It's a small island, Miz Channing. Mostly friendly. Curiosity comes along with it, though.”

“I suppose.” She couldn't afford to alienate him, she reminded herself. She couldn't afford to alienate anyone. “Look, I've been traveling for a while now, and I'm tired of it. I came here looking for work and a quiet place to live.”

“Looks like you found both.” He got to his feet. “I appreciate the lemonade.”

“You're welcome.”

“That's a pretty job you're doing. You've got a knack for it, all right. Afternoon, Miz Channing.”

“Afternoon, Sheriff.”

As he walked back to his car he tallied up what he'd learned about her. She was alone in the world, wary of cops, prickly about questions. She was a woman of simple tastes and skittish nerves. And for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, she just didn't quite add up for him.

He glanced at her car as he crossed to his own, scanned the license plate. The Massachusetts tag looked brand spanking new. Wouldn't hurt to run it, he thought. Just to settle his mind.

His gut told him Nell Channing might not have been looking for trouble, but she wasn't a stranger to it.

Nell served
apple turnovers and lattes to the young couple by the window and then cleared an adjoining table. A trio of women were browsing the stacks, and she suspected they'd be lured into the café section before long.

With her hands full of mugs, she loitered by the window. The ferry was arriving from the mainland, chased by gulls that circled and dived. Buoys bobbed in a sea that was soft and green today. A white pleasure boat, sails fat with wind, skimmed along the surface.

Once she'd sailed on another sea, in another life. It was one of the few pleasures she took from that time. The feel of flying over the water, rising on waves. Odd, wasn't it, that the sea had always called to her? It had changed her life. And had taken it.

Now, this new sea had given her another life.

Smiling at the thought, she turned and bumped solidly into Zack. Even as he took her arm to steady her, she was jerking back. “I'm sorry. Did I spill anything on you? I'm clumsy, I wasn't watching where—”

“No harm done.” He hooked the fingers of one hand through two mug handles and, careful not to touch her again, took them from her. “I was in your way. Nice boat.”