“It’s too bad it didn’t work out, at least this year, because some of the food was my favorite part of Christmas. Abuela, she made flan, with coconut or caramel for Nochebuena, Christmas Eve. And it was The Best. I’m saying that with capital letters. The Best!”
“She was a good cook, I take it.”
“Is. To this day,” she said, though it had been years since she’d seen her grandmother, and a little niggle of regret wormed its way through her heart.
“What about your mother?”
Alvarez placed the loaves of bread into the warm oven. “She’s good, too, but I remember my Aunt Biatriz’s churros. Biatriz is a musician, always playing the piano for family get-togethers, and she makes a chocolate sauce that’s just slightly hot. I think it had a little chili pepper in it to give it some kick. But she would never give up her recipe, even though every year she brought it to my grandmother Rosarita’s house. All of us kids, we got to dip the churros into these big bowls.” She smiled at the memory of all of her brothers and sisters, as well as her cousins . . . and then her smile faded as the re-collection darkened to that same forbidden territory that always crept into her heart. Clearing her throat, she refused to go down that same, painful path and forced a smile. “Trust me, it was To Die For. Again with the capital letters. Tonight, though, it’s bakery brownies.”
“And we’ll love them,” he assured her. “A brownie’s a brownie. Despite it’s heritage or culture or all those things you’ve never once shown an interest in, at least to my knowledge.”
“Bastardo!” she said, teasing, then opened the refrigerator door again. “How about something to drink? I’ve got beer and . . . a bottle of pinot gris.”
“Beer’s good.”
After handing him a chilled bottle, she checked on the bread, then glanced out the window to see that Gabe was still playing with Roscoe. “Fast friends,” she observed.
“You know what they say about a boy and his dog. Inseparable.”
“Except the dog’s here and he’s in Helena.”
“He’ll probably be pestering Aggie and Dave for one of his own.”
“Great.” The last thing she needed was Aggie to freak out about anything she was doing. It was hard enough for Aggie, as the adoptive mother, to let him have time with Alvarez and, deep down, Alvarez understood Aggie’s concern. If the roles were reversed, there was a good chance she would feel the same.
She noticed that all jocularity had faded from O’Keefe’s face. “So . . . how’s Grayson?” he asked and she tensed a bit. Though they’d never addressed her ambivalent feelings for her boss, O’Keefe had sensed that there was a connection between Grayson and her; something deeper that she’d never wanted to face, much less address.
“I don’t know,” she said to the man she professed to love, the man she did love. “He’s holding his own, I guess. Still hanging in there, but I have the feeling it’s by a thread.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded as if he meant it and her heart broke. When her gaze found his again, she saw the questions hiding in his eyes and realized he would never ask. It just wasn’t his style.
“I’m sorry too. On so many levels.” She decided now was the time to put all of her cards on the table. “Look, I care about Grayson,” she said, her throat tight. “He’s my boss and a good, good man. I respect him.” She noticed that O’Keefe’s mouth had tightened at the corners, deep brackets appearing, but she plunged on. If there was ever a chance for her and O’Keefe, she had to be honest, even brutally so. “There was a time . . . not all that long ago that I wondered if there could be anything more between us. You know, more than just a work relationship.”
He didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as sip from his bottle.
“But then you came back into my life.” She touched his arm, felt his muscles tense. “And everything changed. Everything became clear. You haven’t asked, but you’ve wondered about the sheriff and me. Nothing ever happened between us. That was probably his choice, not mine, but now, regardless of how he recovers, or, God forbid, doesn’t, nothing ever will.”
She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss across his lips. “Seems as if I’ve fallen for this bastardo who came back into my life.”
His expression softened a bit. “You didn’t have to say all that.”
“Oh, yeah, I did.” She was nodding. “I just didn’t expect to do it tonight, in the kitchen.”
“Glad you did,” he said, and with a glance at the door, he set his beer on the counter, drew her into his arms, and pressed his warm, eager lips to hers. For a moment she closed her eyes, allowed herself to be swept away, pushed aside all the tensions, the headache, the terror of the past few days.
The oven timer dinged loudly and she stepped away from him, out of the safety of his arms, and back to the here and now. This was a night she was planning to spend getting to know Gabe; she couldn’t be distracted, she thought, as, using a towel, she pulled the warm loaves of bread from the oven.
“Any idea who did it?” O’Keefe asked, picking up his beer and taking a swallow.
“Who shot Grayson?” she asked, carving the dome off the first loaf, then removing most of the warm, fragrant bread from inside its crust. “That’s the problem. Too many ideas. We’ve got a lot of suspects, a lot of motives, a lot of alibis. We’re just trying to sort it out.”
“If I can help . . .”
“Cube the bread.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the investigation.”
“I know.” She handed him a knife, then sliced the top off the second loaf.