A Shred of Truth (24 page)

A corner booth. That had been Sammie’s request.

“You made it,” she greeted me. Candlelight splashed across her eyes as she looked up. Honey accents glowed in her dark auburn hair.

“Fashionably late. Did I make you wait long?”

“Not at all.”

“You’d say that even if I had.”

“The evening’s specials are posted up-front. Did you happen to see them?”

She was doing more than avoiding my statement. She was allowing me to take charge, to be the gentleman and order for us. Call me old-fashioned, but it made me want to step it up and become a better person.

“I did,” I said.

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s right up your alley. Grilled swordfish served with orzo and wild rice.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Our waitress arrived moments later, and I ordered two specials. “Except,” I said, “I’d like to exchange smashed potatoes for the orzo.”

“Sure. What can I get you to drink while you’re waiting?”

I glanced at Sammie. “A bottle of Pinot Grigio?”

Her lips parted, but she closed them again. She was letting me make the call. In light of my previous idiocies with her, this was a test I had to pass.

“Um, on second thought, let’s go with two iced teas, one sweet and one unsweet.”

As the waitress departed, Sammie said, “The wine did sound good.”

“I can call her back.”

“No, you made the right call.”

“You know how I can get.”

She tilted her head, traced a finger over her spoon. “I’ve had a long weekend.”

“Miss Eloise.”

She nodded.

“Wine might help take the edge off. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I don’t know. Yes, perhaps.”

Our waitress slipped cold drinks onto the table. I looked at Sammie, but she gave a slight shake of her head. I nodded at the waitress, and we were left to ourselves again.

“You,” I said, “are probably the most selfless person I know.”

She coiled a strand of hair around her finger. “Your point is well taken.”

“My point?”

“I shouldn’t let self-pity take over. I’d be thinking only of myself.”

“That’s not what I was saying.”

“Of course it was. Shame on me for not even asking how your day’s been.”

“It’s been … fine.”

“Last night at the studio you seemed upset.”

“It’s all good.”

“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

“No. Listen, Sammie, I was trying to give you a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re always thinking of others, of what they’ll think of you. Sometimes you’re allowed to have a little fun—that’s all I meant.”

“You don’t think of me as a fun person?”

“Now you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Aramis.”

I kept my lips shut and wondered if she could see my fears, my secrets.

“I have never …” She looked away, looked back.

We locked eyes, and the attraction seemed palpable. Sammie’s always
been the calm counterpoint to my internal wrestlings, and I’ve been drawn to her since that first day in the bookstore. Of course she’s out of my league, and for the sake of our business, I’ve maintained an appropriate distance.

“I’ve never felt this alone,” she mused.

Her eyes swam with that loneliness, stirred by the loss of her grandmother. Was there something more there? Did she feel it too?

“The memorial service will be on Tuesday,” she said.

There was my answer. I was fooling myself to think anything more.

“I’ll be there, Sammie. I mean, if you want me to be.”

“Would you be one of the pallbearers?”

“Me? Of course.”

“You could do that?”

“It’d be an honor and a privilege.”

“Johnny Ray will be out of town.”

“On tour, yeah.”

“I couldn’t take him from that, couldn’t even ask.”

“He’d stay though. I know he would.”

“No.” Her hand brushed at the tablecloth. “We’ve worked the past eight months to get his career to this point. I won’t stand in his way now that the doors are opening. Music Row, country radio—these large venues are not sympathetic when it comes to sudden cancellations. It’s an unforgiving business.”

“Whatever you need me to do.”

“I appreciate that.”

Our dinner plates arrived, steaming with mouth-watering aromas. After sampling the swordfish—which was cooked to perfection and rivaled the seafood I grew up eating in Oregon—I leaned back and soaked in the atmosphere of rich shadows and soft lighting. Sammie and I, for separate reasons, needed this. We made an unspoken pact to skip discussions of sales figures and profit ratios.

Finishing up, I asked if she was ready for dessert.

“What I’d really enjoy is a Southern pecan latte.”

“Hmm.” I put a finger to my chin. “Now where could we find you one of those?”

“There’s this wonderful place down on Elliston, though I believe it closes at five on Sundays.”

“Too bad.”

“Never fear.” Sammie’s eyes twinkled. “I know someone with a key.”

When we first found her, I thought she was dying.

Seconds after Sammie and I had unlocked the door and pushed into Black’s, I noted the glow of the kitchen light. That was unusual. Normally, only the track lighting over the espresso machine stays on overnight. As I moved around the bar, I saw that Anna Knight had polished the floors and counters to a radiant gleam. Her cleaning routine had been completed, yet lights were still shining at seven thirty.

“Hello?” I stepped past the upright freezer. “Anna?”

The sound of crying.

“Are you okay?” I pushed aside my own recent horrors and poked my head into the kitchen. “It’s me. Aramis.”

A
nna Knight was seated against the tiled wall, one arm resting on the yellow mop bucket. When she lifted her chin, strands of hair slid along her cheeks and clung to her mouth. She looked shaken, but okay. No blood. No stab wounds.

“What happened?” I said. “What’re you still doing here?”

Sammie flashed me a quizzical look and knelt beside her. “Anna.” Her voice was low and soothing. “You’re safe, honey. Aramis is going to check the rest of the property while we get you cleaned up. Does that sound okay?”

She nodded. “I was so afraid of what he might do. I feel so … silly.”

“What in the world happened?” I said again.

Another look—more withering this time—from Sammie.

“What? We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

She circled her finger in the air, giving me the signal to move out.

I armed myself with a crescent wrench from beneath the triple sink. Since it was Sammie’s investment that got this place off the ground and since she signs the paychecks, I’ve formed this little habit of following her orders. She rarely pushes it—not her style—but if she told me to paint the walls hot pink, I’d do it.

With some game resistance, of course.

Flipping on lights as I went, I cleared the dining room and musicians’
stage in the corner, the drink prep area, storage room, hallway, bathrooms, and back office. I checked and locked front and back doors. Doused the main lights again.

“One Southern pecan latte,” I whispered, “coming right up.”

I turned on the grinder—nothing but the freshest for Miss Rosewood—then steamed milk as the machine extracted crema-heavy espresso into shot glasses. I measured flavoring into a black mug, added the shots, topped it with frothy milk.

She met me as I was wiping things down. I handed her the mug.

“For me?”

“For you.”

She took a cautious sip. “Mmm. You’re the best.”

“Why, thank you, milady.”

“Anna’s freshening up in the bathroom. She’s a bit addled.”

“Did she say what happened?”

“She did. When we first came in, though, she needed assurance she was safe, not badgering for explanations.”

“I didn’t badger.”

“You blundered blindly.”

“Ouch. Okay, I should’ve been more sensitive.” I began dispensing espresso for my own drink, though my attention was diverted by Sammie’s posture with hands on hips. “What’d I do now?”

“Aren’t you even going to ask what happened to her?”

I exhaled in exasperation. “First I’m in trouble for asking. Then I’m in trouble for
not
asking?”

She smiled. “All a matter of timing.”

“So what happened?”

“Anna’s ex is in town. Apparently he tracked her here from Orlando and
came in demanding that she take him back. When she told him that was out of the question, he started yelling, cursing, making threats. She was afraid to step out of the store.”

“Did she call Metro?”

“By the time they arrived, he was gone. He could be anywhere out there, and basically the authorities have their hands tied. He didn’t actually commit a crime.”

“Seems wrong.”

“I agree.” Sammie sipped again at her latte. “I’m going to take her to my place tonight in case he knows where she lives. I have good security—Miss Eloise’s choice—and Digger always helps.”

“The Golden Retriever Canine Alarm.”

“But only you and I know he’s all bark.”

“I’ll follow you. Make sure you get there safely.”

“Thank you. In the morning I’ll call the temp agency to help cover the second shift. You’re opening, right? And Diesel comes in early. If I’m not mistaken, you both have classes on Monday nights.”

“Our final is tomorrow.”

“I’ll make sure the store’s covered. I’ll close, if need be.”

“You’re the best,” I echoed.

Standing in the passageway, Anna cleared her throat and gave a weak smile. She looked embarrassed. How long had she been standing there?

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Sammie said, turning. “I’m just glad you’re safe and sound.”

“I feel so foolish. I didn’t mean to worry anyone. Was it wrong of me to stay in the store?”

I went to her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your safety is most important, Anna. You hear me? Your ex didn’t touch you at all, did he? Anyway, I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry.” In my peripheral
vision, Sammie was nodding. “I was worried about you when I came in. Just didn’t know how to express it.”

“I know you care, Aramis.”

“I’m clumsy showing it sometimes.”

“Oh, you’re a doll.” Anna looked to Sammie for affirmation. “Don’t you think he’s a doll?”

Sammie was still nodding, and I felt my heart skip a beat. But was she responding to Anna’s question or still approving my apology?

Not that it mattered. That’s what I told myself.

Atop brick-and-mortar pillars, the flicker of lead-paned lanterns illuminated the driveway’s entrance. A mailbox set into the stonework bore simple black letters reading Rosewood. My headlights cut swaths between the elm and poplar trees lining the route to the two-story plantation-style home with its vast wraparound porch. As we crested the drive’s gentle curve, starlight played over the fenced tennis court and a long, low building of stables. The old smokehouse, whitewashed and cut into the hill, conjured images of the antebellum life on this edge of modern Nashville.

Digger growled from the porch as I parked behind Sammie’s Mustang. He’s big and imposing, a stellar judge of character—which explains his affection for me—and protective of Sammie, who chose him from a neighbor’s purebred litter. As Anna and Sammie climbed the steps, I kept close behind.

“Attaboy, Digger.” I ruffled his ears. “As you can see, Anna, he’s a real terror.”

“He’s beautiful.”

Digger’s ears perked up, and he trotted to her side. From the stables a horse whinnied, while crickets serenaded us with the strident sounds of old violin strings.

“Thanks for the escort,” Sammie said.

“Nobody followed us. That’s a good thing.”

She unlocked the front door with its oval, beveled glass, then stepped inside and disarmed the alarm. “It’s getting late. You’re welcome to take the sofa, if you’d like.”

“Appreciate it. Johnny’s leaving early, though, and I wanna send him off.”

“I’ll be there too. Five a.m. sharp.”

“Think the band’s gonna be up and ready to go?”

“If not, they’ll be hitching a ride to Atlanta.”

“Sammie, you’re such a hard-nose.”