Sweet Illusions (Indigo Bay Sweet Romance Series Book 4) Page 2

  She’d certainly been jumpy. Had she been afraid of him? The thought nettled. He’d cultivated his big city cop swagger and an air of authority, but now that he was home, he’d been trying to tone it down. Had he come on too strong? And why did it matter so much?

  Sighing, Ben turned in to the parking lot of the Indigo Bay Police Department. The single-story building was sided in weathered gray wood and the flowerbeds were filled with red scarlet sages and short palms, their long leaves blowing lazily in the breeze. He parked his black-and-white squad car and killed the engine.

  In the lobby, framed portraits of past police chiefs stared sternly at him from the walls. Ben moved quietly, but he may as well have been wearing tap shoes, because the front desk clerk glanced up with a squeal.

  “Hey, newbie! We’ve been waiting for the report all day.” Amelia Johnson pumped her eyebrows. She hadn’t changed in the six years he’d been gone, except perhaps to grow slightly rounder as she edged toward middle age. Frizzy blonde hair framed her face like a lion’s mane, and her green eyes flashed behind hot-pink-framed glasses. Long nails painted a matching shade of pink drummed on the countertop as she sized him up. “You’re looking good in that uniform, Officer Andrews. Any trouble today?”

  “Two dozen speeding tickets, and a swimmer locked his keys in his car,” Ben reported. He held up the Chocolate Emporium bag. “I brought these for you.”

  Amelia’s eyes lit up as she reached for the bag. “Aw, what a sweetie. Looks like you know the way to a woman’s heart.” She pulled a fat chocolate from the bag and took a bite. “Mmmm! These are even better than usual.”

  Ben wondered if Eva had made them, and his mind conjured up her image, dark hair swinging against the delicate skin of her neck. Would the spot behind her ear be sensitive? Would she break out in goose bumps if he kissed her there?

  He pulled his focus back to his job. The police station was unchanged in the six years since he’d been here. Four metal desks ringed the room, backed by towering filing cabinets; in the center, a couch and two chairs formed an informal waiting area. To the right were doors to the chief’s office and the breakroom, and to the left were the private interview rooms.

  Officer Paul Moore sat studying his computer screen at one desk, but the others were empty. The Indigo Bay Police Department only had four officers, and Dwayne Ashland and Tara Powell were on the night shift this week.

  “Man, I never thought I’d be back here,” Ben murmured.

  “Too boring for Mister Big City?” Paul’s drawling voice cut through the air.

  “That’s not what I said,” Ben replied evenly. He and Paul weren’t enemies, exactly, but they’d never gotten along well.

  “Come on, boys, no arguing,” Amelia chided. “We’re glad you’re here, Ben.”

  “Andrews!” came a rumbling baritone. Paul returned to his work as Chief Nielsen stuck his head out of his office. The chief was impossibly big, tall, and heavily muscled; his blue uniform strained over the dark skin on his thick biceps. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut military short, and sometime in the past six years, he’d started needing reading glasses. He pulled them off now to give Ben a piercing look, then turned around and stomped back into his office. Ben didn’t need to be told to follow.

  “Good luck, sweetie,” Amelia whispered.

  Chief Nielsen was already back behind his desk when Ben walked into the office and closed the door. “Have a seat.” The big man swept his hand toward a chair.

  Ben sat down, feeling like he was fresh out of the academy and undergoing his first debriefing.

  “First day went okay?” Chief Nielsen said.

  “About what I expected.” Quickly Ben gave the rundown on the traffic stops and the rescue of the car keys. The chief nodded along, but from the way his eyes wandered to his computer screen, Ben knew he didn’t have the big man’s full attention. Well, that was okay; this was pretty standard stuff.

  “Quite a change from Atlanta?” Chief Nielsen demanded when Ben finished his report.

  Ben hesitated. “Yeah, but that’s a good thing.”

  “I get it,” the big man said. “I spent twenty-three years in Chicago.”

  Ben let his eyes linger on the waxy white blooms on the magnolia tree outside the chief’s window. Six years ago, he’d been sitting in this very spot, probably in this very chair, as the chief conducted his exit interview. He’d been part of the IBPD almost fifteen months and was cocky, bored, and ready to move on. But Atlanta had given him new perspective, and the images would haunt him forever—scrawny children playing in dirt yards; seven-year-olds mimicking the sneer and swagger of the local gang; buildings covered in graffiti; sidewalks clogged with loitering drug dealers and prostitutes, who melted into the shadowy, litter-filled alleys when the police cruisers came by; and fights every night, usually involving shootings. At least once a week he could count on someone dying.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be a cakewalk,” Chief Nielsen growled, but his eyes softened. “It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? Is it because of Griffin?”

  Ben’s pulse thundered in his ears. He still had nightmares. “Yeah,” he said tightly.

  The chief nodded. “That’s a tough one. Keep at it, you’ll be okay.”

  Ben dug his fingers into the arms of the chair, unable to think of anything to say.

  There was a tap on the door and Tara poked her head inside without waiting for an answer. “Lucille Sanderson just called.”

  Chief Nielsen groaned. “Don’t tell me. The McCormick twins.”

  Tara nodded. “She wants someone to come over.”

  “I’ll go,” Ben volunteered, anxious to get away from the stuffy office and any more questions. “I’m having dinner with my parents, so I’m headed that way anyway.” Six years ago, a call from Miss Lucille would have been purgatory; now it felt like heaven.

  Miss Lucille lived next door to Ben’s parents on Seaside Boulevard—a quiet neighborhood of beachfront properties surrounded by date palms and crepe myrtle trees. The houses were set back from the road and further cushioned from traffic by wide strips of gravel and sand that provided parking and public access to the beach.

  In the summertime, rental cars and minivans packed the neighborhood, and though the beach was public land, Ben and his siblings had always regarded the tourists as invaders. One year they’d even put up hand-lettered posters on either end of the street announcing the beach was closed. It was one of the only times he ever remembered his mother being truly angry.

  “The beach is public property,” she’d said, her eyes flashing. “And we could get in big trouble for trying to keep people out. Go take those signs down right now.”

  They’d reluctantly obeyed. The beach was theirs, or it should be.

  Today the street and the wide crescent-shaped driveway in front of his parents’ house hosted only Tyler’s white Suburban and Gina’s yellow Honda. His siblings had beaten him here. Not wanting to block anyone in, Ben parked along the road near the detached garage, then popped the trunk to get his change of clothes. He stood for a minute, debating on whether he should go see Miss Lucille now or change first, then decided to get it over with.

  He was halfway up Miss Lucille’s sidewalk when her front door sprang open. “Benjamin!” She stalked onto the wide front porch and waited, pressing her lips together in an impatient expression he knew well.

  Miss Lucille Sanderson had lived next door for as long as Ben could remember. As a child, he’d thought she was an old lady, but she’d hardly aged a day in the twenty-eight years it had taken him to grow up. She still had the same shoulder-length bleached hair, sprayed to withstand even the harshest ocean breeze, and the same false eyelashes and heavy makeup. It could even be the same small dog tucked under her arm.

  Tonight she wore a dark blue dress printed with enormous pink roses and high-heeled fuchsia sandals. The dog wore a matching pink collar.

  Miss Lucille’s husband had passed away long before Ben could remember. She’d
never held a job, but was active in the Coastal Preservation Society and the Ashland Belle Society. Aside from the dog, her home was her pride and joy, and she spent her days gardening under an enormous floppy straw hat, or sitting on her front porch on the lookout for anyone who might be tempted to trespass. The McCormick twins were the bane of her existence.

  “Good evening, Miss Lucille. How are you tonight?” Ben asked.

  She huffed irritably and eyed his uniform. “I assume you’re responding to my call? The McCormick boys are running through my yard again. Yesterday I caught them trampling my Southern Bluestars.” She gestured with a bony arm to a row of the fragile bushes lining the edge of her property.

  Ben fought back a grin. Miss Lucille’s house was directly across the street from the McCormicks’, and the eleven-year-old twins evidently considered the fifty-yard walk to the public access trail too much of a bother. According to Ben’s mother, they could often be seen leaping Miss Lucille’s flowerbeds and running across her lawn on their way to the ocean. “I’m sure they don’t mean any harm. They’re just eager to get to the water,” he said, using his reasonable policeman tone.

  Miss Lucille slammed one hand on her narrow hips. “Don’t you laugh at me, Benjamin Andrews,” she snapped. “This is my private property and if they keep destroying it, I’ll file an official police report.” She gave him a critical look. “Whether you are willing to help me or not.”

  Ben slapped at a gnat that landed near his wrist; he’d expected nothing less from Miss Lucille. “A couple of kids running across a lawn is not really a matter of police involvement, ma’am.”

  “They’re trespassing,” Miss Lucille insisted. “I’ve already complained to their parents, but a fat lot of good that did me. If they want to behave like hooligans at home, so be it. But they’re not going to do it on my property.”

  Three weeks ago Ben had chased a twelve-year-old down on foot through Bankhead, an Atlanta suburb. When he’d caught the boy, he’d found drugs and a Glock 16 in his pockets. What would Miss Lucille say if she knew the worst kind of hooliganism did not entail accidentally trampling someone’s Southern Bluestars? Actually, she probably wouldn’t care. In Miss Lucille’s book, carelessly destroying someone’s flowers was on par with carrying a gun and thirty individually packaged doses of Vicodin.

  “I’m going to put up a fence,” she said fiercely. “I’ve been threatening to do it for years, but now I actually will.”

  “I don’t think the homeowners’ association will let you have a fence,” Ben pointed out. The Indigo Bay Coastal Community was strict, and fences had never been an option.

  Miss Lucille offered a huffy sigh.

  “I’ll talk to the McCormick twins,” Ben offered, slapping another gnat on the back of his neck.

  “See that you do.” Miss Lucille nodded shortly, then looked him up and down. “And get your mama to feed you. You’re looking a tad skinny.”

  “I have to stay in shape so I can chase hooligans,” Ben said seriously.

  She rolled her eyes, but one corner of her mouth quirked in a smile. “Do you have a girlfriend yet?”

  “Uh…” he blinked at the rapid change of topic. “No, not at the moment.”

  “My niece Maggie is coming to stay with me this summer. She’s a sweet girl and very available. I could put in a good word for you.”

  Ben’s stomach squirmed. The last thing he needed was for Miss Lucille to play matchmaker. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m going to focus on work for now.”

  “You’re never going to find a girl with that attitude,” she warned as she turned to go back inside.

  Ben smiled after her. Miss Lucille never changed—the way home should be.

  Chapter 3

  Eva walked home slowly, keeping to the gravel lining the road. It was more than a mile to her apartment, but she had no choice—she didn’t own a car. Besides, it was a nice evening, the spring flowers were out, and the exercise was good for her.

  The sounds of the ocean grew louder when she turned onto Seaside Boulevard, though the view of the water itself was hidden by the homes lining the road. She lifted her head to take in the sweet smell of a flowering dogwood tree, and her heart swelled with gratitude. When Mrs. England had offered to help her relocate, she’d never imagined she could end up in a place like this. Indigo Bay was so different from the heavily wooded hills of North Georgia where she’d grown up. All the open space was magnified a thousand times over by the endless expanses of water. She’d been here four months, but the ocean never failed to astonish her.

  A stabbing pain in her heel yanked her back to the present, and she stopped to pull out a triangular burr embedded in her purple flats. The burrs grew along the side of the road and she constantly stepped on the rock-hard points, driving them through the thin soles of her shoes. Mean little things.

  Eva flicked the burr into the bushes and continued walking, her mind now on her shoes. Thanks to all the walking, they were too thin. Could she have them re-soled, or would it be cheaper to find a new pair the next time she was at the thrift store? Her budget was small and brand new shoes were a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  The Andrews should really be charging her much more for the rent on their small apartment where she lived, especially considering the location. But Marjorie Andrews had been the embodiment of Southern hospitality—offering the apartment at a discounted rate and even helping her find the job at Miss Eulalie’s. From the look of things, they probably didn’t need the money, but still. The thought that she owed anyone was as prickly as the burr she’d pulled from her shoe, only not as easy to dislodge.

  Speaking of owing … Eva’s hand went automatically to her purse to close around the stack of bills in her wallet. She’d cashed her check on the way home from work, and since she didn’t have a checking account, she paid her rent in cash. It was the first Friday of the month, rent day.

  The Andrewses’ property sat toward the west end of Seaside Boulevard, a graceful craftsman-style house covered in white clapboards with black shutters and fronted by a curved brick driveway. Eva’s apartment was above the detached garage that sat near the street on the east side. It was screened from the main house by a line of palms and shrubs and accessible by an outdoor stairway leading to the second floor. The privacy was Eva’s favorite thing about her apartment, followed by the vines of sweet-smelling clematis growing up the stair rail, their deep green leaves and vibrant pink flowers lending a sharp contrast to the white building.

  Tonight, a gray Nissan Altima sat parked on the street near the garage, but she didn’t see anyone around. She climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped inside with a sigh. The apartment was quiet and dark. Eva slid the deadbolt into place and stood still for a minute, letting herself revel in the peace and the satisfactory feeling of ownership. She might not own the physical building, but she paid rent every month, and for the first time in her life, she owned a space that was all hers.

  And things. Eva’s gaze wandered around the room. Most of the furniture had come with the apartment, including a sofa, bed, dresser, and a dining table and chairs. There had even been a television, hung on the wall opposite the sofa.

  But the small bookshelf was hers. So were the books filling it, and the mercury glass lamp sitting atop it. The dishes in the kitchen were hers, and the clothes that hung in the small closet in the bedroom were hers. Almost everything was secondhand, but she’d taken great pride in sorting through the racks at the thrift store, because she knew everything she bought would be hers to keep. She wouldn’t fall in love with a piece of clothing only to watch it become communal property and worn to shreds like things had at home. The apple-green skirt she was wearing would stay hers, as would the white blouse and the purple flats. There were no sisters waiting nearby, demanding their chance at Eva’s pretty things the way they always did at home. And she’d had no choice but to share. Everyone shared everything: that was one of the major rules of the Family.

  Family. Eva
’s heart clenched at the word. As if what she had lived with could ever be considered a family. Families were parents and children picnicking on the beach. Families were newlyweds who stayed in the honeymoon cottage and strolled around downtown holding hands. Families were sons buying toffee for their mothers at the chocolate shop.

  Families were not a group of mismatched strangers forced to live together and fighting over food while they prayed for the end of the world. Families were not nights spent in whispered terror as rumors spread through the Compound about someone who had tried to thwart the rules and been punished.

  Families were not someone you’ve been told to regard as a “brother” pulling and fumbling under your clothes.

  Eva went to the bathroom and ran a comb through her hair, still marveling at how short it felt. She’d always had long hair—when she left the Family, it had hung past her waist—but she’d had it cut a few weeks ago so it barely brushed her shoulders. Getting rid of the physical weight of her hair had been nothing compared to the symbolic weight of it. One more way she was shedding the features of her old life, moving toward the new.

  After freshening her makeup, she left the apartment again for the main house, taking the path leading from the garage to the wraparound porch. The kitchen door was usually unlocked and if the Andrewses weren’t home, Eva would leave the rent money clipped to a magnet on the fridge.

  The kitchen was cheery with white cabinets and countertops, light maple floors, and a blue painted ceiling that matched the gleaming glass tile backsplash. Plenty of windows offered a view of the backyard, leading to the row of sand dunes and, beyond that, the broad expanse of ocean. The dunes blocked the view of the actual waves, but Eva could hear them thundering through the open windows.

  There was evidence of meal preparation, but the big table in the dining room was empty, as was the dining set on the back deck. Marjorie and Peter must be on the beach.