Tommy's Mom

“It’s a funny-looking one. I’ve never seen a big blue owl before, have you?”

This time, Tommy shook his head.

“Right here, it says the owl made a noise like owls do. But the letters are too fuzzy for my tired eyes. Can you read them?”

Tommy shook his head again.

“Well, do you suppose you could tell me what an owl says? If not, I’m afraid we won’t be able to finish the book. What do you think this owl said?”

Tommy looked distressed. Worried for him, Holly was about to join them and finish reading the darned book, when Tommy said, almost too softly for her to hear it, “Hooo.”

“That’s it!” Gabe gave Tommy a big hug. “That’s exactly what it says. I’m awake now. Let’s finish this book.” Over Tommy’s head, he caught Holly’s eye and gave her a big, conspiratorial wink.

It was all Holly could do to prevent herself from hurrying across the room to hug them both.

“I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH,” Holly said at the front door awhile later. Tommy was tucked once more into bed, sound asleep.

Gabe had gotten him to talk!

And, very patiently, he hadn’t pressed Tommy to say any more, not that night. But at least that one, tiny “Hooo” had been a start.

“You’re very welcome, Holly.” He was grinning, a very masculine, proud smile. He obviously recognized the significance of his accomplishment.

“So you’re a police chief and a child psychologist. What else do you do?” Holly couldn’t help teasing despite her exhaustion…and the fact that she was aware that, once he left, she was going to be very much alone in this house, a widow by herself with a sleeping child.

“Try me,” he said, his grin growing even broader. Damn, but he was sexy.

And damn her, too, for even noticing. Widow, she reminded herself, grinding the word into her mind, as if her overactive emotions were a food processor. You’re a widow. As in no men, no sex, just loneliness.

For now, that was fine with her. Maybe forever.

And yet, as Gabe shook her hand and held on long enough to warn her to lock her door behind him, there was a lingering heat in her fingers. The sensation bothered her. A lot.

So did the way he looked at her—a disconcerting combo, in the depths of his eyes, of sympathy, amusement, distance…and lust.

Quickly, she shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it. She leaned on it, closing her eyes.

Gabe McLaren wasn’t just a man trying to be kind. He was aware of her as a woman.

She was aware of him as a man.

But that was simply because she was in mourning. Sure, she was lonely—a widow—but she wasn’t stupid.

Gabe McLaren was a cop. He might remain a part of her life until Thomas’s murderer was caught. After that, she’d merely need to convince him that neither Tommy nor she needed his help or any other cop’s to survive.

As she dutifully locked the door, though, she realized something: attempting to convince Gabe McLaren of anything he didn’t want to believe might be as futile as trying to get the wild waves of the Pacific to settle down for an afternoon nap.

HOLLY COULDN’T sleep that night. Big surprise. She hadn’t slept much at all since Thomas’s death.

Why? she wondered, lying in the dark with her eyes wide open. It wasn’t as if they had been so close that she missed him here, in her bed. Or even out of it.

Still…he had been her husband. He’d been a major part of her life, notwithstanding how distant they had become recently.

She groaned and sat up, flicking on the lamp on her bedside table. Glancing around, she recalled how she had so defiantly made this bedroom her own, decorating it with flowery Laura Ashley sheets and curtains.

One of the quilts she’d sewn was folded carefully at her feet. And a couple of her own favorite stitched creations hung on the walls.

What would Gabe McLaren think of her “silly little crafts,” as Thomas had dubbed them?

And why did she even wonder about it? Why hadn’t she shown him any when he’d expressed an interest in seeing her artwork?

Forget it. She had much weightier matters to think about. Like her husband. Thomas was gone forever now. He’d been buried today.

No, yesterday. This was a new day, no matter how early it was.

And no matter what Thomas and she had or hadn’t been to one another at the end, Holly mourned him.

Maybe it would help to keep busy. But she didn’t feel particularly creative right now. Perhaps what she could do was to start going through Thomas’s things.

Not his clothes. Not now, in the middle of the night when she felt so sad. But paperwork. That would keep her mind occupied without devastating her.

She rose, put a light cotton robe over her short nylon gown, and went down the stairs to the small room that had been Thomas’s office. She flicked on the light and sighed, “Oh, Thomas.” He hadn’t liked her to come in here, so she hadn’t, for months. Thomas hadn’t liked to pick up after himself, either, and this room, furnished with desk, chair, small tables for computer and TV, and junk, reflected it. Now, she would have to sort through all the piles, figure out what to save and what to toss.

“Not tonight,” she told herself. She nevertheless picked her way through the debris on the floor and sat down on the desk chair. The room smelled musty. She’d air it out tomorrow.

For now, feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task, she decided just to tackle the smallest piles on the desk. One contained mostly magazines. That was easy. Those about police she would donate to the station, if anyone wanted them. The risqué ones she would toss out. The few dealing with investments…well, those were probably disposable, too.

She wondered suddenly if Gabe McLaren read investment magazines, girly magazines or just ones sent to cops. She laughed at herself and went to work on another pile.

This one was more problematic. It contained files, mostly unlabeled. The ones that were labeled were primarily credit card bills—what credit card was this? It referenced a company different from the one that issued their shared card. It had been sent to Thomas at the address of the N.B.P.D. station.

She glanced at the charges: firing range practice, gasoline, a local department store. Nothing unusual. But why were these charges on a separate credit card? She hadn’t seen anything recorded in their checkbook indicating payments on this card.

She put that file down and tried another. It contained a list of all the shops along Pacific Way, the traffic-free street perpendicular to the beach where Sheldon, Evangeline and a multitude of other local trendy tourist establishments had their stores. Nothing too exciting about that.

There were a few other files, some with familiar financial information, others with photographs, mostly of Tommy.

Not her, of course. Or of all of them together.

Still, this folder caused tears to flow down Holly’s cheeks. No matter what else Thomas had been, no matter how estranged she and he had felt from one another, her husband had loved their child in his own way. And Tommy had certainly adored his daddy.

Who had killed Thomas? Was the money stolen from Sheldon’s worth a human life? Or had there been another reason…?

Shuddering, Holly arranged the stacks on the desk into neater piles, then headed back to her bedroom.

“YOU WANTED to see me, Chief?” Al Sharp’s posture seemed relaxed, with one hip leaning against Gabe’s desk and his arms loosely crossed, but Gabe saw a wariness glinting from eyes too insolent and set a little too close together. He was clad in his police patrol uniform, complete with Sam Browne about his waist containing his .35 Beretta and ammunition, but his hat was nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah. Sit down, Al.” Gabe motioned to one of the chairs facing him. It was late morning. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thinking about the Thomas Poston murder.