Page 26 of Edge of Whispers

But I was genuinely surprised when I found myself pulling up under the big maple that shaded my own driveway. This was a tricky choice to sell in her current mood. It had started raining as we drove there. Water drummed down on the truck in the silence.

At the diner, she had been grilling me about my ideal woman. Which meant that she was skeptical about our chances, just like I was. That she was thinking about it anyway, just like I was.

Nancy looked around, as if waking from a dream. “Huh? Where are we?”

I braced myself. “This is my house.”

Her gaze cut nervously away. “Oh. I didn’t even see where we were going. It’s, ah … pretty.” She twisted her hands and stared, wide-eyed, at the water sluicing down the windshield. “That poor guy,” she said. “And his wife. And her mother. How awful.” She looked back at him, her eyes haunted. “This is not a coincidence. You know that, right?”

I hesitated for a moment, unwilling to scare her any further, but honesty prevailed.

“You might be right,” I said. “What happened to Lucia was bad enough on its own. Then the break-in, the letter you found, and now the jeweler. God knows I’m no expert, but it’s such a tight cluster of events. Seems improbable that they aren’t connected.”

We sat there in the cab, watching the rain on the windshield. I reached for her hand. It was as cold as ice. I put my other hand on top, gently rubbing it. Wishing I could lift it to my lips, but that was still a bridge too far.

“Come on in,” I urged her. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

She stared down at her hand, clasped in mine, not agreeing, not pulling away.

“I’m the opposite of your ideal woman, you know,” she blurted out.

My jaw clenched. “The whole ‘ideal woman’ thing is made up out of nothing,” I said, hoping it was true. “Let’s pretend we never talked about it.”

She shook her head, ignoring my suggestion. “All that bread-making and flower-growing and candle-dipping and mellowness,” she said. “It ain’t me, babe. Let that be right up front. Right out in the open.”

“The candle-dipping and the toothpick carving is a bit much,” I commented.

“Not really,” she said. “So where does that leave us?”

I looked up at the bare, dripping tree, the heavy clouds. “At the moment, it leaves us parked outside, in a truck, in the rain.”

Her face turned pink. “You want me to come in?”

“Only if you want to,” I said. Hah. I wanted her to come in more than I wanted my next lungful of air.

“I hardly know you,” she whispered. “I know zero about you.”

“We can fix that. Come in for a cup of tea. We’ll tell each other stories.”

“That’s very nice of you. But it’s not a good idea to have a first date in one’s own private space.” Her voice sounded prim.

I felt myself start to grin. “Is that what it would be? Doesn’t breakfast count?”

She looked flustered. “I don’t know. Second date, then. What would you call it?”

I drummed my fingers on the wheel. “I’d call it a cup of tea.”

Nancy wrapped her arms around herself. “Well. Actually, I don’t think that breakfast counts. It wasn’t premeditated. And a first date—that is, um, any first encounter—should take place on a mutually agreed-upon neutral ground. A public place, like a bar, or a restaurant. And just a drink, not dinner. Just to see how it goes.”

“Is that how it’s done?” I dared to lift her hand and press a soft kiss against her knuckles. “All right, then. Tea’s a drink, right? But I still think breakfast counts.”

“No.” She sounded breathless. “No way. We’re nowhere yet. Breakfast doesn’t count. Intention is everything.”

“Now that is the God’s own truth.” It almost felt like I was in a dream, watching myself stroke her cheek. Warm, soft, as exquisitely smooth as I’d imagined. She smelled good. Warm. Sweet. Like honey. Like rain.

She made a low, inarticulate sound as I stroked her again, feeling the sharp angle of her jaw, studying the fine, delicate details. Dazed by her softness.

I leaned forward in tiny increments, until our faces nearly touched. We commenced a slow, careful dance of advance, retreat. Feeling her breath against my cheek, stroking her jaw. Tracing that elegant jut of delicately sculpted cheekbone beneath her skin.

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