“Well, I’ll tell you what you can do, if you’re in a hurry. You turn around and head straight up this road for about five miles. You’re going to see signs to route 70. Take the eastbound. You’ll hit the Washington Beltway—that’s 495—in just about an hour.”
“I told you not to get off the highway,” Marsha said again.
George huffed. “How was I supposed to know some little one-horse town would block off the streets?”
“If you’re not in a hurry,” Devin continued, calm as a lake, “you can turn around and pull into that field where there’s a sign for parking. It’s free. We got a nice parade here.” He glanced over as a junior majorette tossed up her baton and snagged it, to the forceful applause of the crowd. “I can give you a nice, pretty route into D.C.”
“I haven’t got time for any damn parade.” Puffing out his cheeks, George slapped the sedan in reverse. Devin could hear them arguing as he jockeyed the car into a turn and headed off.
“Ain’t that a shame…” Devin muttered, and turned, nearly knocking Cassie over. He grabbed her instinctively, then let her go as if her skin had burned his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”
“I thought I should wait until you’d finished being diplomatic.”
“Yeah. George and Marsha don’t know what they’re missing.”
Smiling, she watched the senior majorettes twirl and tumble. But in her mind she was still seeing Devin in his uniform. So competent and male. “I know. You must be hot. Would you like me to get you a drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Ah…” His tongue was in knots. He didn’t know the last time he’d seen her in shorts. And over the years he’d done his best not to think about her legs. Now here they were, all long and smooth, showcased by neat little cuffed shorts the color of plums. “Where’s Emma?”
“She’s made friends with the little McCutcheon girl, Lucy. They’re in her yard.” It was easier to talk to him if she wasn’t looking at him, so Cassie concentrated on the slow-moving convertible and its passenger, the waving and flouncily dressed current agriculture princess. “Are you angry with me, Devin?”
“No, of course not.” He stared so hard at the princess that she flashed him a brilliant, hopeful smile, and a very personal wave. But it was Cassie he saw, looking shocked and delicate. And beautiful.
“You’ve flustered Julie,” Cassie murmured, noting the exchange.
“Julie? Who’s Julie?”
Her quick laugh surprised them both. Then they were staring at each other. “Are you sure you’re not mad?”
“No. Yes. Yes, I’m sure.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, where they would be safe. “Not at you. At me. Like I said, I was out of line the other day.”
“I didn’t mind.”
The blare of the next band rang in his ears. He was sure he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Excuse me?”
“I said I—” She broke off when his two-way squawked.
“Sheriff. Sheriff, this here’s Donnie. We got a little situation down to quadrant C. You there, Sheriff?”
“Quadrant C, my butt,” Devin muttered. “He’s at the elementary school. Watching too many Dragnet reruns.”
“I’ll let you go,” Cassie said quickly as he whipped out his two-way. “You’re busy.”
“If you’d—” He cursed again, because she was already hurrying through the cheering crowd. “MacKade,” he snapped into the receiver.
The little situation turned out to be a harmless brawl between overly loyal students at rival high schools. Devin broke it up, snarled at Donnie, then helped a mother deal with her terrified daughter, who had lost her breakfast over the idea of twirling her baton in public.
By the time the last marching boot clicked, the last flag waved and the last balloon drifted into the sky, he had to oversee the traffic headed for the park and the cleanup detail, and help a couple of weeping lost children find their way back to Mama.
He took his time cooling off under the stingy spray of his office shower, then gratefully retired his uniform until the next official event. By the time he made it to the park and snuck the cruiser in behind a trail of cars, the picnic, with its grilling food and boisterous games, was well under way.
There was softball, horseshoes, pitching contests, egg-throwing contests, three-legged races. He saw Shane nuzzling Frannie Spader, the curvy redhead he had so generously offered Devin a few days before.
There was Rafe, stepping up to bat, and Jared winding up to pitch. Regan and Savannah were spread out in the shade with their babies.
There were dogs and kids, big-bellied men sitting in lawn chairs, discussing sports and politics, old women fanning themselves and laughing. There was Cy, the town mayor, looking ridiculous as always, sporting a pair of violently checkered Bermuda shorts that exposed far too much of his hairy legs.
Mrs. Metz was shouting encouragement to her grandchildren, gnawing on a chicken leg and gossiping with Miss Sarah Jane.