No Ordinary Joe. Michelle Celmer
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out onto the interstate.
He glanced over at her. “You planning on sticking around for a while?”
“I don’t have a choice. Everything I owned, every penny I’ve saved, was in that car. I have forty-eight dollars and fifty-two cents to my name. Unless my car is miraculously found, I need to make some money before I can go anywhere.”
“You don’t have any family who could help you out? Maybe wire you some cash? There’s a Western Union at the post office in town.”
She shook her head, the knot in her belly cinching tighter. “I’m pretty much on my own.”
As a state trooper he probably saw lots of people in bad situations. But that didn’t mean he would help her.
“What kind of job would you be looking for?” he asked.
“I can do pretty much anything I set my mind to. But most of my experience is in bartending and waitressing. And singing. And I have excellent references. You can run a background check or whatever it is that you do. I’ve never been in trouble with the law. And until two days ago, I never even had a parking ticket.”
He glanced her way and said with a grin, “I know.”
Of course he would have already checked to see if she had a criminal record or warrants against her.
He was quiet for a minute, then said, “I don’t make it a habit of rescuing strangers, but you seem like a nice girl and you’re in a pretty bad spot. How about if I take you by Joe’s Place? He can usually use an extra hand. And if he can’t, the diner at the opposite end of town might have a place for you.”
She was so relieved and grateful she could have wept. “You have no idea how much I would appreciate that. I’m so desperate, any job would be a blessing.”
“No promises,” he said.
“I understand. And thank you, Officer Jeffries.”
“Call me P.J.,” he said. “Despite thirty years as a state trooper, the folks in Paradise never did take to calling me ‘Officer.’ I guess that’s the problem with small towns.”
“I grew up in a small town, too. And I know just what you mean about people not taking you seriously.” Since she was ten she had wanted to be a country-western singer, but no one ever believed she would have the guts to go to Nashville. And when she’d finally worked up the courage and saved enough money to start over, even her best friend thought she would come crawling back a failure after a month or two. Which was why she just couldn’t go crawling back after only a few days. The town would never let her live it down.
P.J. turned off the highway onto a deserted, two-lane road bordered by farmland on one side and dense wilderness on the other.
“Is Paradise a tourist town?” she asked.
“Nah. We’re too far off the highway and too far from any of the good skiing spots. We’re mostly a farming community.”
It sounded a lot like her hometown in Montana. Which was exactly what she was trying to escape. A cosmic joke perhaps? But it was only temporary, she reminded herself again. She had the feeling she would be doing that a lot until she could get back on the road.
They drove another few miles, before the Sunrise Motel and RV Park came into view up on the left. It was a little run-down from age but it looked clean and well kept. She just hoped it was cheap. They hit a curve in the road, then it dipped and flattened out and Paradise popped up out of the landscape. The welcome sign boasted a population of 1,632.
“This is it,” P.J. said, driving past a row of neatly kept little houses and straight down Main Street into downtown, which couldn’t have been more than three blocks long. She was no architectural expert, but some of the buildings looked to be over one hundred years old. Like most old towns, some were recently renovated while others sagged in disrepair. But all in all, from what she could see in the waning light, it seemed like a nice little town.
It wasn’t Nashville, but it would do until she could make a few dollars and be back on her way.
Lou’s Diner occupied the first city block corner and across the road was Parson’s General Store. The next corner was home to a feed store and a thrift shop, and across the street were the post office and a dollar store. In between were small shops and professional offices, all closed for the day.
There were a few cars parked in front of the diner, but otherwise the street was deserted until they reached the opposite end of town. Across the street from the VFW hall was Joe’s Place, a massive log cabin–style building on the farthest corner of the business district. It was clearly the town hot spot. The street out front and the adjacent parking lot were packed with vehicles. Mostly pickup trucks and a few older-model cars, with a motorcycle or two in the mix.
“This is it,” P.J. said.
“It looks busy.”
“Joe does a good business. He took it over when his father, Joe Senior, passed three years ago.” P.J. pulled up and double-parked near the front door. “Used to be it wasn’t much more than the local watering hole, but Joe Junior took the insurance money his daddy left him and gave the place a complete overhaul. Smartest thing he ever did if you ask me.”
Country music blasted from inside the bar as P.J. and Reily got out of the cruiser. Butterflies danced in her belly in time with the beat as she followed P.J. to the door. He opened it for her, and what she saw inside took her breath away.
The interior was gorgeous. All rich wood and small-town charm. Booths lined both sides of one end of the room and tables filled the space between. The stage and wood-planked dance floor occupied the right side of the opposite end, and on the left wall was a massive and well-stocked bar with an enormous flat-screen television tuned to ESPN. From the walls hung a variety of vintage-looking signs and antique sports equipment and a collection of mounted animal heads. Though dead animals usually creeped her out, somehow it fit.
Joe Junior clearly had spared no expense when he renovated, and if the food was half as appealing as the atmosphere, it was no wonder it was so busy.
P.J. led her across the room to the bar and had her wait while he talked briefly to the bartender, a petite and energetic-looking woman. She gestured him through a door next to the bar. Reily assumed it was probably the kitchen.
She waited, pulse jumping in anticipation, watching as the waitresses hustled food and drink orders to their tables. If it was this busy on a Thursday night, she could only imagine how packed it would be on the weekends. Even if she could only get a position part-time, she could make a killing in tips.
P.J. reappeared a minute later, emerging from the back with a man Reily assumed was the owner.
P.J. gestured her over. “Reily, this is Joe Miller. Joe, this is Reily Eckardt, the woman I told you about.”
For some reason she had pictured the owner as older. In his forties or fifties at least. In reality he couldn’t have been much older than thirty. He was tall and slender, and attractive in a dark, brooding sort of way. He wore faded blue jeans, a black T-shirt with the bar logo and a deep scowl.
Uh-oh. He did not look happy to have been disturbed.
P.J. took Reily’s hand and shook it warmly. “I have to get back on patrol. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Eckardt, and I hope everything works out for you. Hopefully I’ll be seeing you around. And of course if there’s any news about your car I’ll call you.”
There wouldn’t be, and they both knew it. It was long gone.
She smiled anyway and said, “Thank you, Officer.”
When he was gone, Joe Miller leaned against the edge of the bar and regarded her with a long, slow, assessing look, his dark eyes lacking even the slightest trace of warmth or friendliness. When he spoke, his voice was so low and deep she had to strain to hear him over the blare of the jukebox. “P.J. tells me you’ve hit hard times and you’re looking for temporary