Rick Sullivan would only cause her trouble. She should really stop spending so much time thinking about him and worry more about her own life.
* * *
Rick’s layoff notice finally came, one day before the end of the month. Rent was due in forty-eight hours and his truck was nearly out of gas. It made no sense to pay rent for a tiny dump when a perfectly good house with no mortgage and up-to-date taxes was sitting vacant, so he put in his notice and moved home.
Tom had repeated his job offer of installing Jess’s shelving, but Rick hadn’t given him an answer yet. It felt weird, accepting a paycheck from his best friend. Besides, Jess would never agree. He knew exactly what she thought. They were old friends and she felt sorry for him. To a point. But she hadn’t exactly jumped at the idea at the café the other day. He still remembered the look of relief that had passed over her face when he’d refused.
So … first things first. He began with unpacking his painting supplies. Panes of glass, vinegar, rags, paints, brushes, and his sketchbook where he worked out his designs. He put them out in the porch, where all the natural light would flood through when the blinds were opened.
Painting had gotten him through some rough times over the last few months, providing not only something to occupy his hands but his mind, too, when the memories and images wouldn’t leave him alone. He took out the wrapped piece of glass, only five by seven, that he’d been working on. Paul Finnigan’s white boat, bobbing at the Jewell Cove dock in the sunset. It was his favorite so far, a simple scene depicting something he truly enjoyed. Sure, he’d been happy for the job in the boat shack, but he’d longed to be out on the water, too. Anywhere that he didn’t feel boxed in … but Jack hadn’t needed him on the boat, and Rick had taken whatever job was offered.
He sighed. He’d sail the bay another time, maybe with Josh on his new twenty-footer. First he was going to go upstairs and put his clothes away. And then go somewhere for dinner until he could put some groceries in the house.
He worked for an hour or so, settling back in, trying to ignore the memories that crowded around him. No sense in dwelling on the past, because nothing could be changed and you could never go back in time. It was just too bad then that even when he tried to keep occupied during the day, he couldn’t control what he saw when he went to sleep. His dreams usually fell into the categories of mistakes and regrets.
The house was too quiet and his stomach rumbled in the silence, so he headed downtown to Breezes Café for something to eat, avoiding The Rusty Fern because today was one of those days he wasn’t overly confident in his willpower to stay off the rum.
It was growing dark as he made his way to the waterfront, and beams from the streetlights bobbed with the waves on the water. On a Thursday at the end of September, most of the shops closed at six and the traffic was mainly local, making for a quiet, soft evening. There was a back-to-school display still up at Eulalie Harris’s bookstore, Cover to Cover, and Halloween candy was already stocked in the pharmacy storefront for the trick-or-treaters who’d make their way through town in costume in a month’s time. His gaze drifted up the hill toward Jess’s shop on Lilac Lane. Had she closed for the night? Was she holding any of her classes in the back room? He could imagine her shining in that element, surrounded by friends and doing what she loved, her eyes sparkling. Her heavy curls would be pulled back in a ponytail and there would probably be paint splatters on her work shirt as she laughed at something someone said. She had a great laugh, soft and husky. The kind that made a man sit up and take notice.
She never laughed when she was with him. Except for the other day, when he’d been teasing her. When she gave that low, sexy laugh, something inside of him eased.
Frowning, he pulled open the door to the café and stepped inside. As he expected, most of the clientele was local, with some strange faces, probably from the few bed-and-breakfasts scattered around town. Rick went to the counter rather than take a table. It would feel too conspicuous to sit all alone. Pathetic.
“Rick Sullivan. Twice in a week. To what do we owe the pleasure? The Fern must be missing your business.”
Rick tried not to wince. He really had damaged his reputation, hadn’t he? The words were said lightly in simple teasing, but the truth of them cut a little. He forced a smile. “Well, Linda, it’s either Gus’s roast chicken or your apple pie. Maybe a little of each.”
Linda’s face softened. “Aw, hon, you know I’m just teasin’. How’re you making out, anyway? Heard you were moving back into your mom’s house.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I just moved out of my apartment this morning.”
“Nothing is secret in this town.” She flashed him a grin. “You really want the chicken dinner, or do you want a menu?”
“The chicken’s fine. And don’t be stingy on the gravy. Ice cream on the pie, too, please.”
“You got it.”
She bustled away, leaving Rick nothing to do but sit and wait.
He’d folded a paper napkin into a tulip when someone sat on the stool next to him. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Bryce Arseneault said jovially.
Rick looked over at the police chief. Once the two of them had nearly gotten caught drinking Pete Arseneault’s Wild Turkey and smoking behind the school. It had been Bryce who had shown Rick how to jimmy the lock to the auditorium. They’d waited there until the coast was clear. Rick always found it ironic and more than a bit amusing that Bryce was now t
he head of law enforcement for the town.
Rick picked up his ice water and took a sip. “Maybe you should sit somewhere else. You might tarnish my good reputation.”
Bryce chuckled. “Right back atcha. How’re you making out? Heard you moved back home.”
Rick shook his head. “Grapevine’s alive and well, I see. Yes, I’m back at my mom’s house.” His house now. He wondered if he’d ever see it that way.
Linda came back with Rick’s dinner and nodded at Bryce. “What can I get you, Chief?”
“Piece of whatever pie you’ve got back there and a coffee. Thanks, Linda.”
She disappeared and Bryce rested his elbows on the counter. “Seriously, Rick … how’re you doing?”
“Trying to keep it so you don’t have to haul my ass to the drunk tank.”