02_The Hero Next Door Page 2

  “My lucky day, I guess.”

  She turned to find him watching her. With some men, Heather might have interpreted that comment as a come-on. With this one, she wasn’t certain. His neutral expression told her nothing. Nor did his eyes reveal the motivation behind his remark. It was as if he’d had a lot of practice masking his emotions.

  “What sort of tea would you like?” She plucked a printed list of offerings out of a small silver holder on the table and handed it to him.

  After a cursory scan, he passed it back. “What are the chances I could get a cup of coffee?”

  She gave him a bemused look. “In a tearoom? None, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll take your strongest tea.”

  Assam, she decided at once. It was full-bodied, robust and malty. They didn’t have many takers for that potent brew. But she figured he could handle it.

  “I think we have one you’ll like. Your food will be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Turning, Heather crossed the room toward the foyer. She was tempted to check and see if Justin Clay was still watching her, but she squelched that silly impulse. Why should she care?

  Yet as she passed the front door, she couldn’t help recalling what she’d told Julie a couple of hours ago, about good guys being few and far between—and not likely to come calling at her door.

  She didn’t know a thing about the man who’d just arrived, except that he seemed out of place in The Devon Rose. But intuition told her he might fall into the good-guy camp.

  Of course, her intuition had failed her before, with her old boyfriend Mark. As had her mother’s, with Heather’s unfaithful father. As had her sister Susan’s, with her philandering husband. All of those examples reinforced the sad truth—the Anderson women had no luck when it came to men.

  So while Justin Clay might, indeed, be a good guy, Heather didn’t intend to find out.

  Because she didn’t trust her judgment when it came to the opposite sex.

  And there was no way she’d risk putting her heart in jeopardy ever again. No matter how appealing the man.

  Chapter Two

  J.C. swirled his last French fry in the generous dollop of ketchup on his plate and popped it in his mouth. The fries and the burger had been the perfect chaser to his afternoon tea, which had done little more than take the edge off his hunger.

  Not that he had any complaints about the food at the swanky tearoom. Those little puffy dough things filled with chicken salad had been tasty. The quiche had been okay. As for those little scones with jam and that cream stuff—he could have eaten a dozen of them. And every one of the five desserts had been amazing.

  It was the amount, not the flavor, of the food that had sent him in hot pursuit of the nearest restaurant the instant he’d stepped out the door of The Devon Rose. None of the items on that three-tiered contraption had been bigger than a sausage patty.

  And the bill had been a shocker. He calculated that his foray into the world of high tea had cost him close to two bucks a bite.

  Wiping his mouth on a napkin, J.C. leaned back in his seat. In fairness, the prices were on the high side in this establishment, too. He wasn’t used to twelve-dollar hamburgers. At this rate, he’d eat up his first month’s salary in a week. A trip to the grocery store was high on his agenda for tomorrow, after he had breakfast with his new boss—and Chicago PD alumnus—Adam Burke.

  As for the cost of the tea—he didn’t regret the budget-straining expense. It had been a unique experience, in an atmosphere he could only describe as elegant.

  A word that fit the owner as well.

  Taking a sip of coffee, he thought about Heather Anderson. Now there was a lady. From her every-hair-in-place wispy bangs, to her graceful, ringless fingers as she’d poured his tea, to her classy attire, she’d oozed culture and refinement.

  In other words, she was way out of his league.

  Not that it mattered. His priorities for his stay on Nantucket didn’t include a relationship. He had enough to deal with without adding romance to the mix.

  Draining his mug, he pulled some bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table. Before the day ended, he had several more things to do—and thinking about the lovely tearoom owner wasn’t on his list.

  Yet try as he might, he couldn’t stop images of her from floating through his mind as he strolled down the cobblestone street and veered off toward Lighthouse Lane.

  “Knock, knock. Anyone home?”

  Wiping her hands on a towel, Heather smiled at the stout older woman who stood on the other side of her screen door. Since Edith and Chester Shaw had retired to Nantucket eleven years ago, the couple had become like family to her.

  “Come on in.” Heather reached for the two leftover scones, added a generous portion of clotted cream and strawberry jam to the plate, and edged it toward Edith. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”

  “Oh, my. I shouldn’t.” Her neighbor cast a longing glance at the offering. Then, with a shrug, she pulled a stool up to the stainless-steel prep table and slathered the scones with jam and cream. “But these are impossible to resist, as you well know.”

  Chuckling, Heather continued measuring ingredients for the chocolate tarts that would grace tomorrow’s three-tiered servers. “What’s up?”

  “Did you notice any activity at my place while Chester and I were away? The note’s gone from my front door, so I know my tenant arrived. I’d planned to invite him to dinner since he doesn’t know a soul here other than Burke, but I’m afraid he may already have gone out to get a bite.”

  Julie pushed through the door from the dining room. “Hi, Edith. Heather, I set the tables for tomorrow and refilled the sugar bowls. Anything else before I take off?”

  “That should do it, thanks. To answer your question, Edith, he stopped in here around three in search of food. He thought we served lunch.” Heather stirred the chocolate in the double boiler. “I assumed he went back to your place when he left.”

  “No one answered my knock. How long was he here?”

  “He stayed for tea,” Julie offered, retrieving her purse and sweater from a chair and heading for the door.

  Edith arched an eyebrow.

  “I think he liked what we had to offer,” Julie added.

  Heather turned in time to see her assistant wink at Edith and incline her head toward her employer before pushing through the door.

  As it banged shut behind her, Edith tipped her head and appraised Heather. “So Justin Clay stayed for tea.”

  Heather shot her a warning look. “Don’t make anything out of this, Edith.”

  “What’s there to make anything out of?” She took a bite of her second scone. “I haven’t met Mr. Clay, but I understand from Burke that he’s got quite a reputation on the Chicago force for some pretty high-stakes undercover work. I sort of pictured him as the tall, muscular, rugged type. I guess I’m having a little trouble imagining him holding a dainty teacup and eating finger sandwiches. Unless he had an ulterior motive.”

  Planting her hands on her hips, Heather narrowed her eyes. “Just because you had a hand in getting Kate and Craig together doesn’t give you the right to work on my love life, Edith.” Charter fishing boat captain Kate MacDonald, who occupied the little cottage between her house and Edith’s, had recently married Nantucket’s Coast Guard commander, and Heather knew Edith was proud of her role as matchmaker.

  “How can I work on something that doesn’t exist?”

  “Very funny.”

  “No. Very true. And sad.”

  “You know I’m not in the market for romance, Edith. And you know why.”

  “Not all men are like your father. Or Mark.”

  Removing the melted chocolate from the stove, Heather poured it into a mixing bowl containing the remaining ingredients for the filling and began to stir. Even after two years, the mere mention of the dashing Boston hotel executive who’d come to the island to manage a collection of boutique pro
perties—and who’d finagled his way past her defenses—left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “I agree, Edith. But the Anderson women always seem to pick losers.”

  “Humph.” The older woman licked a speck of cream off her finger. “What does the island’s newest police officer look like?”

  “Dark hair, dark eyes, six-one or two.” Heather began scooping the filling into the miniature tart shells.

  “As in tall, dark and handsome?”

  “I didn’t say handsome.”

  “You mean he’s ugly?”

  As a mental image of her unexpected customer flashed across her mind, Heather lost her methodical scooping rhythm and a ball of filling plopped onto the stainless-steel counter. Expelling an irritated breath, she gritted her teeth and swiped it up. “He’s not ugly.”

  “Well, I’m anxious to meet him. I already like his name. Justin Clay. It sounds very strong and masculine.”

  “He goes by J.C.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  She was in too deep now to do anything but tell the truth, Heather realized, regretting the slip. “When he introduced himself, he said that’s what his friends call him.”

  “His friends.” Edith mulled that over as she slid off the stool. Ambling toward the back porch, she tossed one parting comment over her shoulder. “Well, that’s a start.” Without waiting for a response, she pushed through the door and disappeared down the steps.

  Dismayed, Heather blew out a breath and shook her head. She’d seen that look in Edith’s eyes before, and she knew what it meant—the older woman was in matchmaking mode. Now that Kate and Craig had tied the knot, she was on the prowl for new victims.

  Meaning J.C. would probably end up ruing the day he’d stepped into The Devon Rose.

  “Marci, it’s J.C.”

  “Hey, big brother. You arrived safe and sound, I assume.”

  “Yep.” He stretched out on the bed in his new digs, testing the mattress. Nice and firm. Just the way he liked it.

  “So how’s life on a ritzy island?”

  “I haven’t seen the ritzy parts yet. But I did have a ritzy experience today. I went to tea.”

  Her response was preceded by several beats of silence. “You hate tea.”

  “The food was good,” J.C. countered. “You would have liked it, Marci. White tablecloths, classical music, flowers.”

  “You hate tea.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I know. I’m trying to make sense of this. What on earth prompted you to go to tea?”

  An elegant, graceful woman with hazel eyes.

  As that thought echoed in his mind, J.C. frowned. He wished he could attribute his foray into that civilized ritual to hunger, but he couldn’t dispute the truth. Had it not been for Heather Anderson’s quiet loveliness and refinement, he would have vacated the rarified atmosphere of The Devon Rose in a heartbeat, no matter how loudly his stomach protested.

  “The question wasn’t that hard, J.C.”

  At Marci’s wry prompt, he pulled himself back to the present. “I was hungry. And the tea place is next door to my cottage. Anyway, it’s nice here. Quiet.”

  “Good. Maybe you’ll sleep better.”

  “I slept okay in Chicago.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to pretend with me. I’m your sister, okay? I know you’ve been through hell this past month. So rest. Relax. Think. And move on.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “I know.” Her words came out scratchy, and she cleared her throat. “Pray some more to that God of yours. Maybe He’ll come through for you if you keep bending His ear.”

  “I intend to. And He’s your God, too, Marci. I wish you and Nathan would give Him a chance.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. As for Nathan…he’s a lost cause. Do you still write to him every week?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt he even reads the letters.”

  “Maybe not. But he gets them. And knows I’m thinking about him.”

  “Talk about a wasted life.” Disgust laced her words.

  “It’s not too late for him to turn things around.” J.C. tried to sound optimistic as he stared at the ceiling, but in truth, his hope was dimming. His younger brother’s bitterness hadn’t abated one iota since the day eight years ago when he’d been sentenced to a decade behind bars for armed robbery.

  “Give it up, J.C. All those trips you made down to Pontiac…What good did they do? Most of the time he wouldn’t even talk to you. He doesn’t like cops.”

  “I was his brother first, Marci. And I have to try.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Her words grew softer. “Too bad you were saddled with two reprobates for siblings.”

  There was a hint of humor in her voice, but J.C. knew how she’d struggled with self-image. And hated that deep inside, for reasons he’d never been able to fathom, she might continue to feel less than worthy. “I don’t think of you that way, Marci. And neither does anyone else. You’ve done great.” Then he lightened his tone, knowing praise made her uncomfortable. “I’m impressed with that big word, by the way. Reprobate, huh? All that schooling you’re getting must be paying off.”

  “Very funny.”

  A knock sounded at his door, and he swung his legs to the floor. “Someone’s come calling, kiddo. Gotta run.”

  “Okay, bro. Take care and don’t be a stranger.”

  As the line went dead, J.C. stood and slipped his cell phone into his pocket. Smoothing down the back of his hair with one hand, he opened the door with the other.

  “You must be Justin. Or J.C., as I’m told you prefer to be called. You’re just the way Heather described you. Welcome to Nantucket. I’m Edith Shaw, and this is my husband, Chester.” An older woman with short, silvery-gray hair stuck out her hand.

  As J.C. returned her firm clasp and leaned forward to grasp her husband’s fingers, he gave his landlords a quick once-over.

  Edith’s blue eyes sparked with interest, radiating energy. Although she wore black slacks and a simple short-sleeved blue blouse, J.C. sensed there was a mischievous streak beneath her conservative attire.

  Pink-cheeked Chester, on the other hand, struck him as an aw-shucks kind of guy, content to let his lively wife run the show. He wore grass-stained overalls, suggesting he was a gardener, and a shock of gray hair fell over his forehead. Someone had tried to tame his ornery cowlick, but it had refused to be subdued.

  “I’m happy to meet you both.” J.C. smiled and gestured toward the inside of the cottage. “This place is perfect. And thank you for the pumpkin bread, Mrs. Shaw.”

  She waved his thanks aside. “Plenty more where that came from. And it’s Edith and Chester. I was going to invite you to dinner, but I understand you’ve already eaten next door.”

  J.C. nodded, admiring her investigative skills. “That’s right.”

  “Well, Heather does a fine job. But—” she sized him up “—it’s not a lot of food for a full-grown man. You’d be welcome to join us. I guarantee my beef stew will stick to your ribs.”

  After consuming the tea goodies, a burger and fries, and the last of Edith’s pumpkin bread, there was no way he could eat another meal. “To be honest, I also paid a visit to Arno’s.”

  Chester chuckled. “I’m with you. I like Heather’s food just fine, but it’s not enough to keep a bird alive.”

  “Now, Chester,” Edith chided. “Heather’s a wonderful cook and a great hostess. I’m sure she made you feel welcome, didn’t she?”

  Her keen look took him off guard. As did the odd undertone, which he couldn’t identify. “Yes. She was very hospitable.”

  She gave him a satisfied smile. “Well, then, I’ll bring you out a plate of stew later, and you can put it in the fridge for tomorrow night. And anytime you need anything, you let us know. We’re just a holler away.”

  As she marched across the lawn to her back door, Chester following a step behind, J.C. regarded the stat
ely clapboard house where he’d had tea earlier. Only the roof and parts of the second floor were visible through the trees.

  So the tearoom owner had described him to Edith. Interesting. And intriguing. What had she said? he wondered.

  More to the point, however, why should he care?

  Looking back toward the Shaw house, he found Edith observing him, her pleased smile still in place. With a wave, she disappeared inside.

  Planting his fists on his hips, he studied her closed door. What was that all about?

  But considering the glint in her eyes, maybe he didn’t want to know.

  Chapter Three

  “Now that’s what I call a breakfast.” J.C. sat back in the booth and dropped his napkin beside his plate. “And the price was right. What’s the name of this place again?”

  “Downyflake. Or, as the locals call it, The Flake.” Burke signaled to the waitress. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You look like you could use a few good meals.”

  That was true. But until yesterday, his appetite had been nonexistent. “I’ve been eating well since I’ve been here. Must be the salt air. And it’s been good for you, too. You look younger than when you left Chicago.”

  Three years ago, when Burke had announced he was taking the chief job on Nantucket, J.C. hadn’t been convinced the senior detective would acclimate to the slower pace. He was glad his fears had been unfounded. At fifty-three, Burke’s trademark buzz cut might be more salt than pepper, but the tension in his features had eased.

  “The life here suits me,” Burke confirmed.

  “Here you go, Chief.” The blond-haired, college-age waitress set the bill on the table, flashed them each a smile and trotted on to the next customer.

  When J.C. reached for his wallet, Burke shook his head and picked up the bill. “The first one’s on me. Let’s go take a tour of the station.”

  Less than five minutes later, Burke pulled into a parking space in front of an attractive brick building that sported a row of dormer windows.

  “Used to be the fire station,” Burke told him as he set the brake. “Won’t take long to do a walk-through.”