Signed Copy (with Faces) of The Pocket Pair by Emma St. Clair

CHAPTER ONE SAMPLE

Chevy

“Any chance you want to put that weapon down, Mrs. Fleming?” I ask, patient as can be. 

Even though this is the fourth time in as many months I’ve been called out to her house for disturbing the peace. Such is the life of a police officer in a small town like Sheet Cake, Texas: lots of domestic calls, sadly (same as anywhere else), the occasional car or tractor accident, and then a whole lot of weird. Like today. 

“This isn’t a weapon.” Mrs. Fleming has on what my mama used to call a house dress, curlers in her pouf of white hair, and she holds a tire iron loosely in her weathered hand. She’s chewing gum with the vigor of a woman who still has all her own teeth. 

Oh, and she also has a possum—sorry, technically an opossum—on a leash. As one does. 

“Maybe I was fixing to change my oil.” 

I ignore the ridiculousness of that statement because I’m sure even Mrs. Fleming knows you don’t need a tire iron for changing the oil. She also very well knows her opossum is not a cat, though she tells anyone who asks that Georgina is a special semi-hairless breed, like a sphinx. Its pink bedazzled leash is looped around one of Mrs. Fleming’s wrists while the thing stares at me with a deeply disturbing intensity. If we were to have a staring contest, I feel sure the possum would win.

“Come on, now. Let’s just put down the tire iron and have a chat.”

She tsks but does as I ask, leaning it against the front of her house. Almost immediately, it tips over, making a loud clang as it hits the wooden porch. The opossum falls right over, playing dead. Guess I won our staring contest by default.

“Oh, poor Georgina. Don’t worry,” Mrs. Fleming assures me, despite my notable lack of worry. “She’ll be all right in a minute. She suffers from narcolepsy, the poor thing.” 

Is that what the kids are calling it these days? I bite back this response.

Mrs. Fleming switches gears, circling back to the reason for my visit. “Those horrible teenage vandals were stuffing trash in my cannons again.” 

Her craftsman-style bungalow has two cannons on either side of the front steps. Yes—cannons. They’re rusted but real, and legend has it they were stolen off a pirate ship, though our town is hours from any ocean. Because we just moved into January, they’re both still wrapped in blinking white lights. And sure enough, I can see the edge of a crushed soda can glinting inside one of the two cannons.

“Next time, call me rather than making threats,” I admonish her gently. “We’ve talked about this.” 

She blinks innocently and cups one hand around her ear. “What’s that?”

I raise my voice, despite knowing she has no problems with her hearing. Just as she doesn’t have the kind of vision problems or mental impairment that would make her think Georgina—who is now emerging from her fake death—is actually a feline. “You cannot make threats while holding something which could be construed as a weapon, even for dramatic effect.” 

Her expression turns stormy, and I don’t miss the way her fingers twitch as she steps closer to the tire iron. “Did you call me dramatic, son?”

I place a hand over my heart. “I would never.” 

I like to think of myself as a fairly smart man. Smart enough, anyway. And smart men know never to call a woman dramatic. Especially not a woman with a tire iron and pair of actual cannons on her front porch, even if they don’t—probably?—still fire. 

“What, exactly, defines a weapon?” 

I begin to tick off options on my fingers. “Weapons may include but are not limited to, tire irons, baseball bats, cannons, or firearms.”

“Did you say forearms?”

“Firearms.”

She sighs. “I love a good set of forearms. My Nate had lovely forearms. Not too much hair and a Navy tattoo.” 

She pauses, chewing her gum with a little more vigor as her eyes cloud over with memory. I listen, because at times, listening is an easy kindness to offer. Especially to someone who’s lonely. 

“Is that right?” I ask. 

“He didn’t get the tattoo until after he was out of the service. The Navy didn’t allow them below the elbow until 2016.” She frowns, managing to look angry and sad at the same time. “Nate would have hated that. The man didn’t like change.”

“Your husband and I both.” I clear my throat as I hear my watch beep, signifying the start of a new hour and, more importantly, the end of my shift. 

“When are you going to settle down for good with a nice girl?” Mrs. Fleming asks. 

I resist the urge to tell her she should use the term woman, not girl. The short answer is never, but I don’t say that either. 

“Will you please call me next time?” I ask. “You know I’d be here in half a heartbeat.” 

If gum-chewing can have a vibe, hers turns vindictive. “Next time, I’ll throw eggs. See how they like that.”

To be honest, a lot of teens could do with a good egging. Some adults too, for that matter. I make a note to check for what kind of charges egg-throwing might carry. Tipping my cowboy hat, I promise to come back soon and clean the trash out of Mrs. Fleming’s cannons. 

But not at this moment. Because as of now, I’m off-duty. 

“I’ll come back sometime this week or next and clean out those cannons for you,” I promise. 

Her expression softens. “Your mama would be proud of the boy she raised.”

I sure hope so. I swallow thickly. “Thank you, ma’am. It means a lot.” 

I’m halfway to my cruiser when she calls, “And aren’t you just the spittin’ image of your daddy. He’d be proud too.” 

I sure hope not.

I don’t pause, though my steps falter, my cowboy boots kicking up a little cloud of dust in Mrs. Fleming’s gravel driveway. I’d love to take the first compliment, to let it wrap around my heart like a warm blanket on this cool January day. But she had to go and ruin it by comparing me to the last man I would ever want to resemble in looks or any other way. Making him proud is the last thing I’d want to do. 

Because if a man like my father were proud, I must be doing something wrong. Too bad only a tiny percentage of the population—me, my sister, Winnie, her best friends and boyfriend—know the truth about my father. Who he was. What he did. 

“He was such a good man,” Mrs. Fleming goes on, and, as I do anytime someone says something positive about my father, I bite my cheek so I don’t burst their bubble with the truth. 

I can’t seem to escape the pale ghost of a man I looked up to for half my life—until I didn’t look up to him at all. He clings to me like the smoke from the cigars he sometimes covertly lit up in the backyard, the stink clinging to his hair and clothes for days after. 

As much as I’d love to shower or scrub or bleach his stink off me, I don’t think that’s how it works. I share the man’s DNA. Which means I might share in his epic failures too. 

“We’re not going to torpedo our relationships because of Dad’s mistakes,” my obviously much smarter-than-me sister said when we visited our parents’ graves around Thanksgiving. At least one of us is holding up the bargain we made by way of a pinky promise. 

Me? I had the fingers of my other hand crossed behind my back. Figuratively, that is. Because Winnie definitely would have noticed otherwise. She can happily settle down for good with her boyfriend, James. And I’m glad for her. But it’s not for me. 

And yet … I swear, ever since then, it’s like making the promise has cursed me. Dating has become a chore. Like heading to the mechanic when the check-engine light comes on. Tomorrow night is the first date I’ve scheduled for months, and I’ve considered canceling more than once. Instead, I keep finding myself watching Winnie so happy with James and feeling this weird pinch in my chest. 

Better get over that quick. 

My phone dings with a text, and I’m more than grateful for the chance to shove all thoughts of my father and longing for things I can’t have into a mental trash compactor in my mind. 

Mari: Can you stop by the diner this afternoon? It’s important.

If it were most people, I’d put this off until tomorrow, using my date as an excuse. But I’m not all that eager about the date. Plus, it’s Mari—the woman who was like a second mother to me after mine died. Just like she stepped in to care for Val and her sisters when their mom ran off that same summer. I’d do just about anything she asked. 

Is this about Val? I can’t help but wonder. Is she okay?  

As one of my sister’s best friends, Val falls under the umbrella of my protection.  

That’s why I care, I tell myself. The only reason.

Not because of the way her dark eyes sparkle when she laughs at my dumb jokes or the way she always manages to have paint somewhere on her skin or the way she somehow manages to look feminine in a pair of Dickie’s coveralls and a tank top. None of those reasons are why I’m hustling to get to the diner. Because those reasons would get me in trouble with my sister, even if I were the kind of guy to date someone like Val.

Nope—I’m going for Mari. Just Mari. 

I almost believe it.

* * *

The diner, as always, is busy. The Bobs, three old-timers who share the same name and an unparalleled love for Sheet Cake High School football, toss me a wave. I help coach the team, but I’m gladly taking a brain break from it in the off-season, while I bet they’re already talking about next fall’s lineup. They’ll rope me into a whole conversation about it if I let them. 

Kitty Bishop is at the counter with one of her three teenage daughters—I can never tell the girls apart—and Judge Judie and her husband, Burt, are sharing an enormous slice of cake. 

Mari winks at me while taking plates back to the kitchen, mouthing, Give me a sec. And there, at the farthest back table, I spy Tank Graham across the table from Val, whom I’d know even from the back. Her dark hair is twisted up into a messy bun, held in place by two thin paintbrushes and obviously some form of magic.

A smile tugs at my lips as I slide into the booth next to theirs, my back to Val’s. If I’m eavesdropping, it’s because I’m trained to pay attention to details. Not because I’m a nosy gossip like the rest of the town. I quickly pick up on the fact that they’re talking about Val’s paintings. 

“Do you need me to send you pictures for approval, or do you want to come to the studio and look?” 

“Winnie’s shown me pictures. You’re talented, and any of your work is good enough for me, Val.” 

I can hear the smile in Tank’s voice, and I realize I’m smiling too. That’s my girl. Not that Val’s mine, per se. I’m proud of her the same way I was proud when my sister developed and sold an app—something I wouldn’t begin to know how to do.

Even when Val was a kid, she made these amazing crayon and colored pencil drawings. I know she’s had a hard time since college figuring out how to support herself as a full-time artist, but she’s talented. I’m happy to hear Tank thinks so too. Even happier that it sounds like he’ll be buying some of her paintings.

“What’s your timeline?” Val asks, and I hear her shifting behind me. “Because I actually have something coming up and may not have much time to—”

“Thanks for coming.” Mari chooses this moment to show up with a smile and a to-go cup of coffee. 

I hold back a groan. What exactly does Val have coming up? She won’t have much time before what? 

“You ask, I’ll answer,” I tell her. “Anytime.” 

Mari’s eyes sparkle, but before she can respond, I feel movement against the back of my booth. 

“Chevy?” 

I swivel at the question and find myself face to face with Val, her surprised brown eyes inches from mine. 

“Hey, Tiny. How’s it going?” I glance past her, tilting my head in greeting to Tank. He grins in return. 

“Finish your talk,” Mari tells Val. “Then you can join us.” 

Val gives me a small smile before we both turn back to our respective conversations. Though, if I’m being honest, my attention is not fully on Mari. I keep straining to hear what Val and Tank are talking about, wondering what she has coming up that would limit her time. A new job, maybe? I know she can’t stand her job at the art gallery. More specifically, her boss. Maybe this town has rubbed off on me, and I am just a nosy gossip.

“I need a favor.” Mari lowers her voice and leans across the table. Per the usual, she’s got a fresh flower tucked behind one ear, the pink bloom bright against her white hair. 

However, not per the usual, Mari isn’t smiling. 

“It’s regarding …” As she trails off, Mari juts her chin toward the table behind us. Toward Val. 

Worry sprouts twenty heads inside my belly, all of them fire-breathing. “Is she okay?” I ask quietly.

“She’s fine,” she says. 

“So, what’s the favor?”

Mari purses her lips. “I’d like for you to look out for …” Once more, Mari tilts her chin toward Val. 

In a lot of ways, I’ve already been watching out for Val. Just like I would my sister. This feels … different. Unease squirms in my belly. 

“Shouldn’t her boyfriend do that?” I have trouble not sneering when I say boyfriend. 

Honestly, I’m surprised Val’s latest boyfriend lasted more than a week. The man might as well have loser tattooed on his forehead. I don’t need to spend quality time with Jared—Jason? Jensen?—to dismiss him. It took one look at the mullet he sports in a completely non-ironic way paired with a polo shirt and popped collar. Val’s fatal flaw seems to be her penchant to date men who are never good enough for her.

Winnie likes to say Val’s bad taste in men rivals my bad taste in women. My ALLEGEDLY bad taste in women. Aside from being surface deep, I don’t see what’s wrong with the women I date. The name of my dating game is casual. Surface-level women are just fine when we don’t ever dive deep. Or they were. Until Winnie cursed me with the pinky promise.

Mari’s smile stretches wide. “They broke up.” 

“Did they, now?” 

“She’s single,” Mari says, her smile growing wider. “Which is why I’m asking you. Not that I would have trusted that fool to take care of her anyway.” 

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Is there a particular reason she needs looking out for?”

Mari leans back, crossing her arms. “Not one I’m at liberty to say. Yet.” 

I scratch my jaw. Ever since Mom died, Mari has been like an honorary aunt to me and Winnie, bringing meals over, offering little maternal things, and just generally racking up points she can cash in any way she likes. I will say yes. Mari knows it. I know it. But I want more info. I’m a planner. Going into things blind is not my strong suit. And the many-headed worry monster just sprouted a few new ones. Because there’s obviously a secret I’m not privy to that has Mari asking me. 

“So, there is a reason, but not one you want to tell me.” 

The tiniest of smiles appears. “Are you hungry?” 

“Always. But I just got off work and want to head home. Maybe a burger to go?” 

“Of course.” She pauses and then grabs my hand, holding it with surprising strength. “You shouldn’t spend your life fighting ghosts.” 

It’s been a long time since my mama was around to scold me, but I still remember the feeling. My stomach squirms just as much under Mari’s scrutiny. And under the weight of what she said, which hits me like some kind of battering ram to the sternum. I’m not sure how she made the leap from dinner to me fighting ghosts or how she managed to hit me right where I didn’t know it hurt, but she did both with one sentence.

I give her an easy grin that feels like trying to swim against the current in a flash flood. Because her words, like Mrs. Fleming’s, strike a little too close to home. Is there some kind of secret thread on the Neighborly app where all the older women of the town are discussing me today? 

“Fighting ghosts?” I say, casual, casual, casual. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Mari squeezes my hand so hard my bones feel on the verge of breaking. “I want to see you happy, Chevy.”

“I am happy,” I tell her. And up until I say the words and hear how hollow they sound, I thought it was true. 

Aren’t I happy? Why wouldn’t I be? 

I’ve got a job I enjoy, my own home, and a bunch of friends in this sometimes cloyingly close-knit community. No, there’s no steady woman in my life. But being the kind of man who isn’t sure he can be steady himself, I’m not looking for one. I don’t want a wife and two-point-five babies or whatever the number is. I just want … 

I want … 

Well. I guess right at this moment, I’m having some kind of existential crisis in a diner because I don’t know what I want anymore. 

Mari releases her crushing grip on my hand just as Val slides into the booth next to me. I scoot in a bit, but our thighs are still touching, our arms brushing as she waves animatedly. It’s closer than we usually sit, more touching than we usually do. I could slide away a few more inches, but I don’t. 

“Speaking of happy,” Val says, making me wonder just how much of our conversation she heard, “Tank is buying some of my paintings to decorate the lofts. Isn’t that great?”  

She’s beaming, and so is Mari when she zips over to hug Val. “So proud of you, princesa,” Mari whispers. 

“You should be proud. I couldn’t be more thrilled to have Val’s work hanging in the lofts,” Tank says, and Mari hugs him too. She barely comes up to the big man’s chest. 

Back in September, the Graham family rolled into Sheet Cake after Tank purchased the whole downtown area. Faster than I would have thought possible, he’s been renovating the abandoned storefronts and getting new tenants. The second story of nearly every building has been converted into modern loft living spaces. He and James currently share one; my sister is in another. Probably a dozen others are nearing completion. This is a big job for Val. 

I nudge her with my shoulder. “I’m proud of you too, Tiny.” 

Her cheeks turn pink and she grins down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “Thanks.” 

Tank says his goodbyes, and Mari heads off to refill the Bobs’s coffees. 

Which leaves me and Val awkwardly sharing the same side of the booth. I clear my throat, trying to catch her eye without turning my head. That would put our faces far too close. 

“Everything good?” I ask her, my mind still stuck on the part of the conversation I missed about why Val might be on a time crunch. 

“Yep. All good,” she answers. A little too quickly if you ask me. 

Mari reappears with a to-go box. “That was fast,” I tell her. 

“Big Mo started fixing it as soon as you walked in,” she says with a laugh. 

“Guess I’m pretty boring.” 

“Hardly,” Mari says. “You’re constant. Steady. Trustworthy. Isn’t he a good man, Val?” 

Val gives me a conspiratorial look, letting me know she, too, gets how Mari seems to be playing matchmaker. Not for the first time. “I guess he’s okay,” Val says.

“Thanks for the high praise, buddy.” 

Buddy? Val’s nose wrinkles the slightest bit at the term, which is almost as dorky as if I’d called her pal. But Mari’s not-so-subtle words have me wanting to make it clear what Val and I are: Friends. I’m not sure who, exactly, the reminder is for. Mari? Val?

Me? 

Val is, and always has been, completely off-limits. When I was a senior in high school and they were freshmen, Winnie threatened to castrate me in a number of colorful and terrifying ways if I ever hurt Val. That has made it really easy to shut down any feelings other than friendship, which is where we need to stay. 

I knock my shoulder into her again and shoot her a grin. “You wanna stop blocking my exit?”

Val scoots to the end of the booth, losing the paintbrushes from her hair as she does. The long curtain of her hair falls. A sweet scent hits my nostrils as a few strands whisper against my cheek, the ends marked with purple paint. I grab her brushes from the floor, handing them back as I stand. 

“Thanks, Chev.” She puts them between her teeth, grinning as she winds her hair back up in a knot and sticks the brushes through. It feels strangely intimate to watch, though it’s a simple movement and something I’ve seen dozens of times before. I swallow and take a step away. 

“I’ll see you around, Tiny.” 

Grabbing my box, I make a quick exit and head for home, my head full of loud thoughts, like a bunch of toddlers have been set loose with cymbals in there. 

Why does Mari need me to take care of Val?  

What does Val have coming up?

Would my mama be proud? 

Am I really like my daddy? 

Why does Val have a time issue? 

And finally, the one that’s clanging loudest of all—AM I happy?

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