It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,39
nearly as sure now, as she’d been when she’d taken this job, that she’d be able to do so.
The people of Shelter Valley lived by their own code. A good code. One that worked. But not necessarily one that would fit into today’s court system where only the law—case law—mattered.
She needed a pen and got up to get one from the desk drawer where she stored her supplies.
She caught a glimpse of the front window through her peripheral vision as she bent over the tray of pens—one slot for red, one for black and one for blue. The window overlooked the front yard, the driveway and the road beyond. The houses across the street. Straightening, a black pen in hand, she moved to the window, just to check on the state of the neighborhood like any reasonable person living alone would do.
Mark was home. She’d heard him come in. And yes, there was his truck parked right next to her car in the driveway. His and hers. The sleek, big black truck and the small, older, tan-colored sedan.
Male and female. Side by side.
She had work to do.
She was not going outside that night.
Mark was as temporary as the duplex. He had a bit part in the life of Adele Kennedy. He could not mean anything to Adrianna Keller.
And it was Adrianna Keller who sat down at the kitchen table, and proceeded to take notes with her black pen as she peered at the files in front of her. Personnel records for an Amanda Kingsley. She’d been a professor of music at Montford for thirty years before her retirement five years ago.
The sliding glass door opened next door. And shut again. She was not going to look up. To see Mark sitting in his chair close to her side of the patio. She was Adrianna Keller. An attorney with a job to do.
She didn’t hear him sit down. Had he seen that her chair was empty and gone back inside?
Had he needed to tell her something?
Addy dropped her pen. Picked it up. Her stomach was fluttering, her nerves on edge. Her heart was going to start pounding soon, too. She knew the signs. A panic attack.
She had nothing to panic about.
Closing her eyes she focused on the calming sound of the fountain and made herself forget the man who might be sitting out there all alone.
* * *
MARK HAD TO WORK all weekend, split shifts with time off in between. But he was still up before dawn on Saturday—woken by the sound of Nonnie’s chair whirring by his door on the way to the bathroom. Out of bed and down the hall before his eyes were completely open, he bent to look inside the refrigerator. If he didn’t get the bacon frying, she’d do it herself. Because a good day started with a good breakfast and a good breakfast consisted of bacon and eggs. Every single day. Health experts might say that the cholesterol and fat was bad for you, but Nonnie was over eighty in spite of it.
“Adele had dinner with me last night.” Nonnie wheeled herself up to the table half an hour later, a jar of grape jelly, napkins and silverware on her lap. “She brought over a pot of kielbasa and red potatoes with fresh green beans.”
He’d sat outside and had a beer the night before, hoping she might join him, but she hadn’t. So he’d spent the rest of the evening with his tablet, trying to focus on his art history reading while his thoughts kept painting visions of his neighbor undressing, getting ready for bed...getting into bed.
He’d texted Ella twice.
“It was good,” Nonnie said, draping Mark’s napkin across his knee and stuffing the tip of her own beneath her collar.
“Good.”
“She’s a looker.”
“Who?”
“Who? Who are we talking about? Adele, that’s who. Don’t you think she’s sexy?”
His head was bent over his plate as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. “She’s all right.”
“There’re bound to be lots of men calling on her once they realize she’s here.”
“Bound to be.”
“Why ain’t you one of them?”
He knew where this was going. And knew better than to fight it. He lifted his chin. “Who says I’m not?”
He wasn’t. But he managed to shut down his nosy, matchmaking grandmother, which made the false implication worth uttering.
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING, Addy attended a meeting for students interested in writing for the school newspaper. She listened while the student editor, a long-haired, bearded senior named George pontificated about truth in reporting, about upholding