“In Queens? Sure I did. I’m a New Yorker, born and raised. You are, too. I can hear it in your voice.”
The comment about the New York in his voice touched Owen. He was a New Yorker in his bones, and he had his doubts about leaving his home and moving to this remote college town. If it was just him, he’d stay put. Stay in his job, move up the career ladder in the big-city police department, keep the house in Long Island he’d bought with Nicolette when they got married. But he wanted his kids to grow up somewhere peaceful and pretty, where he didn’t have to worry about them walking home from school on their own. This town fit the bill. He didn’t love it for himself, but it would be good for them. And if there were women like her here, maybe he could get used to it.
“Owen Rizzo, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
She hesitated for a second. “Maggie Price,” she said, and shook it.
Her hand was warm and alive. He held it a second too long, and glanced down and saw little blue-green stars tattooed on the underside of her wrist. Man, she was sexy. He wanted to know her better. Yes, she was married, but they were stuck here together in a storm, far from home. He could enjoy her company without crossing any lines, couldn’t he?
Their eyes met.
“You live in New York, then, like me?” he asked, already imagining asking her to dinner in the city. She’s married.
“Not anymore. I moved back to Belle River about a week ago after more than twenty years away. Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately? This seems like a nice enough town. Quaint, peaceful, decent restaurants if you don’t mind eating in the dark.”
“Peace and quiet never did much for me,” she said. “And things didn’t go so well when I was in school here. Belle River is—well, it’s bad luck for me, I’m afraid.”
“Why come back, then?” he asked, studying her eyes. They were cool and blue, shadowed by long lashes in the half-light.
“Reversal of fortune, you could say.” She looked around restlessly.
From her expression, he saw that she didn’t want to tell that particular story, so he didn’t press. Outside, the rain came down in torrents, and lightning flashed. Maggie set her wineglass on the table. It was nearly empty. He refilled it, and poured himself another while he was at it.
“What happened to the waitress?” she said, and as if on the cue, the waitress reappeared.
“Sorry, folks. Power line went down. It may be a while before the lights come back on, and the kitchen is closed for now.”
“That’s a drag,” Maggie said. “If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll have to stop drinking this very nice wine, or I’ll end up plastered.”
“We could order a pizza,” Owen said.
“There’s an idea. Go for it, Chief,” Maggie said.
Owen pulled out his phone and looked at it. “Sorry. No signal.”
Maggie took hers from her bag. “Look at that. Mine’s out, too.”
“It’s probably from the storm,” the waitress said. “College Pizza’s not gonna be delivering in this mess anyway.”
Maggie looked out at the downpour. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it? Miss, do you think you could dig up some peanuts or something?”
“I can do a bread basket. Hold on, I’ll be right back with that.”
“And another bottle of this, please,” Maggie said, holding up the malbec, which was already nearly empty.
A couple of minutes later, they had their bread and wine, and settled in to drink and watch the storm rage. A pretty flush suffused Maggie’s cheeks as she asked Owen why he would ever leave New York to come to a place like this, so small and dull. Her interest in him was like a warm light; he opened under its influence. He told her about Nicolette dying. About how hard the cancer had been, and what it was like now, trying to raise his son and daughter by himself. Ty had been eight and Annie six when Nicolette passed, and there was no family to help. His parents had both died not long before his kids were born; Nicolette’s lived in a retirement community in Florida and weren’t interested in more than the occasional visit.
“Sounds lonely,” she said.
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I have been lonely,” Owen said, and realized that right this minute, here with Maggie, he wasn’t lonely at all.
They got to talking about his work. Owen loved his job. He was the senior detective on a joint state-federal narcotics task force, and the work was thrilling—half high-level investigation, half cops and robbers on the street. He’d just taken down a Salvadoran gang that had cornered the meth trade in Brooklyn and Long Island and had thirty murders to their credit. But as much as he loved it, the work was dangerous, the hours he kept on the task force were brutal, and his kids were suffering. He tried to get time off, but his boss was old-school, an ex-marine now with DEA, who thought your wife dying didn’t make your kids his problem. Nothing could fix that except a new job, preferably one where Owen didn’t answer to anybody, which was why he applied here. Chief’s jobs in wealthy college towns with a salary like this one didn’t come along too often, and even if it wasn’t a perfect fit, he should probably jump on it.
Owen looked up at the clock and saw that nearly two hours had passed since they started talking. The second bottle of wine was down to the dregs. He’d been running on and on about himself—though, hell, that felt great—but he hadn’t learned a thing about her.
“Long story short, I’m here because I’m looking for a fresh start. But I’ll stop talking about myself now. Tell me about you.”
“Me? Well, I could use a fresh start, a second chance. Or a third or fourth. I’m not sure what chance I’m on, come to think of it. Nothing ever quite works out for me.”
“Looking at you, I find that hard to believe. You must have the world at your feet.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but no. My mother died of cancer when I wasn’t much older than your kids are now. I never had the guidance I needed after that, and I guess you could say I went astray. I screwed my up life pretty badly. Maybe I would have done better if I had a father like you. Caring and strong. Your kids are lucky.”
“I try. But it’s hard. It must’ve been hard for your dad, too, raising you alone.”
“Oh, he wasn’t alone, and he didn’t really raise me either. I had a succession of wicked stepmothers. Well, two of them anyway. They hated my guts. The first one divorced my father after less than a year and took a boatload of his money. The second one, Victoria, she was my stepmother when I was a teenager. We butted heads constantly, you can’t imagine.”
“I think I can,” he said, envisioning Maggie as a teenager. She must’ve been a magnet for the boys, with that face, that body, that voice. You’d have to lock a girl like that in a tower to keep her out of trouble.
“It was partly my fault that Victoria and I didn’t get along,” Maggie said. “I realized that eventually, and I owned up to it. Victoria died of cancer about a year ago. I was really sad when it happened, which surprised me. I guess I’d finally grown up enough to understand how hard I was on her.”