Page 102 of Moonshine Kiss
“So here’s the thing, Jonah,” I began.
48
Cassidy
Thanksgiving morning arrived with me in a post-orgasmic bliss coma with Bowie’s warm body wrapped around mine. We’d had sex eight times, gone on two dates, and had enjoyed one very satisfying Netflix and chill. I still had a job. And no one—besides Jonah—was any the wiser.
My smugness was replaced with the realization that it was one thing hiding a relationship behind closed doors. It was quite another to get through an entire Thanksgiving afternoon with both our families and come out unscathed.
Reluctantly, I wiggled out of Bowie’s grasp and moved to the edge of the bed. I studied him. That thick dark hair, tousled from sleep and my hands. The straight nose, firm lips. He had a subtle hollow under the high Bodine cheekbones and above the strong jawline.
The man was something to look at. And he was mine. Unable to help myself, I reached out and skimmed my hand over his bicep. I loved the feel of his skin against mine. My heart did that odd little pitter pat. I lovedhim. How exactly did I think I was going to hide this from my mother? Or Scarlett? Or Gram-Gram? Or any of the other two dozen people who’d be downing carbs and shouting at football players through the TV screen?
One last look, one last stroke and I grabbed my pajamas off the floor and headed out. I needed to strategize.
* * *
Strategizing got the coffee brewed,two pumpkin pies in Bowie’s oven, and a broccoli casserole in my own. The cats were fed and enjoying their first round of morning naps. My kitchen looked like a cooking war zone with dirty dishes everywhere and a neat stack of food storage containers hopeful for leftovers.
The small scanner whirred away on my kitchen table kicking out old case files like it was in a watermelon seed spitting contest. The digital files neatly organizing themselves on my laptop.
I peeked out the back door and took in the view of my top secret boyfriend grilling up fresh vegetables Jonah had shoved at him before heading out for the Turkey Trot 5k. Suede moccasins, sweat pants slung low on narrow hips, and a thermal shirt that fit him just right. Bowie was prettier than a picture. I had no idea how I was going to get through an entire afternoon without looking like I wanted to devour the man instead of the feast.
As if he sensed me, Bowie looked up from the grill. He shot me that good guy grin and my insides went to goop. Warm wonderful goop. I ducked back inside and tried to focus. Secrets. Keeping them from the people who knew me the best in the world. If I could hide my relationship with Bowie from them, then keeping it from Connelly for the next five weeks should be a cake walk. It should be enough time to prove to the man that I wasn’t some lame duck. I was a cop and a good one.
The scanner beeped, telling me it was time to feed it some more documents. I’d paid for it out of my own pocket when I realized that technology had advanced beyond the ancient dinosaur that practically hand drew recreations of documents at the station. I one-clicked this puppy faster than a pair of 50-percent-off Uggs.
I let Connelly think he was forcing me into overtime with the menial task, when in reality I took the stack of files home every night and wrapped it up in an hour. Handy. And totally worth the look on his scowly face every morning when the files were neatly stacked on the conference table.
Not only could I write off the expense, I could finally go through Gram-Gram’s photo albums and get everyone digital copies of our sordid family tree. I poured a second cup of coffee, propped my feet up on the table, and considered it a win. It was a wonder what a night of lovemaking and a day off did to the optimism.
The next file was a thicker one. I opened it wondering what Bootleg lore awaited me.
My feet hit the floor.
It was an accident report. One fatality. Weather-related.
Constance Bodine, age 40.
The memories hit me one after the other like hammers.
Dad coming home ashen-faced, soaked to the bone. Mom wrapping him up in a hard hug not minding his sopping rain slicker.
Scarlett sobbing into my shoulder while June made tea that no one wanted.
Bowie in a suit staring down at the cheap pine coffin in the cemetery.
Jonah Sr. had been too drunk to attend his own wife’s funeral. So it was the Bodine kids who stood for their mother.
Bad luck.That’s what everyone had said when word spread.Nothing but bad luck for the Bodine family.Scarlett and her brothers had propped each other up that day and from then on. The four of them—five now with Jonah—were a unit.
I paged through, finding my father’s handwritten report on the scene. Low visibility. Foggy. The skies had held off long enough before opening up on the first responders. Connie had gone through a guardrail halfway down Winding Hill Road, a mountainous stretch of serpent curves and steep drop-offs. She’d had some kind of appointment in Perrinville. No one had bothered to ask her what it was about. No one had the chance to.
The coroner’s report was included. Blunt force trauma. The car had smashed through the guardrail and tumbled thirty feet down the embankment into a tree. She’d been dead when officers arrived on the scene.
Someone, my father most likely, had neatly clipped the obituary from the newspaper. They’d run it with her high school senior picture. Connie had been full of big dreams that she’d never realized. She’d shouldered the disappointment of young motherhood, of never having enough, with sheer stubbornness. I often got the feeling she was holding out hope that her lot in life would change someday. But it hadn’t. It had simply ended.
There were a handful of pictures of the road, the guardrail, the car. Grainy with the flash of a cheap camera trying to cut through the wet, dark night. Growing up, I’d spent as much time in Connie’s sedan as I had my mother’s Jeep Cherokee.
