The irony here was that he knew how to fight—dirty, clean, martial arts, you name it. He could tackle like a tank and shoot the hearts out of targets; he knew how to deftly, methodically grill a suspect to yield up sordid truths or soothe a frightened burglary victim. But none of that was a match for a stubborn Glory Greenleaf. It wasn’t enough to be himself anymore, because that’s who she was mad at. And with her, he didn’t know what else to be.
She wasn’t the only one who was hurt and angry. But he was the only one getting shut out.
And that, frankly, was making him even angrier. And the quagmire of emotions he felt about the whole thing, the ones he never could seem to transmute into the right words, had now cranked up to something past a simmer.
It was also starting to feel a little like gamesmanship.
Still, being played was marginally better than the notion that she might be ambivalent. That she might need to flip a mental coin between the humble deputy who’d slammed her beloved brother to the floor and hauled him off in handcuffs and the hot, too-slick-for-his-own-good actor, who might just be the conduit to superstardom and the end of open mic nights at the Misty Cat.
He scowled at that grinning stone gnome with his hands on his hips. The one who appeared to be getting a blow job. At the moment, he envied that gnome for being made out of stone. And for the other thing, too.
“I have a granddaughter, too, you know,” Mrs.Kilgore added, suddenly, competitively. “She’s very pretty.”
Eli stifled a sigh. He was completely unsurprised that everyone knew his business.
Quick as a wink, Mrs.Kilgore swiped a photo up on her phone and pointed it at him.
Carlotta Kilgore’s granddaughter looked a lot like her—pretty, sultry with masses of wavy brown hair. She was pouting to show off her new lipstick, if Eli had to guess at the story behind the photo. Which was iridescent and red. She was doing one of those sideways peace signs, and what was the deal with those? Whatever happened to just letting your face speak for itself?
One granddaughter at a time was about all he could handle, at the moment, thank you very much.
“Thank you for sharing. You must be very proud of her,” he said gently.
Mrs.Kilgore glowed.Thatwould be how he’d halt the advancing armies of elders in its tracks: he’d flatter all their grandchildren, and then they would melt into puddles.
“I have to get a move on, Mrs.Kilgore, but I’ll write up this incident and I’ll make sure theHellcat Canyon Chroniclequotes me on the fact that even whimsical vandalism is a crime. And, um... gang... warfare is in particular frowned upon by law enforcement officials.”
He hiked a brow and fixed her with a good shot of his steely-gray gaze to make sure Mrs.Kilgore and her sprinkling beagle understood this.
“Okay, Eli,” she said, humbly. “Thank you.”
He got back in his cruiser. And when he shut the door behind him, it was a little too quiet in there. His thoughts were not his friends these days. And when he was still, that ever-present tightness in his gut made itself known.
And then suddenly a text chimed in.
It was from Bethany.
Hey Eli! I wondered if you’d like to go with me to see The Baby Owls at the Misty Cat , if you’re free?
She’d included an emoji of a bird and a cat.
Hs smiled faintly. It was breezy. Like Bethany.
There was no way Glory wouldn’t be at that show.
Then again, there was probably no way Francone wouldn’t be there, either.
And there was really no reason why he should deny himself the company of a pretty woman, or an acoustic show by a band he liked. It was time to get re-acquainted with his resolve.
He texted back:
I’d love to, thanks.
Glory trailed Sherrie for most of the breakfast shift, watching how she made everyone feel like a beloved member of the Misty Cat Family, how she deftly extricated herself from conversations with her customers in order to make sure everyone got quick service but didn’t feel slighted, how she timed the delivery of food orders, and Glory knew she was watching a master. She thought she did a pretty good job of pretending to be fascinated, but she doubted Sherrie was entirely fooled.
Sherrie finally set Glory loose to take tables on her own at the beginning of the lunch rush, which proved mostly uneventful. She knew about half the people she waited on but she’d never kissed, worked for, or insulted any of them, either inadvertently or otherwise, so by about two o’clock she was about ready to exhale in relief as she waited on her final customer.
He was an older guy, and her tired eyes rather enjoyed the contrasts of him: silver hair brushed backward off his forehead, bright blue eyes, a suspiciously even golden tan and a coral-colored collared shirt sporting a little logo of a guy on the back of a horse swinging a mallet over his head, which reminded her incongruously of Giorgio wielding his spatula at the grill. The shirt was in fact perilously close to pink, a color no man she knew personally would be caught dead in, but which pro golfers and wealthy car dealers and the like could pull off. He’d added a slim gold chain to his neck. She was always kind of touched when men decided on a piece of jewelry. Did he think his outfit wasn’t complete without it? Or did he just like shiny things?
