“You’re welcome, though I have to warn you, my culinary skills are limited to just a few simple dishes.”
She gave up a bit of a smile. He was trying to make this easy for her. The least she could do was show him she appreciated it. “That’s a good thing, I guess, that you know your limitations. I used to enjoy piddling around in the kitchen myself. I used to bake, as I found it relaxing. Maybe I can bake something for you and return the favor.”
“I’d like that,” Sam said. “Any favorites?”
Small talk; this was easy for her. “I used to make a pretty mean Red Devil’s Food cake. A friend in college made it for me once, and it was the best cake I had ever had at that point in my life. She gave me her recipe, I tweaked it a bit here and there, and made it my own. I suppose I could make you one, that is, if you like chocolate?”
He brought his dishes to the sink and stood next to her. “What kind of human being doesn’t like chocolate?”
She stepped away from him, the closeness causing a zing and zang in places it shouldn’t. “I’ll make a list of the ingredients, and the next time you make a grocery order, you can get them. Are there pots and pans here? Rather, cake pans?”
“I had my secretary on Google for days ordering household necessities. I’m sure she didn’t leave out anything one would normally require in the kitchen. She’s very thorough. Let’s have a look,” he said, and started opening the cupboards.
Tessa searched, too. “Here they are,” she announced when she saw a cupboard stocked with every kind of baking pan one could imagine. “She is very thorough.”
“Darlene’s fantastic. That’s why I keep her on,” Sam explained.
Out of the blue, Tessa wondered if Sam’s secretary was more than just an employee.
“She has three of the cutest grandsons and updates me daily on their antics. Jamison was lucky to hire her. Her husband passed away a few years ago, and he left her almost penniless. She’s a true peach.”
That answered that question.
“Maybe I’ll meet her. You know, someday, if I come back to work.”
“Highly probable if you ask me. Lee Whitlow is the best of the best, Tessa. He wouldn’t have taken on your case if he didn’t believe there was a good chance of seeing you exonerated. How about I make us a cup of coffee, then we can talk about what you should expect when it’s time for trial, among other things.”
She nodded. “Coffee sounds good. I hope it’s not instant.” She hated the bitter, watered-down version they tried to pass off as coffee in prison.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. I had Darlene order a Keurig, too. While it’s not a French press, it’s decent.”
“What is a ‘Keurig’? I have been out of the . . . loop.”
“Sorry. It’s a coffeemaker that brews one cup at a time. You put these little pods in.” He removed a box from the cupboard. “Here, and press a button.”
Tessa watched as the machine did its magic in a minute. “Impressive.”
He made a second cup for himself. “You need cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
“My kinda girl.”
His kind of girl? Why did he continue to drop hints like that? Was she imagining things? Probably, she thought. It had been a long time since she had been on the receiving end of any male attention.
“Tessa?” Sam asked. “You want to sit outside?” He handed her the cup.
Not really, she thought, but she had to start somewhere. It wasn’t going to make things any easier if she continued to hide inside the house. “On the dock?” she asked. Away from the pool.
“We can watch the sun go down,” Sam said. “No media, hopefully.”
Tessa thought it best to keep her thoughts to herself where the gentle people of the press were concerned. Had she not feared the repercussions on her daughters of the media attention sure to come when she went to the police, so that she set off running to San Maribel, her life would have been quite different. Screw the media. Maybe they were watching her now, taking her picture with a telephoto lens, and her picture would be plastered on the front page of the San Maribel News Press tomorrow. Her release was sure to be front-page news.
Sure that he was simply trying to make her first day of freedom as relaxing as possible, given the circumstances, she forced herself to follow him through the large glass doors and out to the dock. Media or no media, dammit, this was still her home, and she had every right in the world to walk outside. The ankle monitor was cumbersome, but she assured herself she had to get used to it.
The blue water of the ocean beckoned her, the briny scent bringing back memories of good times spent boating with Joel and the girls. Surprisingly, there were no tears at this memory, and that encouraged her. She would need to be rigid as hell if she was to get through the upcoming trial. More so if she was convicted a second time.
Lounge chairs were placed on the large dock area, along with side tables. Sam motioned for her to sit. She put her coffee on the table, then reclined in the plush cushions. Surreal came to mind. Yesterday, she had been in a prison cell, and look at her now. Enjoying an almost God-like—no it was God-like—view of the magnificent sunset. One of her favorite features of the island had always been the lighthouse perched on the very edge of the rocky shore. She had a perfect view of it from the dock, a tall spire framed against the wide sky. Looking at the familiar sight once more, she gave up a
