Marilyn Pappano - One Stormy Night

“I hope that says more about my cooking than it does the town.” A tall, round man, presumably Willis, set two glasses and a pitcher of iced tea in front of them, then offered a menu to Jessica. “I’m Willis Pickering.”

“Jennifer Burton.”

His gaze cut to Mitch only for an instant, then he shook the hand she offered. “I know what Mitch wants—once he finds something he likes, he doesn’t change—but I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu.”

“That’s all right.” She set the menu aside. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Two megaplatters coming up.”

After he left, Mitch remarked, “Maybe you should have looked at the menu.”

“I’m sure I’ll like whatever I get. I’m easy to please.”

He practically choked on his tea at that, tightening the muscles in her jaw. Jen had always been as easygoing as they came. She’d never asked for much out of life—a job she liked, good friends and family, someone to love. That big house, the new BMW, the expensive gems and fussy clothes—those hadn’t been her choices. She would have been happy living in a trailer park wearing hand-me-downs as long as she loved her husband and he loved her back.

“Have you known Willis long?”

“Since middle school. We played football together.”

“So he knows Taylor.”

“Everyone in the county knows Taylor.”

“And he doesn’t like him.”

Mitch shrugged.

“Most people in the county don’t like Taylor,” she said, mimicking his tone and his shrug.

That had been Jen’s first clue that something wasn’t quite right. From the beginning it had been clear that a lot of the people Taylor was sworn to serve and protect didn’t think too highly of him—or of her for marrying him. There had been subtle digs, discomfort, sometimes outright hostility. It had bewildered her—she’d always gotten along well with everyone—but she’d written it off as an occupational hazard. Police chiefs made enemies.

Especially, she’d learned nearly three years later, corrupt ones.

Jessica pushed that subject to the back of her mind. “So Willis is about your age and he has multiple teenage daughters. Did he get an early start or are you the late bloomer here?”

Mitch shifted to prop his feet on the chair between them. “His wife had their first girl about three weeks after graduation and had another every year after until Shandra was born. She’s number four.”

“And you haven’t even got number one yet.” Not that he struck her as a particularly paternal man. She would have to see past his sexy-as-sin exterior to put him in the role of doting father—and she was having trouble with that. Enough trouble to be a concern…later.

“Nope, no kids. I did have one marriage, though. It started out great but ended when we realized we had nothing in common anymore.”

“How long did that take?”

“Four years to find out. Another to do anything about it.” His brow furrowed as he frowned at her. “You’re pretty good at getting me to volunteer information I don’t normally share.”

She coaxed a faint smile and shrugged again. “I used to teach third grade. My students always found me easy to talk to.”

“You’re comparing me to a third-grader?”

His mildly insulted tone strengthened her smile. “I think most men have quite a lot in common with third-graders. And second-graders. And kindergartners.”

“So why aren’t you teaching here?”

Jen had wanted to teach. She’d wanted to do anything besides sit home alone all day or socialize with Starla Starrett and the few others on Taylor’s approved-friends list. But Taylor had refused. How would it look if his wife was working instead of home where she belonged?

Because she didn’t like the answer to the question, Jessica ignored it, returning instead to a comment Mitch had made earlier. “So you played football. And basketball. Were you any good?”

“Good enough to get a football scholarship to Ole Miss. I played two years, had surgery on my knee, decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life limping around and quit.”

“I don’t like football. Or basketball. Or baseball, golf, fishing, tennis, track…”

“Don’t be shy,” he said drily. “For years I lived football and basketball. I’m a die-hard Braves fan. And the first thing my brothers and I do when I go for a visit is head out on the river to fish a few hours.”

“Your half brothers.”

Mitch took another drink of tea, brewed strong and sweet enough to put a diabetic in a coma, and wondered why she stressed the “half” part. Did she have half or step-siblings that she didn’t like to give the same acknowledgment as her real sister?

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