Sweet Devotion. Felicia Mason
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you hand me any money, Paul Evans, I’m going to be mighty insulted.”
“Eunice, I can’t let you do this and not pay you.”
“You’re new to Wayside,” she said, patting his hand. “You’ll get the hang of the place soon. I left a plate of cookies for you. We made gingerbread men.”
Paul smiled. Having Eunice Gallagher living right across the street was a godsend, one of many he’d encountered in Wayside. She was the secretary at Community Christian Church, where he’d transferred his membership shortly after arriving in Wayside. A native of Wayside, she’d all but adopted him and his kids.
He helped her with her coat.
“Eunice, do you know a woman by the name of Amber Montgomery?”
The older lady beamed. “Of course! Everybody knows Amber. Don’t tell me you haven’t had one of her honey pecan rolls yet.”
“Honey pecan rolls?”
Eunice laughed. “Goodness, how in the world have you lived here for three months and not had one of those yet? Tell you what, I’ll swing by the inn tomorrow and get you some if they’re not sold out by the time I get there. You’re in for a treat.”
He was still trying to understand. “Wait, so she’s the town baker?”
Eunice picked up her knitting bag. “No. She’s a gourmet chef. She runs a catering business called Appetizers & More, but most people know her for the honey pecan rolls and her lemon meringue tarts.” Eunice smacked her lips. “Talk about delicious.”
Since he’d been hit with potatoes and not tarts, Paul couldn’t agree or disagree. He thought back to Amber’s earlier behavior, though, if she hadn’t looked so dazed, he’d have sworn she’d played a tactic used by nonviolent protesters. That going limp bit had been used for decades.
“Shock,” he surmised. She had to have been in shock. Law-abiding citizens could be counted on to react in one of two ways—outrage or polite pacifism—while they waited patiently or impatiently—for things to get sorted out.
He’d spent so many years working the violent streets of South-Central L.A. that he’d forgotten about law-abiding citizens. Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d had a knife in his face. But it probably was the first time in his law enforcement career that the brandisher hadn’t tried to slice him with it.
Paul felt bad—really, really bad—about the bruise he’d put on her arm.
After he watched Eunice cross the street, open her door then flick her front porch light, Paul looked in on his sleeping children. Sutton, whose teddy bear Bentley and rag doll Angel cuddled close to her, looked like an angel herself. Her blond curls spread out over the pillow.
She looked a lot like her mom. Paul’s heart constricted at the thought.
He stood watching her for a while. Then he placed a kiss on her head and whispered “I love you” to the sleeping child.
A bathroom connected the two bedrooms, and the doors always remained open. On the countertop sat Wally, another of Sutton’s stuffed toys—this one a rainbow fish.
With a small chuckle, Paul greeted Wally. “So you’re on the night watch this evening.”
Paul walked through to Jonathan’s room where lights blazed overhead and at the boy’s desk. Sprawled on his twin bed with its cartoon-character sheets, Jonathan had, as usual, kicked all the covers off. Paul tugged the sheet and light blanket up.
The boy stirred. “Izzat you, Unca Pa?”
Paul smiled, easily translating the sleep talk. “Yeah, sport. It’s me. I’m home. Go back to sleep.”
Jonathan sat up, bleary eyed. “Tried to stay awake. Protect the women.”
“I know, sport.”
His heart went out to the child. Paul hugged him close, then settled him down and tucked him in. “I’ll take over the watch now. All right?”
Jonathan murmured his assent and closed his eyes. Paul leaned down, pressed a kiss to the boy’s head, then turned off the lights in the bedroom.
The bathroom lights stayed on at night. Always. They helped chase the bad guys away.
Amber didn’t have an answer to Haley’s question. No doubt about it, she’d flashed to Raymond Alvarez tonight, at some point confusing the two men, the two situations. Miles away from her former terror, she thought she’d put it all behind her. Until tonight.
The height, the uniform, the eyes…
She shook her head, again thinking of Paul Evans’s eyes. Were they the same deep Mediterranean blue as Raymond Alvarez’s? She couldn’t remember, but the police chief’s were somehow different. Kinder maybe?
No, not kinder, she decided. Compassionate. Though he wore the uniform and carried the gun, Paul Evans’s eyes had regarded her with warmth. Raymond’s eyes, like his soul, were hollow, devoid of any human warmth or consideration. He was a heartless snake in the grass, and it had taken a long time for her to realize that. Too long.
“Would you like me to stay with you tonight?” Haley asked.
Amber shook her head. If there were any ghosts that needed exorcising, she’d do it alone. “No.”
“How about staying over with me and Matt? The bed in the guest room is mucho comfy.”
That got a small smile, but Amber shook her head again. “I’m all right.” And she truly believed she was. She rubbed her upper arm where the cop had gripped her.
“Maybe we should swing by the hospital and have that looked at.”
“It’s just a bruise, Haley,” Amber said. “I’ve survived much worse.”
There was nothing Haley could say to that.
After Haley dropped her off, Amber let herself into her apartment.
Once before she’d been a victim. Never, ever again. Anger still propelling her, and before the fear kicked in, she drafted a letter demanding an investigation into the unnecessary force used by the police chief of Wayside, Oregon. It felt good, too, to lambaste him in writing for the way he’d manhandled her.
In the morning, she’d mail copies to the mayor, the town council, the editor of the Wayside Gazette and the news department at the radio station she listened to. Amber knew that letting off steam in the letter was healthy—a much better response than when she used to pretend that nothing was wrong, that her feelings or her body hadn’t been physically violated.
Surveying her handiwork, she nodded, satisfied, then put the letters in envelopes and stamped them. Then, with every light on in her house, Amber sat in a deep chair, arms curled around her legs.
Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep.
Morning came quickly. She ran five miles to get the kinks out of her body and to chase away the shadows of the previous evening. The fresh air of an early Oregon morning did wonders in restoring her self-confidence. She’d face down this day and whatever it delivered with a new determination, a new purpose.
The lesson of last night, Amber decided, was a test of her commitment to rebuilding her life post-Raymond. It had taken three years—three long, liberating years—to get where she was today. Amber had no intention of letting one bullying police chief bring her down again.
After returning from her run, she showered and tried to shrug off the vestiges of the previous night’s trauma. Next to running, which she did at every opportunity, Amber’s all-time favorite stress reliever was working in her kitchen. Today she got to do something fun, something she enjoyed. She mixed up the basic dough for sugar cookies and chocolate chip cookies.
Using a light frosting, she decorated the sugar cookies once they were baked, with whimsical designs. It was time to pack