The Best Man (Blue Heron #1)(5)
The waiter gave her the check. “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready,” he said. Great. On top of all that, she had to pay for dinner, too.
“Your tip would’ve been a lot bigger if you’d backed me up,” she told him, digging in her purse for her wallet.
“You really do look great in that dress,” he said.
“Too late.”
When she’d paid the bill (and really, Clint, thanks for ordering a seventy-five dollar bottle of wine), she went out into the damp, cold San Francisco air and started walking. It wasn’t far to her apartment, even in heels. The streets of San Francisco were nothing compared to the steep hills of home. Consider it her cardio. Pissed-Off Woman Workout. The Stomp of the Righteous and Rejected. It was noisy down here at the wharf, the seagulls crying, music blaring out from every bar and restaurant, a dozen different languages bouncing around her.
Back home, the only sound would be the late-season crickets and the call of the owl family who lived in an old maple at the edge of the cemetery. The air would be sweet with the smell of grapes, tinged with wood smoke, because already, the nights would be cooling down. From her old bedroom window, she’d be able to see all the way to Keuka. She’d spent her childhood playing in woods and fields, breathing the clean air of western New York, swimming in glacier-formed lakes. Her love of the outdoors was the main reason she’d become a landscape architect—the chance to woo people from their increasingly interior lives and enjoy nature a little bit more.
Maybe it was time to start thinking seriously about moving back. That had always been the plan, anyway. Live in Manningsport, raise a family, be close to her sibs and father.
Clint Bundt. Married with a kid. Such a hemorrhoid. Well. Soon she’d be home with her dog. Liza probably was out with her guy, the Wonderful Mike, so Faith could watch Real Housewives and eat some Ben & Jerry’s.
Why was it so hard to find the right guy? Faith didn’t think she was too picky; she just wanted someone who wasn’t g*y, married, unkind, amoral or too short. Someone who’d look at her...well, the way Jeremy had. His dark, liquid eyes would tell her she was the best thing that ever happened to him, always a smile in their depths. Never once had she doubted that he loved her completely.
Her phone rang, and she fished it out of her purse. Honor. “Hey,” she said, feeling the faint pang of alarm she always felt when her sister called. “How are you?”
“Have you talked to Dad recently?” her sister said.
“Um...yeah. We talk almost every day.”
“Then I suppose you’ve heard about Lorena.”
Faith twisted to avoid a cute guy in a Derek Jeter T-shirt. “I’m a Yankees fan, too,” she told him with a smile. He frowned and took the hand of an irritable-looking woman next to him. Message received, buddy, and jeesh. Only trying to be friendly. “Who’s Lorena?” she asked her sister.
Honor sighed. “Faith, you might want to get home before Dad gets married.”
CHAPTER TWO
LEVI COOPER, CHIEF OF POLICE of the Manningsport Police Department, all two and a half of them, tried to give people a break. He did. Even the tourists with the lead feet, Red Sox stickers and complete disregard for speed limits. He parked the cruiser in plain sight, the radar gun clearly visible. Hi there, welcome to Manningsport, you’re going way too fast and here I am, about to pull you over, so slow down, pal. The town depended on visitors, and September was prime tourism season; the leaves were starting to turn, buses had been rolling in and out of town all week, and every vineyard in the area had some special event going on.
But the law was the law.
Plus, he’d just let Colleen O’Rourke off with a stern lecture and a warning while she tried to look remorseful.
So another speeder just wasn’t going to be tolerated today. This one, for example. Seventeen miles an hour over the limit, more than enough. Also, an out-of-towner; he could see the rental plates from here. The car was a painfully bright yellow Honda Civic, currently clocking in at forty-two miles per hour in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. What if Carol Robinson and her merry band of geriatric power-walkers were out? What if the Nebbins kid was riding his bike? There hadn’t been a fatal crash in Manningsport since he’d been chief, and Levi planned on keeping it that way.
The yellow car sailed past him, not even a tap on the brakes. The driver wore a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Female. With a sigh, Levi put on the lights, gave the siren a blip and pulled onto the road. She didn’t notice. He hit the siren again, and the driver seemed to realize that, yes, he was talking to her, and pulled over.
Grabbing his ticket pad, Levi got out of the cruiser. Wrote down the license plate number, then went over to the driver’s side, where the window was lowering. “Welcome to Manningsport,” he said, not smiling.
Shit.
It was Faith Holland. A giant Golden retriever shoved its head out of the window and barked once, wagging happily.
“Levi,” she said, as if they’d seen each other last week at O’Rourke’s.
“Holland. You visiting?”
“Wow. That’s amazing. How did you guess?”
He looked at her, not amused, and let a few beats pass. It worked; her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. “So. Forty-two in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone,” he said.
“I thought it was thirty-five,” she said.