interacting with anyone, and why wouldn’t he be?
He’d always been handsome, but the past two years had added lines to his lean face that gave it new character that only enhanced his sexiness. Not that it mattered to her. In her mind he would always be Shelly’s man, part of a couple who for Claire had been a shining example of what love should look like.
She pedaled a little faster as she rounded the lagoon where the June twilight appeared darker, gloomier. As always, when her home came into view a sense of pride swelled up inside her.
Two years ago her home had looked a lot like so many of the other broken, faded shanties that lined the street. It had taken most of her first year’s salary as a teacher to almost completely rebuild the one-bedroom hellhole where she’d grown up into a pretty cottage with up-to-date plumbing and newly painted walls and a sense of permanence.
For so many years it had just been a place to survive. Now it was her sanctuary, a place that held no memories of her crummy childhood.
When she reached her porch she lifted her bike up the three stairs and chained it to the railing, at the same time noticing the small vase of flowers that sat just outside her front door.
So, her “secret admirer” had struck again. This was the third time in as many weeks she’d found flowers and a note on her doorstep.
The first time the flowers had appeared with a note that simply read, From your secret admirer. Claire had found it a little bit charming and a little bit silly. She’d assumed that the admirer would make himself known to her as she had no idea who it might be.
The second vase of flowers had appeared with a note that indicated he was thinking about her. She thought the flowers might be from Neil Sampson, a city councilman she’d dated for about two months and had broken up with about six months before. Neil hadn’t taken the breakup well, and she wondered if the little floral treats were an attempt to win her back.
She grabbed the new vase, unlocked her door and then stepped inside. She set the flowers and the folded note on the table and headed directly to the refrigerator for a cold bottle of water.
She unscrewed the lid and leaned against the nearby cabinet as she sipped the cold liquid. Thoughts of Bo instantly filled her mind. She’d heard rumors that he’d moved to Jackson and had opened a bar and grill there. Had he found love with some new woman?
Two years was a long time to mourn, and he was a healthy, vital twenty-eight-year-old male who would certainly not have any trouble gaining women’s interest.
She finished the water, tossed the bottle into the recycle bin in her pantry and then walked back to the table where the vase of flowers and the note awaited her.
The vase was a small clear white glass that could be picked up most places for a dollar or so, and the flowers weren’t from a floral shop but rather handpicked.
It would be difficult to try to track down where it had come from even if she was of the mind to conduct a little investigation, and she wasn’t inclined to do so. Whoever it was would eventually stop with the anonymous gestures and show himself.
She opened the note. You look so pretty in pink, it read. She glanced down at the pink tank top she wore and frowned, a niggle of unexpected anxiety rushing through her.
Flowers on her porch was one thing, but somebody watching her while she went about her daily business was something else. A chill threatened to walk up her spine as she went to her living room window and peered outside.
She flipped the blinds closed and then chided herself for being silly. She’d had on the pink tank top and had been around town all day. There was no reason to believe there was anything ominous about flowers on her porch or the sender’s knowing she’d worn pink.
Still, as she moved away from the window she wondered if there was somebody out there now.
Watching her.
It was an appropriate day for death and funerals. Bo woke just after eight to gloomy dark clouds obscuring any morning sunshine.
Although he’d been in bed and trying to find sleep, he was still awake when Jimmy came in just after three in the morning. Bo remained in bed, his brain whirling and refusing to shut off.
Memories of his mother had plagued him, and he dreaded both the service that day and the final act of packing up her things and giving them away. At least he didn’t have to worry about what to do with the house right away. Jimmy had grown up on the swamp side of town, in one of the shanties that threatened to tumble down beneath a stiff breeze.
He and Bo had become best friends in third grade and Jimmy had spent much of his time at the McBride house, eating meals, staying as long as he could before he had to return to the shanty where his brutal alcoholic father lived with his verbally and mentally abusive wife.
As soon as Bo had opened Bo’s Place, he’d hired Jimmy to be his manager and Jimmy had finally escaped the swamp, moving into a small apartment in the back of a liquor store in the center of town.
When Bo realized his only chance to survive financially and emotionally was to get out of town, it was only natural that he turned to his best friend to move into the house Jimmy had always thought of as his real home. The benefit to Bo was that he knew Jimmy would take care of his mother so she wouldn’t be all alone.
It had been a win-win situation for both of them and Bo was in no hurry to toss out the man who had played the role of son when he couldn’t be here.
He now rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, and then padded into the kitchen where he made coffee. As he waited for it to brew he remembered that just before he’d finally fallen asleep his thoughts had been filled with Claire Silver.
She’d been the first woman in two years who had caught his attention in any way, who had filled him with a touch of curiosity and an unexpected attraction.
She had eyes the color he’d always imagined the waters of the Caribbean might look like, an azure blue that appeared too beautiful to be real. They also had held a spirit that he wasn’t quite sure was confidence or craziness.
He dismissed thoughts of her as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. In the distance, through the gloom he could see the top of the ridge where new construction was taking place.
Large equipment had been brought in, indicating that whatever was going to be built up there was going to be big. Bo couldn’t imagine what would stand on that property, but it didn’t matter to him. He definitely wouldn’t be here to see whatever it was completed.
He drank two cups of coffee, disappointed that apparently the sun didn’t have the energy to burn off the dark clouds overhead. He only hoped that if it rained, it would wait until after the service that afternoon.
He returned to his bedroom where he made his bed and pulled his black suit from the closet. The last time he’d worn it had been to his father’s funeral, and it was still encased in dry-cleaner plastic.
He removed the plastic and wondered how many people would show up at the cemetery. Brenda McBride had been well liked among her peers in the small town. But that had been before Shelly’s murder. He’d hoped that by him leaving town she’d been able to keep her friends and hadn’t been stigmatized by his presumed guilt.
By the time he’d laid the suit on the bed, he smelled the scent of bacon frying coming from the kitchen. He returned to the kitchen to find Jimmy standing in front of the stove, clad in a pair of khaki shorts, a white T-shirt and a pair of worn sandals.
“I didn’t expect you to be awake yet,” Bo said as he sat at the table.
Jimmy flashed him a quick smile. “I’m usually up just before eleven. I guess I don’t require as much sleep as most people.” He flipped the bacon strips. “Scrambled eggs okay?”
“Since you’re cooking, whatever works