RaeAnne Thayne - Raeanne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One - Blackberry Summer

“Other than your arm and your leg?” Ruth said caustically, gesturing to her respective casts.

“Besides a few bones. We’ve all suffered a great loss.”

“We should do whatever we can to heal it,” Evie said quietly and Claire smiled at her, grateful beyond words for whatever twist of fate had brought her friend here to the mountains of Colorado.

“What about a day of service? Neighbors helping neighbors,” Mary Ella suggested. For the first time since she came in, her lovely green eyes looked clear and unclouded by sorrow.

“Yes. Yes!” Claire thought of the possibilities. Fences that needed to be painted, windows to be washed, blankets to be knitted. “We could involve every one. Children, families, youth groups.”

“We should have something special planned for the teenagers. They’ve lost so much,” Evie said.

Claire thought of Taryn, a cheerleader and popular girl at Hope’s Crossing High School, lying in a hospital bed in Denver, of Charlie Beaumont, facing serious charges in the accident, of the other teens involved.

And, of course, of Layla.

She leaned forward suddenly, an abrupt movement that sent a pain rippling up her leg that she ignored. “What if we end the day with a dinner dance and benefit auction. The proceeds can go to a charity that benefits the entire community. Maybe something with particular impact on the young people.”

“A scholarship in Layla’s name,” Ruth said abruptly.

“Oh.” Mary Ella’s features softened.

Claire beamed at her mother. “Oh, perfect, Mom. Just perfect.”

“Maura would be touched, don’t you think?” Evie asked.

“How soon could we throw it together?” Claire asked. “Would a month give us enough time?”

“Layla would have turned sixteen on June forth,” Mary Ella offered.

Claire calculated. Three and a half weeks. Could they make it happen in that short amount of time? “A little less than a month, then.”

“It’s too much work,” Ruth said.

“No, we can do this. I can’t imagine a better day for it.”

She pulled the rolling table with her laptop toward her, excitement flooding through her. This is what the town needed, something to hold on to. The bright beam of hope piercing the dark clouds that had lingered since the tragedy.

EVENINGS LIKE THIS SEEMED surreal to him. A little spooky even.

Riley drove toward his rented house past the close-set Victorian houses of Old Hope, down streets where he saw neighbors out front talking to neighbors, lawns being mowed, kids riding skateboards on homemade ramps in their driveways.

Through the open window of his patrol vehicle, he could smell fresh-cut grass mingled with the sharp sweetness of blooming sagebrush and the delectable aroma of steaks on the grill somewhere close.

It was about as far from the gritty, dark world of an undercover narcotics cop in the inner city of Oakland as anything he could imagine without leaving the planet.

With all the changes the town had seen in the twenty years since he’d been a kid, the particular sweetness of a warm spring evening seemed timeless.

Oh, he wasn’t naive enough to think all was Mayberry-perfect in Hope’s Crossing. After a month as police chief, he knew the usual elements of human ugliness simmered under the surface. Domestic violence, assault, embezzlement. Even illegal substances. On his desk right now were reports about ongoing investigations featuring all of the above.

He supposed the difference was that in Hope’s Crossing, those things were the exception, not the norm.

It was a nice town. The influx of tourists made life a little more interesting and had certainly changed the dynamics, but Hope’s Crossing was still a good place to live.

For most people anyway. The jury was still out for him. Maybe he wouldn’t even have a job in a month’s time when his sixty-day probationary period expired. J. D. Nyman was certainly doing his best to stir up trouble and raise doubt in people’s mind as to his competence.

As he turned onto Blackberry Lane, he lifted a hand to wave at Mrs. Redmond on the corner, pruning back a leggy forsythia of bright blooming yellow. She gave him a sour look and deliberately turned her back.

Lisa’s grandmother was one of those old-timers who had genuine reason not to want him there, he admitted, reasons not based on prejudice or malice. He had genuinely wronged her family in his wild youth, something he couldn’t repair no matter how many hours of service he gave to the town.

Still, others in town somehow had come to blame him for everything that was wrong with the community, regardless of any rational reason. Somehow they seemed to think he was responsible for a group of teens who had suddenly gone off track, although how the hell they thought he had anything to do with Charlie Beaumont and his band of troublemakers other than being uncle to one of them, Riley had no idea.

He sighed as he drove past Claire’s house, the brick a warm, weathered rust in the evening light. A basketball suddenly rolled out of her driveway and he hit the brakes just seconds before he would have rolled over it.

“Hey, Chief,” Owen called from the edge of the driveway, where he had safely waited instead of chasing into the road after his ball.

“Hey, kid.”

He glanced up at the house and saw her there, sitting on a wicker chair on her front porch. She shaded her eyes against the light filtering through the trees and although her smile was guarded, it was still about a hundred degrees warmer than the look he’d just gotten next door.

He lifted a hand in greeting and she waved back with her broken arm.

“Should I wait for you to go past before I get the ball?” Owen asked him.

“No, go ahead.”

The boy hurried to the side of the car and scooped it from where it had come to rest against the front tire. “Hey, you want to play?” he asked. “Macy’s not home and my mom can’t. I’m tired of just shooting by myself.”

He should give some excuse—just let the boy grab his ball, wait for him to return to the safety of his driveway, then drive on by. That was the smart thing to do. The safe thing. But he was feeling reckless suddenly and a quick game of hoops wouldn’t hurt anything, right? And besides, he had more or less promised Owen he would play sometime.

“Sure,” he answered and was rewarded with a gleeful shout.

He parked his patrol vehicle and saw Claire’s wary surprise when he stepped out.

Chester greeted him with as much enthusiasm as the hound could muster, then plopped back in the cool green grass.

“Watch this!” Owen said, going for the freestanding basketball standard next to the driveway.

“Wow, Kobe Bryant. Your left-handed jump is wicked.”

Owen grinned and tossed him the ball. Riley fired it off and was gratified when it swooshed through the net.

“Nice.” Owen grabbed the ball and took a ten-foot jumper. It bounced on the rim for a minute with a boing sort of sound, then fell through.

At his suggestion, the two of them played an informal game of PIG—the younger brother of HORSE—for a while and it was close to a perfect moment for Riley. The warm evening, the setting sun turning every thing golden, the sweet Rocky Mountain air that smelled of home and peace and summer just around the corner.

Claire had put down whatever she’d been working on, though she said nothing, only watched them.

He was showing off for her, he realized after one particularly hotdog shot, a one-handed, behind-the-back throw that landed in the sweet spot. It was a rather embarrassing realization, a reminder of all those times when he was a kid trying desperately to make her notice him.

What would she say if she knew he still probably had the road rash scars on his back from a spectacular bike crash when he was twelve, trying to pop a wheelie in front of her house and failing spectacularly?