are right, darlin’. As always.”
The waitress smiled. “You learned a long time ago not to argue with me, didn’t you, Sheriff?”
“Or any woman, for that matter,” Jesse said as he slid on the stool and raised the steaming cup to his lips.
One of the men seated at the counter, watching the television screen with a satellite picture of the gulf, an angry-looking orange-red mass in the middle, turned to them. “I say it slows, veers south, burning itself down to rain and wind by the time it hits the coast. What do you think, Sheriff?”
Jesse watched the screen. “Never been a gambling man, Gunther.”
He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. A simple off-the-cuff remark. Unless, of course, your father had been Jesse Boone, Senior, a man who, once the sun rose in the morning, would have taken odds on whether it’d set that night. Jesse sipped the steaming black brew and was not disappointed by the bitterness that bit the back of his throat. Amy’s gaze turned his way and again he cursed his own stupidity. Behind those gorgeous green eyes, he feared the wheels were turning.
He’d arrived in Amy’s town a bad boy, “troubled teen,” the child welfare worker would term it, but unlike his father, he’d always stopped short of breaking any “official” laws. Still, he’d grown up with the guilt of the wrongs his father had done. His career choice was obviously one way to atone for his father’s sins. He didn’t need a hundred-fifty-dollar-an-hour shrink to figure that one out.
And Amy, her eyes still on him, sure as hell didn’t either.
“Darlin’?”
Amy looked blankly at the waitress. Her thoughts were a lifetime away on the teenager who’d rolled into a small Washington town with his father and no mention of other family or roots. Suspicion from the townspeople at the sheer fact that he was a stranger was a given, and the boy had done little to calm their fears. On the contrary, with his wild ways and sexy looks, Jesse Boone had seemed determined to prove the townspeople right. But Amy had believed in him, even after people cursed his father for moving on with their deposits for contracted repairs never begun. Jesse wasn’t his father, Amy had told herself. He didn’t break promises. No one could convince her otherwise. Until one night, dressed in her senior prom gown, which had cost her mother far too much, she’d waited until dawn for a boy who never came.
“Coffee, right, Doc?” the sheriff asked her, bringing her back to the present.
The waitress waited patiently. A name plate pinned above a well-supported bosom read Lurie.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said.
“No problem, honey.” The waitress hoisted the pot from hip level, angled it toward Amy. “Coffee?”
Amy looked at the inky black liquid and shook her head. “Just herbal tea, please. And honey if you have a jar in the back.”
“Uh-oh,” Jesse muttered into his cup as the waitress rocked back on her heels and gave Amy a good once-over. “There goes your cover.”
“You’re from the California crew that came in from Christi this morning, aren’t you, darlin’?”
“Lurie, this is Dr. Amy Sherwood,” Jesse introduced.
The waitress shifted the coffeepot to her other hand and extended the free one. “Welcome to Turning Point, Doc.”
Amy took the hand with its inch-long fingernails decorated with silver crescent moons. “Thank you. I’m glad I could come in to lend a hand.”
“Not as happy as we are. Now, let me get your tea, but between me and you, darlin’—” the waitress leaned in “—I’d get the caffeine in my system while I can.”
The waitress moved on down the counter without waiting for a reply, refilling mugs before she set the coffeepot back on the burner plate.
“There was Bret in ’99, but that was mainly wind and rain by the time it came in to Christi,” a man several stools away was saying.
But Amy’s thoughts went much farther back. Fourteen years back to when Coach Lasher had called her into the athletic office and asked her to tutor one of the football players. It was Coach Lasher who’d clocked Jesse in phys ed at a six-minute mile and saw a natural quarterback in the boy’s speed and grace. Coach Lasher also knew the exercise would help to channel the boy’s restless energy, relieve an inner anger that seemed to burn through him; the practices and structure of the sport would help to teach the boy discipline. But as well as the boy did in athletics, he did poorly in school work. School policy stated no athlete failing a subject could compete in sports. Jesse was failing three. Amy, president of the National Honor Society, tutored classmates during study hall. She hadn’t known the term dyslexia then. All she knew was that Jesse had a hard time reading, studying gave him tremendous headaches, and many times he wrote his letters backwards. He’d been called lazy and stupid for so long, he’d believed it was the truth. Amy showed him otherwise. For the first time, he’d wanted something so badly he’d put in the hours of frustration and work. Amy thought it was football he wanted. Later she learned it was her. They were together one year, and she’d loved him so deeply, the memory of it slammed her heart against her chest.
Lurie brought her tea but Amy kept her gaze on the man beside her. She looked at him so hard the waitress copied her pose. He turned away from the weather coverage and faced her, allowing her to study him openly. If it was the Jesse Boone she’d loved all those years ago, they both knew he owed her that much.
Was it him? Amy asked herself for what must be the hundredth time that day. Was it the man to whom she’d once freely given her heart, too young to know any better, too blinded by love to heed her mother’s warnings? She looked for an answer. Was it him?
And what if it was? What then?
Lurie pulled a jar of honey out of a deep apron pocket and set it down on the counter with a slight bang. Amy started.
“There’s your honey, honey.” Lurie flashed a smile. “The usual, Sheriff?” Her smile widened. Her turquoise eye shadow had settled into the creases of her eyelids but the candy-apple red on her lips had a fresh sheen.
Jesse nodded. Lurie scribbled something on a small green pad, glanced at Amy, her pencil poised above the pad.
“Doc?”
Amy looked at the plastic coated menu. “I’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich, please. Could you put a slice of tomato on it?”
Lurie nodded, noting it on her pad.
“On whole wheat if you have it.”
Lurie nodded again.
“And I’d prefer Swiss cheese instead of American.”
Lurie looked up at her.
“If you have it.”
“We have it.”
“And instead of fries, could I have extra coleslaw on the side? In a separate dish so the dressing doesn’t spread to the sandwich and make it soggy?”
“Not a problem. Anything else?” Lurie’s pencil tapped the pad.
“An extra pickle?”
Lurie was shaking her head as she took their orders into the kitchen.
“I can’t help it,” Amy said as she swiveled toward Jesse. “I love dill pickles.”
Jesse’s head tipped to the side as he looked at her, an amused smile on his face.
Amy sighed. “I know. High-maintenance.”
“Seems like a control issue to me.” Jesse sipped his coffee, amusement still lighting the usual dark cast of his eyes.
“Really?” Amy smiled. She picked up her own cup of tea. “Of course, you’re right.”
“Of