The Old Coots Club had mobilized, too, and brought their silverware and salad plates to order. They clustered around her, fussing over her wet skirt, making sure the broken shards hadn’t cut her hand.
“I’ll make it right, Allie.” Sarge had washed his hands somehow, probably in his water glass. He put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll talk to Flip and make sure he doesn’t dock you for the food. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she said honestly. Flip wasn’t here today, but he’d believe her version of the story. He knew what the Old Coots were like. Now and then, they’d break into a barbershop quartet version of some sad old song, like “Apple Blossom Time,” or “Sixteen Tons,” which would enchant the other customers, at least until Dickey O’Connor started crying. And last week Bill and Stuart Phipps had brawled up one end of the café and down the other, all because Bill had insulted Elizabeth Taylor.
Flip said they were like a free floor show. Plus, they were great customers. Every one of them an eccentric, well-to-do widower who hated eating alone at home. Mostly, though, Flip put up with them because, like everyone else who lived year-round in Windsor Beach, he loved the goofy old guys.
“Hey. Allie. Over here.” For some reason, Dickey O’Connor was talking out of one side of his mouth. Only five feet tall, and a hundred pounds soaking wet, he was a wonderful storyteller, but he was a little too fond of drama. He frequently created cloak-and-dagger mysteries out of thin air.
Maybe he was going to warn her that her fall had been orchestrated by the evil conspirators of Shadowland. But she’d play along. Dickey was probably the closest of all the Old Coots to a nursing home, though it broke her heart to think of it.
“Psst. Allie.”
She glanced once at Redmond, who seemed to be watching the whole thing with a strangely analytical interest, as if he were an anthropologist studying some indigenous tribe. Then she joined Dickey at the side of the table.
“Here, honey,” he said under his breath, sounding more like a gangster than the honest, retired Irish boat-builder he was. He had something hidden in his hand, which he held stiffly at his side. He gestured jerkily, trying to get her attention. “Here.”
She put her own hand out, low and sneaky, as obviously was required.
He nodded, satisfied. “You don’t need anything from Sarge,” he said. “This’ll make it right.” He flicked his hand and dropped something in hers. Then, laying one finger aside his nose, he glided smoothly away, pretending it hadn’t happened.
She turned her back to him, and opened her hand. Glittering against her palm was a very large, very beautiful, but very fake diamond. Oh, Dickey.
Sighing hard, she clamped her fingers shut over her palm, then slid the diamond into her pocket. As if she didn’t have enough to do…
She felt suddenly prickly, as though someone were staring at her. She glanced up. Redmond was only a few feet away, watching her intently. The expression on his face had changed dramatically in the past few minutes.
His eyes were cold. His mouth, which had looked quite nice in a smile, was tight, utterly unyielding. He flicked a glance at her pocket, then returned his gaze to her face without blinking.
She tilted her head, confused.
In response, he casually tossed some bills on the table. “Sorry,” he said. He smiled, but his voice was cool under the surface friendliness. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay after all.”
Then he turned and walked away. Within seconds he had simply exited the restaurant without ordering a single thing.
What on earth?
For a minute, the strange attitude stung her. She stared stupidly at the door. Had he received a call…some emergency? No…his attitude had felt almost hostile. And oddly personal.
Had he watched the weird interlude with Dickey? Did he think she was doing something criminal? Or was simply greedy? Her cheeks flushed. Was he daring to pass judgment on her for accepting the diamond?
What the hell did he know about Dickey, about her…about anything?
Then she forced herself to turn away, brushing the feeling aside. Redmond Malone was nothing to her. A total stranger. A stranger she didn’t even like very much. The fact that he had an overabundance of sex appeal only made him that much less desirable, at least in her life.
So good riddance, Mr. Mercedes. She wouldn’t waste another minute worrying about it. As a single mother, she’d fought too long and too hard to get where she was today. She’d had to eliminate old, deeply ingrained patterns. To keep herself focused, she’d created a both a Do list and a Don’t list.
The Do list included saving money, working hard, keeping a positive attitude, opening her restaurant. Creating a good, secure life for her little boy.
The Don’t list was simpler still.
Men.
CHAPTER THREE
RED KNEW HER HOME ADDRESS, of course. Lewis had provided it in the packet of contracts and other legal odds and ends. It was a small second-floor apartment in a white concrete block building. Nice porch from which you might, if you were about ten feet tall, catch a postage stamp–size glimpse of the Pacific in the distance.
The landlord didn’t exactly kill himself with the yard care, letting a few rock gardens and one stringy hibiscus suffice as landscaping. But he seemed to keep up with the paint and repairs pretty well, which helped.
It wasn’t a crummy address, but of course it was on the “wrong” side of town, which meant not on the water. Windsor was a small pocket beach about an hour south of San Francisco, one of the few little towns that didn’t even try to be artsy. The low bluffs, sandy beach and warm water had originally attracted the retirees who wanted to be left alone, and now the old guys were constantly at war with the Chamber of Commerce, which wanted to attract more paying tourists.
Two categories of people lived in Windsor Beach year-round. One—those retired, relaxed rich people. And two—the housekeepers, waiters, shop owners and repairmen who facilitated their cushy existence. About twenty-five hundred people, all told.
Red had been waiting across the street for the past hour. He hoped Bill Longmire wouldn’t be stopping by tonight, but he’d bought all the extra coverage the rental agency offered, in case.
The western sky had taken on a deep pink tinge before Allison finally drove up in her Honda. As soon as she parked on the tiny asphalt driveway, he opened his own door and called her name.
She didn’t seem to hear him. She got out slowly, stuffing her sneakers into her purse and taking a minute to rub and flex her arches. She still had on her striped uniform. She must have worked all day. No wonder her feet hurt.
She put her purse on the hood, then crossed to the passenger side of the backseat and leaned in. Oh. Right. He really wasn’t thinking very clearly about this whole thing, was he? He’d forgotten she probably would have the baby with her.
Victor’s son. The birth certificate listed the baby’s name as Edward James York. Mother, Allison Rowena York. Father, a blank line.
As she pulled the lumpy bundle out of its car seat, Red steeled himself not to react. He’d been around enough kids to know it wasn’t likely he’d recognize Victor’s features in the face of a three-month-old. His brother Matt’s little girl was the spitting image of her mom, Belle. But that hadn’t happened until she was…maybe two. His friend David Gerard’s son, same thing. At three months, babies all still looked as if they’d been hastily molded out of Play-Doh.
He called her name again, and she turned, tucking the baby’s blanket under her chin so that she could see. What was left of the