The Lover. BEVERLY BARTON
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“You’re what now—?” He mentally counted the years. “Thirty-two?”
She nodded.
“Was it unmannerly for me to ask your age?” he asked.
“Not as far as I’m concerned.”
He liked her attitude. “You’re young to be sheriff.”
“The youngest Adams County sheriff ever,” she told him. “And the first female. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father and grandfather both held the office before me.”
“A family tradition, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Tell me, Sheriff Granger—”
“Bernie.”
“Huh?”
“Call me Bernie,” she said. “Everyone does.”
“Okay. Bernie.” Somehow the name suited her. She didn’t look like a Bernadette. That name belonged to some petite bit of fluff, not a substantial woman who looked like she could take care of herself in just about any situation. She was no helpless, clinging female. No I-need-a-big-strong-man female. He’d bet when she was a kid, she could beat the living daylights out of all the little boys and had probably put the fear of God into more than one. And he’d lay odds that in a fair fight, she’d hold her own even now.
“I prefer to be called Jim,” he said. “Not Jimmy. And James was my dad.”
“Jim it is.” She paused. “We’re here. This is Methel’s.”
He stopped at her side and inspected the building. His guess was the two-story structure dated back to the late eighteen hundreds and the outside facade hadn’t been updated in a good thirty or forty years.
“Local lawyers and courthouse personnel, along with city policemen and our department, keep Methel’s in business,” Bernie told him. “There’s always a huge lunch crowd during the week. If you like down-home cooking, you’ll love the food here.”
He reached around her, grasped the door handle and opened the door. She jerked back, glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, then walked into the restaurant. Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to men opening doors for her. She had seemed taken slightly off guard by his gentlemanly action.
“We just find the first available table,” Bernie said. “There is no hostess.” She surveyed the room, which had the look of an old diner, with one row of booths against the left side wall, a counter with six bar stools along the right wall and a dozen small tables situated in between. The waitresses wore jeans, white shirts and tennis shoes, and the best he could tell, they ranged in age from eighteen to sixty.
Just making conversation, Jim said, “Something sure smells good.”
“It’s the Friday special. Beef roast.” Bernie lifted her hand and waved. “There they are, in the very back booth. Come on. If we don’t put in our order before one, we won’t get any peach cobbler. It goes fast.”
Jim followed her. In his peripheral vision he caught the inquisitive stares of the other patrons. He figured everybody knew who he was and they were wondering how he would measure up. When they approached the back booth, two men slid off the red vinyl seats and stood. He recognized Ron Hensley, and by process of elimination assumed the other man was the DA, Jerry Dale Simms. Auburn-haired and freckled, Simms grinned and held out his hand. He was taller than Hensley, about six-one, broad shouldered, hefty, with a wrestler’s bulky build.
After Bernie made introductions, Jerry Dale grabbed Jim’s hand and pumped it as he grinned and talked and slapped Jim on the back. Jim usually hated it when people fawned over him—over who he used to be—but he got nothing but good vibes from Jerry Dale and decided then and there that he liked the friendly good old boy.
“Sit down. Sit down,” Jerry Dale said as he slid back into the booth. “We’ve done ordered peach cobbler for four. Didn’t want to wait and risk not getting any.”
Ron slid in beside Jerry Dale as Bernie sat and scooted in across from the two men. By the time Jim sat down beside Bernie, their blond, mid-twenties waitress appeared, a cheerful smile on her face, and handed each the one-page, vinyl-laminated menu. Jim had barely glanced at the items listed before the waitress asked, “What’ll it be, folks?”
“Today’s special,” Jerry Dale replied.
“Same for me,” Ron said.
“Make that three,” Bernie told her.
Jim glanced up at the waitress, caught a glimpse of her name tag—Renee—and said, “I’ll go along with everyone else.”
“Four specials. And four peach cobblers. Everybody want sweet tea?” Renee looked right at Jim. He nodded. “You the new chief deputy?”
“Yeah,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Norton.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Renee Michaels.” She glanced over at Ron and grinned, then turned and sashayed off toward the kitchen, swaying her cute little tush.
Jim wondered what the momentary exchange between Renee and Ron was about, but he pretended not to have noticed. He could tell by the expression on the lieutenant’s face that the waitress had struck a nerve. His guess would be that at some time in the not-too-distant past the two had been lovers.
“Have you gotten moved in and settled into your new place?” Jerry Dale asked.
“Pretty much,” Jim said. “Not a lot to do in a furnished rental.”
“I guess not. Later on you might want to buy a house. If you do, just let me know. My Amy is a realtor and she’ll be up to date on all the best bargains.”
“Thanks, but I figure I’ll be renting for a good while. I don’t really need much more than a roof over my head.”
“No wife? No kids?” Ron Hensley asked, and Jim wondered if the guy really didn’t know any of the personal details of his life.
“An ex-wife who lives in Huntsville with my son. Kevin’s twelve, and to be perfectly honest, he’s the reason I’m here in Adams Landing. He’s why I took this job.”
“And a good reason it is, too,” Jerry Dale said. “I’d move to the moon if Amy ever left me and took our kids up there. How long you been divorced? Did she up and remarry and take your kid away?”
Jim shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to be rude, but at the same time preferring not to go too deeply into personal matters with people he’d just met.
“So how are J.D. and Anna Leigh?” Bernie Granger asked Jerry Dale. “I hear Anna Leigh made the junior high cheerleader squad. I’ll bet she’s one happy little girl.”
“Lord, yes.” Jerry Dale went off on a proud papa tangent, giving blow-by-blow details of how his thirteen-year-old daughter beat out six rivals to win a spot on the squad.
Jim figured Bernie had sensed his discomfort at discussing his ex-wife and son and had diplomatically steered the conversation away from the topic. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and he already owed his new boss. Gut instinct told him he was going to get along just fine with the sheriff, that in time they would probably become friends. And that would certainly be a first for him. He’d never been good friends with a woman unless he was screwing her. But there was always a first time for everything.
After lunch with fellow teacher and friend Shannon Tolliver, Thomasina Hardy returned to her classroom at the Adams County Junior College. She’d been teaching here since her graduation from Auburn University five years ago, having taken the job so she could move back home to Verona, a rural community about twenty-five minutes from downtown Adams Landing. She’d never had dreams of living in a big city, away from her family and childhood friends. Some people couldn’t understand why, at twenty-seven, she enjoyed living at