Just a Little Bit Guilty

  She glanced up and down the street. Small bungalows and old Victorians crowded up to the narrow, tree-lined sidewalks. Some of the homes were freshly renovated, others were still shabby. The whole street looked that way—a mixture of hope and despair, the future and the past. Vivian tested the complex’s peeling, wrought-iron gate, fingering the new padlock and chain.

  Peering through the bars, she saw an old fountain surrounded by patchy winter grass and a few scraggly shrubs. But the shrubs had been carefully pruned and were necklaced in rich mounds of fresh soil and mulch.

  Jake’s work. It must be. What would a farmer do first after inheriting a run-down building in the middle of the city?

  Tend to his land, of course.

  Vivian looked up at the apartment on the front side of the building to her right. Its windows weren’t boarded over, and light shone through them.

  “What now? Should I throw a rock at his window panes?” she asked aloud in the fading winter light. “Is that how women come calling in Tuna Creek? He’ll probably shoot first and ask questions later.”

  The sound of scurrying paws startled her. In the dusk, two huge dogs raced across the courtyard toward the gate. They barked—no, they bellowed—their canine voices deep and rolling. Vivian backed away as they reared and placed thick paws against the gate. She remembered them vaguely from the other night.

  A door slammed overhead, and she heard feet hurrying down metal stairs. The monstrous hounds leaped away to greet the sound. A few seconds later, they reappeared, their tales wagging. Jake was between them. Vivian gasped and put one hand up as the bright beam of his flashlight blinded her.

  “I’ll talk, I’ll talk,” she quipped tartly. “Only call off the dogs!”

  Wordlessly, Jake clicked the light off. Setting a shotgun to one side, he unlocked the gate and held it open.

  She eased through, pushing gingerly at the snuffling noses that pressed into her quilted blue coat. Her heart beating a rapid tattoo, Vivian looked up at him. What little she could see of his expression in the dusk looked wary, defensive. He had on jeans and a ribbed, scoop-necked white sweater. No, she corrected. It isn’t a sweater. It’s the top to long underwear.

  In any case, he had a magnificent, muscular chest. She watched it swell as he took a deep breath.

  “Can I help you with somethin’, Your Honor?” he asked. “Are you makin’ a citizen’s arrest? Awright, I admit it. I left a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup in the back of my truck, and I’m pretty sure it blew out when I wasn’t looking. You’re too wily for the likes of my criminal mind. I confess. You got me.” He held out his wrists. “For litterin’.”

  “Would you please accept my sincere ‘Thank you,’ for what you did today?”

  His lips parted in surprise. He searched her face with such intensity that she looked away and pretended to study the courtyard’s ornamental tiles. They were neatly washed and showed signs of new mortar.

  “You know, I don’t mind that people made fun of me in your courtroom,” he said. “But I did mind that no one, not even you, said it’s a good thing for people to look out for each other. That’s what justice is really about, at least to me. The fair and honest keeping of the peace. All that ‘Do unto others’ talk in the Bible.”

  “Jake.” She touched his arm and looked up at him with remorse. “You have to understand. As a judge, I can’t encourage citizens to take the law into their own hands. But as a human being, personally? I thought what you did was . . . it was noble.”

  “You did?” His smile grew then became mischievous. “Noble, huh?”

  “But I had to do what courtroom protocol dictated. I had to be cool.”

  He grinned down at her as if he could barely contain himself. The man is so open-hearted and vulnerable, Vivian thought wistfully. “But I don’t have to be cool now. And so I hope you’ll let me buy you dinner tonight. How about it?”

  Vivian’s fingers still rested lightly on his forearm. Abruptly skittish, she dropped her hand and took a step back.

  His grin widened even more. They stared at each other, two lonely people together in the retreating daylight. “I accept,” he said.

  “This is crazy,” she whispered huskily. “We have nothing in common. You probably drink buttermilk.”

  “Can’t stand the stuff,” he whispered back. “I like my milk like I like my women.”

  “Cold and fresh?”

  “Sweet and smooth.”

  “I’m not sweet, Jake. I’m sarcastic and cynical,” she warned softly. “I don’t want any man to complicate my life. It took me a long time to get my act together after my husband left.”

  “We’re just going to dinner,” he reminded her. “You’re not expecting anything else, are you? ’Cause I’m not that kind of boy.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “I never complicate women’s lives over just a single first dinner.”

  “You’re too trusting.”

  “No, I give people a chance. Innocent till proven guilty, right?”

  “Right,” she murmured slowly. Her eyes flickered to his lips, then up to meet his languid gaze and back down.

  “I think we’d better walk to dinner,” she said, and chuckled weakly. “I need the air.”

  “When you smile like that, you have the prettiest dimple, Your Honor.”

  “Back off,” she growled. “It’s not a dimple, it’s a smirk.”

  He laughed. “Wait right here while I get my coat.” He tilted his head with just the right mix of teasing and invitation. “Unless you want to come up and see my collection of Dairy Farms Today magazines? And I have a complete set of ‘Legends of NASCAR’ commemorative plates. You don’t see a gold-rimmed Dale Earnhardt platter too often.”

  Vivian gazed up at him in mesmerized silence. “I’m more of a modern dance and soccer type. You have any gold-rimmed ‘Legends of Soccer’ plates?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “No, but I have a muddy Atlanta Falcons pendant signed by Terance Mathis.”

  “Who?”

  He looked heavenward. “Mama, I’m sorry, but she’s a heathen.”

  Shaking his head and laughing, he trotted back upstairs. His hounds loped after him. He came back down in less than a minute, his red-gold hair hastily brushed, a flannel shirt half-buttoned over his ribbed top, slipping his coat on hurriedly as he cleared the steps.

  They smiled awkwardly at each other. Once they reached the sidewalk he swiftly placed himself between her and the street then grasped Vivian’s elbow. Vivian jumped.

  He let go. But his mouth quirked. “I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t do the same if I was walkin’ my own grandma, may she rest in peace.”

  “I can hold my own elbow, but thanks.”

  He chortled.

  They strolled to a funky tapas bar a couple of blocks over, in a section of midtown that had been revitalized by art galleries and restaurants. By the time their dinner arrived, Vivian had learned that Jake had a bachelor’s degree in agribusiness from the University of Tennessee, that he had read all the Harry Potter novels, that he could clog, line dance and play a fiddle and that his cousin from Nashville had caused him to fall out of a hayloft once and break his nose, which was why it crooked slightly to the right now.

  “Kids get into trouble like that growing up in the city, too,” Vivian told him over imported beer and olives wrapped in serrano ham. “When I was five, Valerie Jacobi tried to rearrange my kneecaps with a baseball bat. She was six and mean as hell. But she’s doing time for mail fraud now, so I can afford to forgive and forget.”

  He laughed, amazed.

  “How old were you when your cousin dumped you out of the hayloft?” Vivian asked, smiling crookedly. His rich laughter was like the music of a bass saxophone—mellow and deadly seductive.

  “Thirty-three,” h
e replied, still laughing.

  “Then it was last year! You overdeveloped adolescent.”

  “It was my cousin’s fault,” Jake insisted. “He’s older than I am. He talked me into going up there with him and drinking whiskey under a full moon.”

  “You were celebrating something?”

  His laughter faded, and although a smile still played around his mouth, pain edged its way into his blue eyes.

  “No. Rylan had just broken up with a woman, and the last extension had just run out on my bank loan. We had things to forget.”

  He pretended to study his beer glass while she studied him.

  “I picture you with your shotgun,” Vivian said softly. “Standing in your driveway and daring anybody to tell you to shut down your dairy.”

  “No.” He shook his head, smiling pensively now, his eyes still riveted to the glass. “When I look back on it, I wish I had done that. But I didn’t and I’m not goin’ to sit around regrettin’ the past now. I had to sell off a lot of equipment and lease a lot of the stock, but at least I was able to keep the farm.”

  His words were stoic but she sensed defeat and depression behind them. “You hate it here, don’t you?” she asked gently. “In the city.”

  He looked up at her then, tilting his head to one side, his expression thoughtful.

  “Yeah. I can’t breathe. The closeness of it, the concrete, the noise. Whew. But the people aren’t so bad, just a little suspicious—and always in such a hurry . . .” His hand rested on top of hers. “In fact, certain people might be worth it.”

  The implication caused in her an overload of responses both physical and emotional. They were too intense, and she retreated. Her hand stiffened under his, and she withdrew it.

  “Jake, you don’t have to flatter me.”

  “It’s not flattery.” Vivian met his eyes and found them serious. He nodded. “I don’t make up pretty words to get women to like me. If I tell you something, I mean it. I don’t mean to rattle you all the time.”

  “You do not ‘rattle’ me,” she answered proudly. “You . . . you invade my space. I need my space.”

  They stared at each other a moment. When the corner of Jake’s mouth twitched with amusement, she couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

  “This ain’t an invasion, darlin’,” he drawled. “It’s a romance.”

  “It’s just a dinner.”

  “It’s a date. You asked me out on a date, girl.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Okay, the jury’s still out. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “You have to act reserved, I know,” he replied. “Anybody who does what you do for a livin’ has to keep her dignity. But you don’t have to be scared of me lying to you, embarrassing you or otherwise deliberately hurtin’ you.”

  “I’m not afraid of men hurting me,” she lied. He had a way of zooming right to the truth. “And certainly not you. You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Well, now, hold on. I don’t want you to think I’m harmless. Why, I’ve broken hearts all over Tennessee. There are women who’ll never be the same because of me.”

  “My hair stylist says the same thing.”

  “Why you sassy little heifer . . .”

  “Call the police, would you?” a well-dressed man ordered as he walked past their table. He directed his waspish instruction at a waitress with a wave of one tanned hand. “There’s an old boozer huddled by my car, and he won’t leave.”

  “That’s Roberto,” the waitress replied nervously. “You just need to ask him politely . . .”

  “If he scratches the paint job on my Lexus I’ll politely run over him. Can’t you have the police come pick him up?”

  Vivian leaped to her feet. Jake stood too, angling in front of her. She looked around him at the waitress. “I thought Roberto went to live with his sister in Miami.”

  She ran for the door, and Jake hurried after her.

  Chapter Four

  ROBERTO HAD A headful of wild white hair, a growling Spanish accent, and a scowl that could scare pit bulls. He was medium-sized, or looked medium-sized, at least—he was sitting cross-legged on the curb, so Jake had trouble telling. His clothes were old but in fairly good condition. A battered army duffle sagged beside him. When he smiled up at Vivian, Jake saw in surprise that he had a decent set of teeth. Vivian clucked like a mother hen, knelt beside Roberto, and slipped an arm around his shoulders.

  “Mr. Marino, I thought you blew this joint in October,” she told him, shaking her head. “What happened to the Miami thing?”

  “My sister, she married this guy who thought that I should go on the welfare. Forget that!” He thumped his knee for emphasis. “A Vietnam veteran on welfare!” “I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically.

  “So, anyhow. We had this big blowup and I got on the bus to Atlanta last week. Figured I could get my old job back at the farmer’s market. But they’re laying people off. Don’t need me.” He held out his other hand, showing her a bruised forefinger. “Then, last night, some pendejo rolled me down at the mission. Look at this. Finger’s busted. I’m busted.” He angled his thumb at Jake. “Who’s he?”

  “He’s a friend of mine. Roberto Marino, meet Jake Coltrane.”

  Jake squatted on his heels and held out a hand. Roberto squinted at it, grunted, and extended his good hand, which was as work-hardened as Jakes. They shook solemnly.

  “You look like some sort of crawdad back in here between these cars,” Jake said, smiling.

  Roberto shot him a bewildered and somewhat offended look, then turned to Vivian for help. He asked out of the side of his mouth. “Is that good, Vivvy?”

  “It’s okay,” Vivian assured him. She shook her head, looked at Jake with a wry smile, then back at Roberto. She felt like an interpreter at the UN.

  “If you say so,” Roberto acknowledged. “So, how’ve you been, Vivvy? Who you been helpin’ out lately, you pretty babe, you?”

  “You, it looks like,” she answered. “Did you take a leak on this car?” She pointed to the Lexus next to him and glanced at the tire in a totally businesslike manner.

  “Would Roberto Marino stoop to that?” Roberto’s voice rose. “No! I only told the pendejo I would water his tires if he didn’t watch his mouth.”

  “Okay. I knew that guy was just a jerk.”

  Jake ran a hand through his hair and then dropped his chin to hide his amusement. He remembered what Officer Washington had called her that night at Grady: A patron saint who cared about people.

  “Well.” Vivian squeezed Roberto’s shoulders again. She gazed up at the starlit night, pensive. “Let’s see what we can come up with . . .” Her eyes rolled slowly over to Jake. A satisfied smile curved her full lips into calculated charm. “Mr. Coltrane, you have such a wonderful, needy place, and Roberto knows all about carpentry work . . .”

  She let her voice trail off. Her eyes stayed on him, pleading, hoping, focusing all her energy into rendering him helpless.

  “You had me at ‘needy,’” Jake mumbled, running his hand through his hair again and sighing.

  “Thank you!”

  Jake stood and held out both hands, one to help Vivian, one to help his new tenant.

  “Roberto,” he said dryly, “you’re my official first tenant.”

  BACK AT JAKE’S apartments, Roberto drank three glasses of milk, ate a huge bowl of vegetable soup, and downed two tuna-salad sandwiches. Then he went into Jake’s living room with a pillow and an armful of hand-made quilts that had been in the Coltrane family for half a century, and promptly went to sleep on the couch, snoring softly.

  Jake shut the double doors to the living room, crossed a narrow hallway, entered the kitchen, and sat down by Vivian at a massive oak dining table. Vivian smiled at him between sips of co
ffee.

  “This is a terrific place. You’ve done an excellent job on it.”

  “Thank you. I’m clean, but not much for decoratin’.”

  She eyed all the careful work that had restored the high ceilings and cabinets. Colorful, braided rugs adorned the wood floors. The kitchen appliances were old but functional. Family portraits in gilded frames decorated the pale beige walls.

  “Where are the bedrooms?”

  She had meant it without innuendo, but realized too late that it was a strange question to blurt out. “I mean, how many are there?”

  “Three,” he said just as awkwardly. “Two little ones, one big one. I have the big one.” They looked at each other with wide eyes. Pink stained the ruddy tan on his cheeks. Vivian burst into laughter.

  “I’m so glad for you,” she sputtered.

  He laughed then, too, rubbed his jaw as if to coax the blush away, and then propped his chin on his hand. “You swear that Roberto knows carpentry?”

  “Yes, I swear.” Vivian grinned at him. “He used to work part-time at one of the city shelters. That’s where he and I met. He’ll work hard if you treat him with respect.”

  “You know, Viv, I thought all homeless people were . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Panhandling bums or addicts or mentally ill bag ladies,” she finished, nodding. “But they’re not. A lot of them are people like Roberto—good people, down on their luck, who just don’t fit in easily but will work hard if given the chance.”

  “And you want me to believe you’re hard-hearted.” He made a chiding sound in his throat. “You’re just a little ol’ Moon Pie.”

  “I’m not old,” she retorted playfully.

  “No, ma’am, you’re prime.”

  “A Moon Pie, huh? Damn. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside?”