In Shelter Cove (18 page)

She set her water on the counter and took out the recipe she’d copied from her mother’s collection. “This one won the cook-off four years ago. I took out a couple of ingredients and added some others from another recipe to make it unique. If it works, you’ll have a good shot at the trophy.”

“There’s a trophy?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s always a trophy,” she said with a smile, “especially when my mother is involved in the event. But don’t get too excited—it stays in the church hall. You just get your name on it.”

“How disappointing. What does it look like?”

“A large bowl with a gold spoon in it.”

“Something worth shooting for,” he said lightly, but there was no amusement in his eyes.

She frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m great.”

“Really? Because you looked like you wanted to beat the crap out of that woodpile.”

He hesitated for a moment and then walked past her. She followed him into the dining room. He picked up a large envelope, pulled out a thick wad of legal-sized papers, and handed them to her. “I got these today.”

It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at. Stunned, she lifted her gaze to his. “Oh my God, Joe. Divorce papers?” They’d been having problems, but Joe had seemed so determined to work things out. She hadn’t expected this.

“Apparently, Rachel decided to make this separation permanent,” he said tightly.

“She didn’t tell you they were coming? I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” she added quickly.

“She claims she tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen. That was one of her favorite complaints about me—I never listen.” He grabbed the papers out of her hand, stuffing them back into the envelope, as if he regretted having shown them to her. “So, what’s involved with this recipe?”

“Joe, you don’t have to make the chili. This is clearly not a good night for you.”

“I’ve got nothing else to do, and frankly, I’d prefer to be busy.” He took the recipe from her hand and perused it. “I don’t think I have any of this stuff in the house.”

“I could run down to the store for you.”

“I’ve got a car, Charlotte, and I’m not dying.”

“Aren’t you just a little?” Her soft words drew his pained gaze. “You were together a long time, weren’t you?”

“Since we were fifteen.” His jaw tightened. “But that was then; this is now. I’d better get to the market so I can get started on this.”

“You really don’t have to do it. It’s not that important.”

“I thought your mother was going to suffer dire consequences if you didn’t find her one more chili maker.”

“She’ll live. I’m more concerned about you.”

“Don’t be. It’s not like this came out of nowhere. We’ve been having problems for a long time.”

“Maybe you should talk to Rachel, see if there’s a chance to work things out.”

“We’ve been trying to do that for months—actually, longer than that. I thought the move here would be good for us, but it turns out it was only good for me. Rachel loves Los Angeles. That’s where her life is.”

“Have you considered going back?”

“I’ve considered a lot of things.” He took a breath. “Let’s get back to the chili,” he said briskly. “If I’m going to make it, I want it hot.”

“You like the spice, huh?”

“Always. My father is Latino. If you’re not sweating while you’re eating, it’s not spicy enough.” He tilted his head, giving her a considering look. “What about you, Charlotte? Do you like it hot?”

She drew in a quick breath at the dangerously reckless look in his eyes. She told herself not to encourage him, but she heard herself say, “Absolutely, as long as it’s also good.”

“Oh, it will be good.”

“We should go to the store,” she added, knowing that she needed to defuse the situation before they both did something they weren’t ready to do.

“You don’t have anything better to do—like hanging out with Reverend Schilling?”

“I don’t want to talk about Andrew, and I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about Rachel, so why don’t we just concentrate on making the best chili that Angel’s Bay will ever taste?”

“Just chili, huh?”

“Just chili.”

“Okay, fine.” He reached for his car keys on the side table, and they headed out to his car. “So, you’re a good cook, are you?” he asked, as he opened the door for her.

“Heavens no, but I’m a really good shopper. You’ll have to do the rest.”

“This could quite possibly turn into a disaster.”

She had no idea if he was talking about the chili or about them being together. “Well, whatever it is, it will be hot.”

It had been a long time since he’d had had a woman cooking in his kitchen, Joe thought as he watched Charlotte chop an onion. Rachel had left town a month earlier, but even before that, she’d rarely cooked. They’d usually grabbed takeout or eaten at one of the restaurants in town.

When he’d first married Rachel, she’d loved trying new recipes out on him. That changed when she went back to school to get a real-estate license and then work full-time. He’d been okay with it, because
she was happy, and he couldn’t begrudge her a career that she enjoyed. But he’d always thought wistfully about his parents’ marriage, all the fun they’d had cooking together. They’d bicker and kiss and cook with the same passion they exhibited in every aspect of their lives. Mealtimes had always been crowded, too, with six kids and whatever friends and family were around. There was always room for one more at the Silveira table.

He’d thought by now he would have his own brood of kids, but he was nearing forty and the vision of children was getting farther away. In the beginning, he’d wanted to put it off. His career was demanding. Then Rachel decided that she wanted to wait because of her career. Since then, it had never been the right time to start a family. Now he had divorce papers.

Sometimes Rachel liked the grand, dramatic gesture. Did she want him to come running to L.A., tell her that he was willing to give up his life for her if she would only rip up the papers? Or did she want him to sign the papers and end it? He didn’t like the idea of failing at his marriage. His parents had set a great example and one he’d intended to follow. But he’d screwed up, or maybe Rachel had—or maybe it was both their faults.

He would let the papers sit for a while, give himself some time to think.

Charlotte swore as a chunk of onion flew off the cutting board, and he couldn’t help smiling. Since they’d returned from the supermarket, Charlotte
had attacked her assignment of chopping up tomatoes and onions with great enthusiasm. He enjoyed watching her go at it, but he was a little concerned that she’d slice off one of her fingers in the process.

“Slow down,” he said. “Those are supposed to go into the chili, not on the floor.”

“They’re a little slippery.”

“I hope you’re better with a knife when you’re doing surgery.”

She made a face at him, her eyes blurring with tears. “Well, I’m usually not crying when I’m doing that.”

“How do you not know how to cook, when your mother is supplying every ailing or depressed person in town with homemade dinners?”

“That’s her, not me. She stopped trying to teach me how to cook a long time ago. It’s one of the many ways I disappointed her.” She pushed a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. “You seem to know your way around the kitchen. Was your mom a good cook?”

“She was superb. She could make incredible hearty stews out of nothing, a trick passed down by her frugal Irish grandparents. And my father loved making tamales and enchiladas. Sunday dinners were always a big buffet. My aunts and uncles and cousins would all come over after church, and we’d stuff ourselves for the next four hours.”

“Sounds a lot like my Sunday afternoons, only it wasn’t so much blood relatives as our church family. But the house was always full. I miss that now.
Never thought I’d say that. At one time, I dreaded the Sunday afternoon command performance. I had to be on my best behavior, which even at its best wasn’t all that good.” She gathered the onions into a pile and tossed them into the pot. “There. All done.”

“I think you were supposed to save some for the garnish.”

“Oh, well, you can do those. I’ve shed enough tears for you.” She laughed. “That sounds like the beginning of a country-western song.”

“So you noticed my CD collection,” he said, enjoying the teasing light in her eyes.

“On the way to the bathroom.”

“It’s not exactly on the way. You were snooping.”

“Guilty.” She ran her hands under the water, then dabbed her eyes with a paper towel. “I spied a little. You’re not an easy person to get to know.”

He’d made it a point not to let her get too close. He was still married, even if there were divorce papers nearby.

“What do you want to know about me?” He picked up a knife and started chopping the next onion.

“Something that no one else in Angel’s Bay knows,” she replied, leaning against the counter. “Which should be easy, since I’m betting very few people know you at all.”

“I’m the chief of police. It helps to keep distance between myself and the community.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I appreciate the need for objectivity, but you strike me as someone
who always holds his cards close to his chest, even when he’s not on duty.”

“And you strike me as someone who couldn’t bluff her way through a card game to save her life.”

Her eyes sparked. “I’m not that bad. I’ve kept a few secrets over the years.”

“Why don’t you tell me one of yours?”

“I asked you first.”

He finished slicing the onion and then tossed the pieces into a small bowl.

“How did you do that without crying?” Charlotte asked.

“I’m a man.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, tough guy, so what’s one of your deep, dark secrets?”

He wiped his hands on a paper towel. “I can’t think of any.”

“Sure you can.” She picked up the chili powder and tossed another heaping spoonful into the pot.

“Hey, go easy on that,” he said.

“I thought you wanted it hot. But I’ll go easy if you tell me something about yourself.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re very stubborn?”

“Almost everyone I’ve ever met.” She gave him an unrepentant smile. “Stop stalling.”

“Okay.” He thought for a moment, wondering how honest he wanted to be. He wasn’t used to sharing his past. But there was something about Charlotte that made him want to talk. “I joined a gang when I was thirteen years old. To show my loyalty, I
had to steal a CD player from an electronics store. I wasn’t a very good thief, and I got caught.”

“What happened to you?” she asked, curiosity and concern on her face.

“The cop who caught me was Latino. He’d grown up in the neighborhood where I lived, and his brother had died in a gang when he was sixteen years old. He took me home and told my parents to lock me up, or else he would. He scared the shit out of me, but he probably saved my life. Fortunately, my parents were able to move a couple of years later, so it was easier for my younger brothers to stay out of trouble.”

“And you became a cop so you could return the favor.”

“Something like that. I still had a thirst for excitement. I just decided to work on the right side of the law.”

“There aren’t a lot of gangs here in Angel’s Bay.”

“Thank God for that. I worked gangs and vice for almost a decade in L.A. I tried to save some kids. Sometimes it worked. Most times it didn’t. The problem never went away. For every kid I got out, another one took his place. And the drug situation was just as bad. I never felt like I was making a dent.”

He sighed. He might as well tell her the rest since he’d come this far.

“I had a partner who started taking shortcuts, crossing lines that shouldn’t have been crossed. If the courts weren’t going to put some of these guys away,
he would. I started thinking the same way. I beat the crap out of someone one day—justice delivered personally by me. I could have killed him; thank God someone pulled me off him in time. He was a rapist and a murderer, but I wasn’t supposed to be his judge or his jury.”

“Oh, Joe,” Charlotte said, her eyes filled with compassion. “That’s terrible, but who could have blamed you?”

“A lot of people. I’m supposed to follow the law, not break it. I realized I’d reached a turning point. I quit the department a few weeks later, took some time to get my head together. I worked construction for my brother-in-law for a while, babysat the nieces and nephews, passed the time. Then my uncle Carlos died and left this house to me, and I drove up here to see the place. I was going to fix it up and sell it, but as soon as I walked through the door, I knew I was home. Luckily, the police department here needed a new chief. It all worked out.”

“It must be vastly different to be a police officer here in Angel’s Bay.”

“Like night and day. I love what I’m doing now. I never stopped wanting to be a cop; I was just overwhelmed with the grimness of it all. It was changing me, and I didn’t like who I was becoming, so I made the move. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a move Rachel wanted me to make.”

“She must have seen what your job was doing to you.”

“She was busy building her real-estate business.
Her view of L.A. was mansions in Beverly Hills and beachfront property in Malibu, celebrity parties and designer clothes. We were living in the same town but not the same world.”

“Her world doesn’t sound that bad.”

“It’s not bad; it’s just not what I want. Okay, your turn.”

She thought for a moment. “My favorite color is yellow.”

He laughed. “We’re sharing secrets here.”

A wide grin spread across her face. “That
is
a secret. Everyone else thinks it’s blue.”

“You’re going to leave me out on this ledge all by myself? Come on, Charlotte. Tell me something no one else knows.”

She hesitated for a long moment, her smile slowly disappearing. “I really wish you weren’t married.”

He swallowed hard. He hadn’t been expecting her to admit that. “I might not be married for very much longer.”

“I know,” she whispered.

The air between them sizzled with anticipation . . . then his cell phone rang. He wanted to let it go, but with the festival starting, he’d promised to be on call. He took it out of his pocket, even more disturbed when he saw the number. “It’s Rachel.”