CHAPTER FOUR: The Freeze Before The Thaw

. . . .

. . .

He shut down.

He stayed away from people and didn't answer the landline (it was only Marcy and he absolutely could not talk to her yet).

He walked the beach, he went back to Fort Morgan and walked through the deserted arched casemates, and with no one around to stop him he walked the very edge of the high wall of the star-shaped perimeter, looking down into the empty green center of the fort. Later in the month there would be a reenactment here of Civil War events, and he intended to be among the spectators (if only to privately critique their paraphernalia and attention to detail).

For now it was so very quiet; even the sound of the nearby ocean seemed muffled.

He felt muffled too. He fit there, part of the stone and the solitude.

At the close of the first week of the new year, with the cell phone still lurking somewhere under the bookcase, he finally ventured into the Salty Seas during the dinner hour, when Marcy would be far too busy to bother with him. He'd accepted he'd have to tell her something, because she wasn't the kind to give up, but there was no sense rushing into it.

"Carlton," she exclaimed as soon as she saw him, even though he was being seated at a table on the opposite side of the room from the bar.

He waved and took the chair which faced away from her, but she was unfazed by this and came to him ten seconds later, a bottle of vodka in one hand—and a puzzled regular back at the bar asking plaintively, "Hey, what about my drink?"

"Carlton," she repeated, and sat down across from him. "You've been avoiding me."

"Yes, I have." He glanced at the menu.

"Which means you—oh God, you look like hell. What went wrong?"

Now he met her dark gaze squarely. "I really don't want to talk about this, you know."

"I know, but—" She paused as Dave came over to pointedly collect the vodka bottle so he could shut the whining customer up. "I know," she repeated, "but you're going to, or you wouldn't have come in. You called her?"

Carlton steeled himself. He could do this: he was a badass cop. "I texted her. She said… things I wanted to interpret in a specific way. She convinced me to call her. I called, and her boyfriend answered. I'm done."

There, that wasn't so hard. Just pretend it happened to someone else.

Marcy was frowning. "Wait. You mean… wait. Start over."

"No, thank you."

One of the waitresses appeared, but as he was about to order, Marcy told her to come back in a tone which added or I'll fire you. The waitress hurried off.

"So you were texting… and it was going well?"

He could do this. Cool, collected, calm. "I was wrong."

"Okay, but… no, wait. You had the impression she… was… giving you a green light?"

Carlton looked at her. He wasn't going to say it. Saying it would give the idiocy more credence.

Marcy went on slowly, "And she talked you into calling her but… well, how much time passed between the two events?"

"None. He answered."

"Well… what did he say?"

"Happy New Year," he said acidly.

She blinked. "And what did you say?"

"Nothing. I pitched the phone across the room. Are we done now?" He looked around for the waitress.

"No, we are not done. That was after you left here?"

He was starting to feel muffled again. "I'd like some dinner, Marcy."

"Where was she at the time? Has she contacted you since?"

"I suppose I could go over to Wintzell's. The breading on their catfish is a little better than yours."

"Oh, shut up. You're not going anywhere. You wouldn't be here at all if you didn't know it was time to talk about this." She put her elbows on the table and studied him. "What have her messages said since then?"

Shrugging, he sat back in the chair, arms folded. He would not flee, but he wouldn't make it easy either.

"You haven't checked," she deduced. "Carlton, dammit, you are the most stubborn… geez. Look, just tell me what happened and we can get back to you being pissed off after that, okay?"

"I told you. I texted her. She was at home with a cold. We went back and forth and I thought some pretty stupid things about what she was saying. She—"

"Like what? What was she saying?"

"Things I took the wrong way. Things I misinterpreted."

"How do you know you misinterpreted them?"

"Because her boyfriend was there the whole time, Marcy," he ground out. "Because he was either there watching the whole exchange, maybe telling her what to say, or God forbid, he was the one doing the texting."

Her frown deepened. "But she wanted you to call her."

"Yes. Either because she realized I was misinterpreting or because the asshat wanted his big laugh payoff."

She tapped on the table with her fingernails, puzzling over this. "Okay, I really need to know more about the asshat."

"I told you that, too. Self-aggrandizing, manipulative narcissist. Screws with people because he can."

"But if he was there the whole time, that makes Juliet… oh, God, Carlton, have you left out the detail where the woman you're in love with is an evil bitch?"

He had just taken a sip of his ice water, and nearly choked on it now. "No! Not even with PMS and caffeine withdrawal."

"Well… well, then she can't have been letting the asshat direct the conversation. You know that."

Carlton just stared at her, because he'd had a week to mash this all up in his head. "Doesn't mean he wasn't there. In fact, he had to be right there with her. And she never would have asked me to call her to discuss what I stupidly thought we were going to discuss if he'd been at her side. You know that."

Marcy rubbed her temples. "This is crazy. Get the phone and check the messages."

"Hell. No."

"God, I could smack you!" There was enough heat in her words to make it clear how serious she was. "Carlton, you have to check."

"No, Marcy, actually I don't." Because he would rather eat glass. With hot sauce and sprinkles of gravel.

Frustrated, she scooted her chair closer. "So what's the plan then? You go back home in March posing as the Ice King? No. You need to know where you stand, and it has to be now. Either this is exactly what you fear—his manipulation or her botched attempt to clear the air—or it's a huge ungodly accident, and if it's an accident, she must be going insane worrying about you now." She huffed. "And if it turns out he stole her phone and faked the whole conversation, she for damn sure needs to know that."

Carlton met her gaze, outwardly impassive (he hoped) and inwardly a huge tornado of emotion.

"Carlton," she said softly. "Your eyes give so much away."

He let out a breath, and felt unbelievably weary. "I don't have to go back there at all."

Marcy's jaw dropped. "Seriously? You'd close the door so completely? Never even consider finding out what really happened?"

Yeah…. that sounded good.

She was incredulous. "You know what? Maybe I've misjudged your level of intelligence all this time, as well as your level of decency." She stood and stared down at him, shaking her head. "You said this woman was your best friend. When the hell are you going to start acting like you're a friend of hers?"

. . . .

. . .

My best friend.

He knew, and it wasn't only in the recesses of his heart but rather with the whole splintered and barely beating thing, that Juliet had not been sitting back laughing about their texts while Spencer looked on. He knew she would never do that, let alone permit Spencer to tell her what to say.

But it was possible she was quietly texting him—about friendship and partnership, nothing more—while Spencer was goggle-eyed in front of her TV. It was possible she meant "we have to talk" only about clearing the air, and used the nose-blowing/water-fetching as a reason to get to a room Spencer wasn't in. It was possible he'd followed her. It was possible.

And Marcy was right—damn the woman to hell with detours through both Cleveland and Detroit—that he had to give her the benefit of the doubt. At the very least, he needed to know the lay of the land(mines) before he went back to Santa Barbara in two months.

He could play it like he hadn't misinterpreted their conversation. He could play it as if he, too, were only talking about missing a friend. He could even honestly say he was so pissed off by Spencer answering that he just lost it. He simply had to leave out the part about being stunned and mortified and humiliated and all the rest of those teenaged-angst reactions.

The afternoon light off the silvery blue ocean was bright. It spilled into the living room and reflected off the chrome which trimmed the TV stand.

Carlton sat on the sofa and eyed the bookcase.

It was possible—as long as he was listing possibilities—the phone was broken. He'd spackled over the dent in the wall and it looked pretty good, although he would probably confess to the realtor that he'd dented it. But the phone might have been damaged by the force of the impact. And the subsequent… multiple… bounces.

Well then, Pollyanna, if it's broken then you won't have to call her, will you?

Dammit.

It took a little creativity; his arm wouldn't fit under the heavy bookcase but with his penlight and a broom handle he was able to see and coax out the dusty phone.

I don't want to do this.

Yeah. Too bad.

He got to his feet and went to pour a preemptive Scotch, then sat at the table and turned the foul mechanical beast on.

Hoping it would stay dark and dead, he knocked back a burning mouthful of liquid courage and waited.

But the spiteful phone, probably pissed off by his abuse of it, sprang to life.

New messages.

Seventeen new texts, eight voicemails, and five emails from Juliet.

Bastard phone.

Another dose of Scotch. Couldn't hurt nearly as much as it would help.

. . . .

. . .

"Come with me," he said tersely.

He had walked into the Salty Seas, grasped Marcy firmly by the arm as she stood behind the bar pouring a beer, waited impatiently while she finished and slid the mug to the customer, and then led her with speed and authority out to the parking lot and around to the side.

After setting his cell phone on speaker, he started playback of the messages. Somehow it seemed fitting to hear seagulls as a background.

The first voicemail, the most painful one, came moments after he'd gotten the Spencer-shock.

Panic in her voice. "Oh my God, Carlton, please, I am so sorry. I didn't know he was here—he let himself in while I was getting my water and then you called and I told him to leave my phone the hell alone but he ignored me and picked up and I'm so sorry, please—" In the background, Spencer could be heard asking for attention of some kind, and Juliet snapped, "Go home, Shawn, you've done enough!" She took a hitching breath. "I swear, I had no idea he came in and I asked him not to answer but he just ignored me and I couldn't get across the room in time and please, you have to talk to me, Carlton—Shawn, back off. Shawn—dammit!"

End of message. Marcy's dark eyes were wide.

The next one was time-stamped fifteen minutes later, and Juliet was more subdued. "Carlton. I threw him out. Permanently. I can't… I can't believe I put up with such… disrespect all this time. I can't believe I ever put you in second place behind him. My God, I'm such a stupid stupid woman and I don't deserve anything even remotely like you. And I know you, Carlton, I know you're shutting down and going into self-preservation mode but you can't, not now. Not about this. About…" she hesitated, and then her voice became stronger. "About us. About whatever we are and whatever we can be. Please don't hide from me. Please call me. I'm begging you. Please."

"Oh, Carlton, you're calling her right now," Marcy whispered. "That woman is—"

Implacable, he pressed play again. The other messages, over the next six days, were similar but shorter. Juliet was terribly upset and completely determined to get through to him. She swore she'd leave messages every day if she had to, every hour if it came to that.

The texts were briefer but no less clear. The emails were more focused but the message was the same: Talk to me. I care about you. I miss you. I need you. Please. She alluded to feeling physically ill from worrying about everything and said Chief Vick had sent her home twice thinking her cold was taking a turn for the worse. She also said she was nearly to the point of running his financials and tracking his phone usage, even if it meant suspension and disciplinary action should she get caught.

Marcy read the last of the texts and handed the phone back. "Why in the hell are you talking to me instead of her right now?"

Carlton slid it into his shirt pocket and pulled himself together. "Because I wanted you to hear for yourself that there is nothing in there—other than the second voicemail—which suggests she's talking about anything other than friendship."

Marcy looked at him in disbelief and then punched him hard in the chest.

"Son of a bitch," he managed, startled by how much it hurt.

"You are a moron, Carlton Lassiter. A cowardly ostrich-y moron. Unless she's a world-class actress, that woman is in love with you, and every second you spend not talking to her is a second more that your brain cells fly out your bodacious ears and disappear into the atmosphere." She watched him rub the spot where she'd hit him and added with even more snark, "Your IQ must have dropped fifty points just in the last ten minutes."

"I have done everything you've told me to do," he shot back, "even if it wasn't as fast as you wanted, and all I have to show for it is that I've upset my friend by looking out for myself. But I can't see what's wrong with looking out for myself, and I know her, remember? I know she takes in strays and feels guilty if someone's unhappy and wants to fix the world. I'm just part of her world, that's all."

"Uh, it sounds to me, dumbass, like you're her whole world." Marcy looked him up and down as if he were an utterly foreign and slightly unsavory creature. "Do you want me to call her? Because I will."

"The hell you will." He took a step back just in case she went for the phone.

"But I know her name now, see? Saw it on the screen enough. I can call out to the Santa Barbara police department and ask for Detective O'Hara and let her know exactly how to reach you. In fact," and she looked at her watch, "bet I can get that done within the next two minutes."

She headed away from him but he grabbed her arm and forced her to stay put.

"What's it going to be?" she demanded. "If you don't get in touch with her, you can consider yourself persona non grata around here. I can accept that men are clueless about women but I will not tolerate one who knows damn well what he has to do and refuses to do it out of sheer emotional cowardice."

Shaking her arm free, Marcy stalked off around the corner, leaving Carlton leaning against the wall of the Salty Seas, chest aching for more than one reason.

. . . .

. . .

He drove to the west side of Perdido Pass and parked under the soaring bridge, then walked to the far end of the parking area to where the sand began. The water was especially blue here and the herons—cranky and solitary as he usually felt—seemed to like it.

They were baleful—also a familiar feeling—and gave him the stink-eye as he passed.

Early January in the middle of a weekday afternoon was a good time to be here: not as many boats going through the pass, few fisherman and even fewer tourists. The sun was still strong enough to warm the salty breeze coming off the water, and it was beautiful. As calm as… as he needed to be.

He hoisted himself up to sit on the concrete wall, dangling his legs over the edge and feeling the weight of the phone in his pocket.

Like it was a five-pound rock.

He shouldn't call her now. For Juliet, it was two p.m. on a workday and she wouldn't be able to talk to him. He shouldn't text either—same reason. Email might work, but…

But he knew… this had to be voice-to-voice. And if he didn't do it now, he might as well call Vick instead to resign.

"Carlton?" She was breathless, shaky.

"Juliet." So long since he'd said her name to her.

"Oh my God, it's you. Oh, Carlton, thank God."

"I'm sorry." It sounded awkward. "I only got the phone out from under the bookcase a little while ago."

She half-laughed, half-sobbed. "I have been so worried. So sick. So—"

"I'm sorry," he said again. "You were right. I shut down. Look, I know you can't talk right now. You're probably about to arrest someone, but—"

"No," she said at once. "I took a late lunch break so I could wallow in my misery. I'm sitting on a bench out by the ocean."

Irony. "Concrete wall. Different ocean."

"Where are you? Please tell me."

"Orange Beach, Alabama."

There was a pause. "Really?"

"Who would make up Orange Beach, Alabama?"

"Good point. I've been there. My family went up when I was a kid."

"People from Miami go to Alabama on vacation?"

Juliet laughed, and he had missed that sound so damned much. "Less crime. Have you been there all along?"

"Yeah."

"Did you… mean it when you said you missed me?"

His heart skipped a few beats. "Yes. Every day. Every hour."

"Did you mean it when you said you left because of me?"

He struggled to find the courage. "It was... getting too hard to see you with Spencer."

Her turn for a long pause.

He asked, "Did you really end it with him?"

"Yes. God, I was so furious and so upset with him that night. I could see it all—finally, I could see how nothing was ever going to change. Even if it wasn't doomed simply because of how I knew I felt about you, it could never have lasted. He cares about me but he's just not... an adult. He's not a lot of things, and you... you're..." Her voice dropped to a murmur. "You're everything. I get it now."

"Juliet," he started, but had to stop to breathe. "I could jump off this wall into the water and wait for blue crabs to pinch me to death, you know that, right? It'd be easier than telling you how I feel about you, because telling you how I feel changes everything. It means I can't come back home unless..."

In his anxious silence, she whispered, "Unless you're sure I feel the same way too."

Carlton swallowed. "Yeah."

"Be sure," she said simply. "Come home."

His heart flat-out exploded, little bits of love and emotion flung out across the sea and into the arms of fate.

Parts of his lungs went along for the ride, but he managed to find enough air for two words. "Come here."

A long shuddering sigh escaped her. "As soon as I can."

. . . .

. . .