Three Weeks Later
The Spanish moss hung from the live oaks like mourning veils, swaying in a breeze too faint to feel.
Dove stood apart from the small cluster of people gathered around the fresh grave at the family burial site on Mallor's Landing, her black shirt already sticking to her skin in the late morning humidity. She rubbed her hands over her black jeans. It wasn’t funeral attire, and she stood out like a northerner in the winter with pasty skin. But she didn’t own a dress. And the other pants she had in her closet were either for workouts or camo, and Dove figured Linda would forgive her.
The minister had finished his final prayer ten minutes ago, but no one seemed ready to leave. They lingered the way people do at funerals—shuffling feet, murmured condolences, the awkward arithmetic of grief. Dove didn’t do this part of life well. Hell, she didn’t do the living part of life well. Hadn’t in a long time, if ever. The only place she’d ever felt like she’d fit in had been the Army, but even there, she’d had walls. Big ones.
An Army therapist once told her that she used sarcasm and sex to mask her feelings of being misunderstood, unaccepted, and alone. That she hid behind her weapon and her walls because the idea of being vulnerable was scarier than being killed.
Dove hadn’t been able to argue any of those points.
Through the scope of her rifle, from an overwatch position three hundred feet away, she’d watched helplessly as her entire team got blown to hell. Her entire world had shattered. Everything she believed about herself crumbled into a big pile of dust. With no passion left for much of anything, she’d left the Army. Encouraged by her favorite uncle, a US Marshal, she took a job with the Aegis Network.
It was there that she began to piece herself back together and find new purpose.
But it was Calusa Cove and its people who showed her how to rebuild her life and tear down her walls. Across the grave, she watched Trent. He stood stiff with his broad shoulders square between his father's tombstone and the freshly dug grave for his mother. He filled out his dark shirt and slacks with thick muscles. His wavy hair touched the back of his neck, and he'd styled it, something he normally didn't bother with, but that his mother would have appreciated. His hands were fisted at his sides like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. She wished Trent could find a way to punch through the layers of brick he'd formed around himself.
While the entire town had attended Linda Mallor's funeral service at the church, her final send-off was a small affair. A couple of dozen people—just those Trent considered family—milled around the gravesite. But she suspected that Mallor's Landing would be a revolving door for the next few hours.
A few more people strolled toward the access road to their vehicles. Only a few remained.
Buddy Ballard, Dove’s boss, stood with his arm around his girlfriend, Fallon, her auburn hair vivid against the dark fabric of her dress. Juniper from Massey's Pub was there, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Silas Monroe stood alone near the back, hat in his hands, looking like he'd aged ten years since Dove had seen him last week.
And then there were the Hendersons. She doubted Trent had invited them to the gravesite, so she had to wonder why they were here. Hopefully, it wasn’t what she suspected.
Trent stood at the head of the grave like something rooted, immovable as the cypress trees lining the water. He'd shaken hands and accepted embraces and said all the right things, but it was clear in his gaze that he was somewhere else entirely. Someplace no one could follow.
Dove watched Buddy lean in and say something to him, watched Fallon rise on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Trent nodded at whatever they said, his expression unchanging. Then they stepped away, Buddy catching Dove's eye and giving her a small nod as they passed.
She was about to go to Trent when the Hendersons approached.
Dove hadn’t ever met them before and only recognized them because Trent had pointed them out once before. They were in their mid-fifties, maybe. Well-dressed in that understated way that whispered money without shouting it. The woman had silver-blonde hair swept back in an expensive-looking updo. The man wore a suit that fit too well to be off the rack.
Dove stayed where she was, watching. The woman spoke first, reaching out to touch Trent's arm. He accepted the contact stiffly, his shoulders drawing back almost imperceptibly. The man said something. Trent just stood there. Dove had seen warmer responses from a closed door.
That was enough for Dove to move.
She crossed the distance between them, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth with each step. She came up beside Trent and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, a casual gesture that was anything but.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Trent smiled. It was weak, but it was something.
The couple turned to look at her. Up close, the woman's smile was pleasant but Dove had learned over the years that meant nothing. The man's handshake, when he offered it, was a little too firm. Like he was trying to prove something. Or maybe make a statement.
"Beau Henderson," he said. "And this is my wife, Emma. We were just offering our condolences to Trent. Linda was always so kind to us whenever we visited Calusa Cove. She was such a sweet woman.”
“That she was,” Dove agreed.
"We live a few towns northwest,” Emma added. "But we've been coming here for years. Such a charming community. But I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“I’m sorry.” Trent cleared his throat. “This is my friend, Dove Quinn.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Dove said. “Though, the circumstances suck.”
“Exactly what my mom would’ve said.” Trent patted her hand.
“A sense of humor is a good thing,” Emma said, her smile faltering slightly. "We should let you get back to your guests. But—" She paused, exchanging a glance with her husband. "If you ever change your mind, our offer still stands. No pressure, of course. Just know the door is open."
