Page 5 of The Wish List
“Sorry,” she said automatically. “I was planning to clean up the mess. The bottle fell out when I opened the back to grab a wad of toilet paper.”
“Have you been drinking, ma’am?”
She laughed then shut her mouth when it was clear the cop wasn’t joking. “No, sir. I’m heading to my mom’s house for the holidays. I picked up wine to bring for my sisters. I’m not drinking. I haven’t been drinking.”
A car whooshed by, and he lifted his gaze to follow it. Another speeder was getting away with her stuck here explaining an innocent mistake but feeling guilty, nonetheless.
“I’d like to see your license and registration. Would you mind taking a field sobriety test?” he asked conversationally.
This wasn’t a conversation Trinity relished. “Yes,” she answered then immediately amended her response. “I mean, no. I don’t have a problem with the test, but I told my sisters I’d be at the rehab facility by five. They’re going to wonder where I am.”
“Rehab?” One thick brow rose.
“Shoreline Rehabilitation Center,” she clarified. “My mother is there recovering from a stroke, not that it’s any of your business.”
She shouldn’t have added the last bit. She needed to channel her former sunny self, but her back hurt, her eyelids practically needed toothpicks to keep them open, and she already felt the urge to pee again. A gentle kick to her middle reminded Trinity of why it would not serve her to get on the wrong side of a cop.
Not that she expected protection. Still, no sense tempting fate more than she already had by leaving her former life and all that went with it without a backward glance.
“Are you talking about May Carlyle?” the cop asked, his voice gentler.
Trinity blinked. “How do you know my mother? You’re not exactly the right demographic to be a fan.”
The ghost of a smile touched his pouty lips and darn if she didn’t want more. The full grin Monty, so to speak. She was past due having an attractive man smile at her for any reason.
Get a grip on yourself, she commanded. Frequent potty breaks weren’t the only unwelcome urge she had these days. Her hormones were all over the place—fat lot of good it did her.
“May is my neighbor.” He cleared his throat. “My daughter was the one who found her.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Eleven. She stopped by the house selling wrapping paper for a school fundraiser. Mr. Jingles was going crazy inside, so Michaela peeked in the window. She could see your mother at the bottom of the staircase.”
Trinity’s brain reeled as she tried to process the man’s words. “Who is Mr. Jingles?” It seemed like the most benign place to start.
“Your mom’s cat.”
“My mom has a cat?”
“You didn’t know? She adores that thing even though he’s surly and massively overweight.”
It was hard for Trinity to visualize her mom adoring anything but herself, let alone an animal that relied on her.
She didn’t like how the officer was staring at her like she was somehow deficient as a daughter for not knowing about her mom’s pet. Or maybe she was lacking because she’d taken off to have her own life and never looked back.
Either way, she didn’t appreciate the scrutiny. “I promise I’m not drinking and driving or drinking at all at the moment.” She tugged at the ends of her shoulder-length hair, about two months past due for a trim. “The wine is for my sisters, obviously not my mom.” She swallowed, blaming the emotions bubbling up inside her on fatigue and nothing deeper. “Do you still need my license?”
“You can go. I hope your mom is doing okay.”
“Me, too,” she said and looked toward the darkening forest, afraid to continue holding the officer’s maple-hued gaze. Afraid of what her blue eyes might reveal. She gestured toward the wine bottle. “I’ll clean this up first.”
“I’ll take care of it.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Asher Davis. My friends call me Ash. I’m the police chief here in Magnolia. We’re all sending good thoughts to your mom. As you can imagine, everyone in the neighborhood cares a lot about her.”
Actually, Trinity couldn’t. She figured Beth would clue her in as to the changes in their mother’s social life. Her sister had told her that their mom had a long recovery in front of her, and the doctors weren’t sure she’d ever regain full speech function.
Trinity didn’t believe it. May always had so much to say. She couldn’t fathom a world where her mother remained quiet for any length of time. She realized the man—Ash—still held out a hand and she took it, registering both the warmth of him and the calluses that covered his palm.
She used to have a thing about work-roughened hands back when she’d been young and stupid. She’d made jokes with her girlfriends about how a man who did hard work was probably good with his hands in other ways as well. That was before she learned the hard way that hands could be used to hurt as well as to fix things.
