The Cop, The Puppy And Me. Cara Colter
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with that.”
“I’ve got no budget for promotion. But I bet your phone has been ringing off the hook since the clip of the rescue was shown on the national evening news.” She read the answer in his face. “The A.M. Show, Good Night, America, The Way We See It, Morning Chat with Barb—they’re all calling you, aren’t they?”
His arms had now folded across the immenseness of his chest, and he was rocking back on his heels, watching her with narrowed eyes.
“They’re begging you for a follow-up,” she guessed. She wasn’t the only one who had been able to see that this man and that dog would make good television.
“You’ll be happy to know I’m not answering their calls, either,” he said dryly.
“I am not happy to know that! If you could just say yes to a few interviews and mention the town and Summer Fest. If you could just say how wonderful Kettle Bend is and invite everybody to come for July 1. You could tell them that you’re going to be the grand marshal of the parade!”
It had all come out in a blurt.
“The grand marshal of the parade,” he repeated, stunned.
She probably should have left that part until later. But then she realized, shocked, he had not repeated his out-and-out no.
He seemed to realize it, too. “No,” he said flatly.
She rushed on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I don’t have a hope of reaching millions of people with no publicity budget. But, Oli—Mr.—Officer Sullivan—you do. You could single-handedly bring Summer Fest back to Kettle Bend!”
“No,” he said again, no hesitation this time.
“There is more to being a cop in a small town than arresting poor old Henrietta Delafield for stealing lipsticks from the Kettle Mug and Drug.”
“Mug and Drug,” he repeated dryly, “that sounds like my old beat in Detroit.”
Despite the stoniness of his expression, Sarah allowed herself to feel the smallest stirring of hope. He had a sense of humor! And, he had finally revealed something about himself. He was starting to care for his new town, despite that hard-bitten exterior.
She beamed at him.
He backed away from her.
“Let me think about it,” he said with such patent insincerity she could have wept.
Sarah saw it for what it was, an escape mechanism. He was slipping away from her. She had been so sure, all this time, when she’d hounded him with message after message, that when he actually heard her brilliant idea, when he knew how good it would be for the town, he would want to do it.
“There’s no time to think,” she said. “You’re the hot topic now.” She hesitated. “Officer Sullivan, I’m begging you.”
“I don’t like being impulsive.” His tone made it evident he scorned being the hot topic and was unmoved by begging.
“But you jumped in the river after that dog. Does it get more impulsive than that?”
“A momentary lapse,” he said brusquely. “I said I’ll think about it.”
“That means no,” she said, desolately.
“Okay, then, no.”
There was something about the set of his shoulders, the line around his mouth, the look in his eyes that he had made up his mind absolutely. He wasn’t ever going to think about it, and he wasn’t ever going to change his mind. She could talk until she was blue in the face, leave four thousand more messages on his voice mail, go to his boss again.
But his mind was made up. Like the wall in his eyes, it would be easier to climb Everest than to change it.
“Excuse me,” she said tautly. She bent and picked up her rhubarb, as if it could provide some kind of shield against him, and then shoved by him. She headed for the back door of her house before she did the unthinkable.
You did not cry in front of a man as hard-hearted as that one.
Something in his face, as she glanced back, made her feel as if her disappointment was transparent to him. She was all done being vulnerable. Had she begged? She hoped she hadn’t begged!
“You should try the Jelly Jeans and Jammies Crabbies Jelly,” she shot over her shoulder at him. “It’s made out of crab apples. My grandmother swore it was a cure for crankiness.”
She opened her back screen door and let it slam behind her. The back door led into a small vestibule and then her kitchen.
She was greeted by the sharp tang of the batch of rhubarb jam she had made yesterday. Every counter and every surface in the entire kitchen was covered with the rhubarb she needed to make more jam today.
Because this was the time of year her grandmother always made her Spring Fling jam, which she had claimed brought a feeling of friskiness, cured the sourness of old heartaches and brought new hope.
But given the conversation she had just had, and looking at the sticky messes that remained from yesterday, and the mountains of rhubarb that needed to be dealt with today, hope was not exactly what Sarah felt.
And she certainly did not want to think of all the connotations friskiness could have after meeting a man like that one!
Seeing no counter space left, she dumped her rhubarb on the floor and surveyed her kitchen.
All this rhubarb had to be washed. Some of it had already gotten tough and would have to be peeled. It had to be chopped and then cooked, along with all the other top secret ingredients, in a pot so huge Sarah wondered if her grandmother could have possibly acquired it from cannibals. Then, she had to prepare the jars and the labels. Then finally deliver the finished product to all her grandmother’s faithful customers.
She felt exhausted just thinking about it. An unguarded thought crept in.
Was this the life she really wanted?
Her grandmother had run this little business until she was eighty-seven years old. She had never seemed overwhelmed by it. Or tired.
Sarah realized she was just having an off moment in her new life.
That was the problem with a man like Oliver Sullivan putting in a surprise appearance in your backyard.
It made you question the kind of life you really wanted.
It made you wonder if there were some kinds of lonely no amount of activity—or devotion to a cause—could ever fill.
Annoyed with herself, Sarah stepped over the rhubarb to the cabinet where she kept her telephone book.
Okay. He wasn’t going to help her. It was probably a good thing. She had to look at the bright side. Her life would have tangled a bit too much with his had he agreed to use his newfound fame to the good of the town.
She could do it herself.
“WGIV Radio, how can I direct your call?”
“Tally Hukas, please.”
After she hung up from talking to Tally, Sarah wondered why she felt the tiniest little tickle of guilt. It was not her job to protect Officer Oliver Sullivan from his own nastiness.
“And so, folks,” Sarah’s voice came over the radio, in that cheerful tone, “if you can spare some time to help our resurrected Summer Fest be the best ever, give me a call. Remember, Kettle Bend needs you!”
Sullivan snapped off the radio.
He had been so right in his assessment of Sarah McDougall: she was trouble.
This time, she hadn’t gone to his boss. Oh, no, she’d gone to the whole town as a special guest on the Tally Hukas radio show, locally produced here in Kettle Bend. She’d lost