Dixie Browning - Her Fifth Husband?

He stepped back, freeing his foot. She didn’t wait for him to turn away before slamming the door.

Distracted enough without trying to drive and eat at the same time, Jake ordered a barbecue plate to go and drove the rest of the way to Manteo, a distance of some forty miles, listening to a Molasses Creek CD and thinking about the unusual woman he’d just met.

Sasha Lasiter. It had a ring to it. He wondered if it was her real name. The first thing he’d noticed about her back at the Jamison cottage was her shape. That thing she’d been wearing when he’d tracked her down might have covered her curves, but he’d already seen ’em firsthand. The short skirt and that wispy thing she’d been wearing on top, while it was a lot more than most women wore at the beach, barely covered the essentials. His imagination had filled in the rest.

A guy didn’t see curves like that every day. Jake had heard about hourglass figures. Hers fit the description, with maybe twenty-minutes more sand in the bottom than in the top. The fact that those same generous curves extended all the way down to her ankles meant it was probably genetic and not silicon.

Damned fine genes, he mused.

The scent of barbecue drifted up to his nostrils as he crossed the Washington Baum Bridge over Roanoke Sound and headed home. He had a feeling that it might take more than ’cue and fries to satisfy him tonight. His sex life had died of neglect while he was single-handedly raising his son.

Almost as tall as he was, Jake’s wife Rosemary had been a local track star and dreamed of making the Olympic team. They’d gone to school together, K through twelve. In the tenth grade Jake had made up his mind to marry her. They’d eloped the week they’d graduated—by that time she had given up on her Olympic dreams. Neither of them had ever regretted it.

Seven years later Rosemary had been killed by a drunk driver at one of those intersections Mac had mentioned. Because of their son, Timmy, Jake had managed to hold it together—just barely. After a year or so of fighting the memories, he had rented out the house he and his wife had bought cheap, decorated on a shoestring and shared, and moved himself and his son into the other side of the duplex where his office was located.

God, how long ago had it been? Sometimes he had trouble visualizing her face. Looking at the pictures—which he hadn’t done lately—no longer seemed to help. Not that the styles back then had been all that different—blue jeans were blue jeans; shorts were shorts. But the goofy, self-conscious grins on their faces, especially after Timmy had been born seven-and-a-half months after they’d been married, were hard to relate to after all these years. There were pictures of the tree house he’d built when Timmy was six months old and of the rust bucket they’d bought as a second car and been so proud of.

Somewhere over the next dozen or so years, his memories had turned to memories of photographs instead of memories of the real thing.

“You’re getting old, man,” he muttered as he let himself into the empty duplex, dodging around a folded drop cloth and two ladders. Funny thing, though—he didn’t feel old. As tired as he was and as much as his right foot was starting to ache, he felt younger than he had in years.

Sasha woke when early sunlight slanted through the window across her pillow. Without opening her eyes she lay there for several minutes, thinking of yesterday and the color of light and shadow seen through closed eyes. Holding her breath, she waited to see if her headache was going to smite her again.

The word smite reminded her of her father, who had frequently smote with his fists, even after he’d gotten religion. It also reminded her that the church-sponsored box suppers would soon be starting up again, which steered her thoughts directly to the matchmaking game she and her friends had played for the past several years. Daisy had married and moved to Oklahoma. Marty had married, too, but still lived on Sugar Lane. Faylene, the maid they shared, was an invaluable member of the matchmakers, and the weekly box suppers were one of their favorite venues for getting two people together.

They still hadn’t found anyone for Lily, the CPA who had moved to Muddy Landing a few years ago. The yachtsman they’d tried last fall hadn’t worked out. He’d sailed away; she’d stayed put. Faylene, who cleaned for Lily, had mentioned the letters she got weekly from somewhere in California, that she always put away in a bedroom drawer instead of her desk.

Not that that meant anything, especially as Faye said the letters were written in pencil on lined paper. So maybe she had a child by a previous marriage. Or maybe a niece or nephew…

One who wrote once a week?

Sasha thought of her own nieces and nephews. She was lucky to see their signatures on the birthday and Christmas cards her sisters sent.

Rolling over onto her side, she thought about Jake Smith, wondering if he was married or otherwise involved. If not, they might want to add him to their list of candidates. Whatever else he was, he was definitely one studly hunk.

As random thoughts came and went—she was always at her most creative early in the morning—she made a mental note to check with Katie at Southern Dunes Property Management to see if there were any new cottages going up. Might as well get her bid in early.

Satisfied that her headache was gone, her sinuses no longer in rebellion, she sat up, did a few minimal exercises and headed for the shower.

Jake Smith had said he wasn’t finished with whatever it was he’d been doing in the cottage next door. Adjusting the water temperature, she wondered idly what he’d been doing when the deputy she’d called had showed up. She’d seen the two of them together just before she’d made a run for it. Whatever it was, he hadn’t been arrested, so it was probably nothing illegal, after all.

My mercy, that felt good! Hot water beat down on her shoulders, softening the muscles where stress always grabbed her. She could do with a good deep-tissue massage if she could ever find time.

He’d said he was in the security business. He’d probably been either installing a new system or repairing an old one, in which case he was probably one of those technical types who spoke a language she’d never even tried to master. She used a computer only because she had to, but she wouldn’t know a RAM from a nanny goat, a gig from a crab-net. She read instructions only when she was forced to and even then she rarely understood a word. When it came to disarming and re-arming the gizmos people used to protect their property, she usually managed to follow simple written instructions of the do-this-and-then-do-that variety, but occasionally she screwed up and had to call for help. Basically she was a big-picture woman in a small-picture world.

So he was a security man. Big deal. He and Lily would probably find loads of things in common to talk about in intricate detail.

Increasingly relaxed, Sasha worked coconut-scented, color-care shampoo through her thick, wavy hair. She was still toying with questions and answers concerning yesterday’s mini-adventure when she dried off, lotioned generously and dressed for work in a long skirt topped with a yellow T and a gauzy camisole. Her skirts were getting just a wee bit snug in the hips. Not in the waistbands—whenever she gained a pound, it went straight to her hips, never her waist or her boobs. If she’d been born a century earlier she’d have been right in style, complete with a built-in bustle.

Unfortunately, long, lean and selectively silicon-enhanced was today’s style. As she was none of the above, she was forced to make the best of what she had.

Which she did with—she hoped—style, taste and panache.