The Hero Next Door - Irene Hannon

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there to make anything out of?” She took a bite of her second scone. “I haven’t met Mr. Clay, but I understand from Burke that he’s got quite a reputation on the Chicago force for some pretty high-stakes undercover work. I sort of pictured him as the tall, muscular, rugged type. I guess I’m having a little trouble imagining him holding a dainty teacup and eating finger sandwiches. Unless he had an ulterior motive.”

      Planting her hands on her hips, Heather narrowed her eyes. “Just because you had a hand in getting Kate and Craig together doesn’t give you the right to work on my love life, Edith.” Charter fishing boat captain Kate MacDonald, who occupied the little cottage between her house and Edith’s, had recently married Nantucket’s Coast Guard commander, and Heather knew Edith was proud of her role as matchmaker.

      “How can I work on something that doesn’t exist?”

      “Very funny.”

      “No. Very true. And sad.”

      “You know I’m not in the market for romance, Edith. And you know why.”

      “Not all men are like your father. Or Mark.”

      Removing the melted chocolate from the stove, Heather poured it into a mixing bowl containing the remaining ingredients for the filling and began to stir. Even after two years, the mere mention of the dashing Boston hotel executive who’d come to the island to manage a collection of boutique properties—and who’d finagled his way past her defenses—left a bitter taste in her mouth.

      “I agree, Edith. But the Anderson women always seem to pick losers.”

      “Humph.” The older woman licked a speck of cream off her finger. “What does the island’s newest police officer look like?”

      “Dark hair, dark eyes, six-one or two.” Heather began scooping the filling into the miniature tart shells.

      “As in tall, dark and handsome?”

      “I didn’t say handsome.”

      “You mean he’s ugly?”

      As a mental image of her unexpected customer flashed across her mind, Heather lost her methodical scooping rhythm and a ball of filling plopped onto the stainless-steel counter. Expelling an irritated breath, she gritted her teeth and swiped it up. “He’s not ugly.”

      “Well, I’m anxious to meet him. I already like his name. Justin Clay. It sounds very strong and masculine.”

      “He goes by J.C.”

      “Oh? How do you know?”

      She was in too deep now to do anything but tell the truth, Heather realized, regretting the slip. “When he introduced himself, he said that’s what his friends call him.”

      “His friends.” Edith mulled that over as she slid off the stool. Ambling toward the back porch, she tossed one parting comment over her shoulder. “Well, that’s a start.” Without waiting for a response, she pushed through the door and disappeared down the steps.

      Dismayed, Heather blew out a breath and shook her head. She’d seen that look in Edith’s eyes before, and she knew what it meant—the older woman was in matchmaking mode. Now that Kate and Craig had tied the knot, she was on the prowl for new victims.

      Meaning J.C. would probably end up ruing the day he’d stepped into The Devon Rose.

      “Marci, it’s J.C.”

      “Hey, big brother. You arrived safe and sound, I assume.”

      “Yep.” He stretched out on the bed in his new digs, testing the mattress. Nice and firm. Just the way he liked it.

      “So how’s life on a ritzy island?”

      “I haven’t seen the ritzy parts yet. But I did have a ritzy experience today. I went to tea.”

      Her response was preceded by several beats of silence. “You hate tea.”

      “The food was good,” J.C. countered. “You would have liked it, Marci. White tablecloths, classical music, flowers.”

      “You hate tea.”

      “You already said that.”

      “I know. I’m trying to make sense of this. What on earth prompted you to go to tea?”

      An elegant, graceful woman with hazel eyes.

      As that thought echoed in his mind, J.C. frowned. He wished he could attribute his foray into that civilized ritual to hunger, but he couldn’t dispute the truth. Had it not been for Heather Anderson’s quiet loveliness and refinement, he would have vacated the rarified atmosphere of The Devon Rose in a heartbeat, no matter how loudly his stomach protested.

      “The question wasn’t that hard, J.C.”

      At Marci’s wry prompt, he pulled himself back to the present. “I was hungry. And the tea place is next door to my cottage. Anyway, it’s nice here. Quiet.”

      “Good. Maybe you’ll sleep better.”

      “I slept okay in Chicago.”

      “Hey, you don’t have to pretend with me. I’m your sister, okay? I know you’ve been through hell this past month. So rest. Relax. Think. And move on.”

      “It’s not that easy.”

      “I know.” Her words came out scratchy, and she cleared her throat. “Pray some more to that God of yours. Maybe He’ll come through for you if you keep bending His ear.”

      “I intend to. And He’s your God, too, Marci. I wish you and Nathan would give Him a chance.”

      “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. As for Nathan…he’s a lost cause. Do you still write to him every week?”

      “Yes.”

      “I doubt he even reads the letters.”

      “Maybe not. But he gets them. And knows I’m thinking about him.”

      “Talk about a wasted life.” Disgust laced her words.

      “It’s not too late for him to turn things around.” J.C. tried to sound optimistic as he stared at the ceiling, but in truth, his hope was dimming. His younger brother’s bitterness hadn’t abated one iota since the day eight years ago when he’d been sentenced to a decade behind bars for armed robbery.

      “Give it up, J.C. All those trips you made down to Pontiac…What good did they do? Most of the time he wouldn’t even talk to you. He doesn’t like cops.”

      “I was his brother first, Marci. And I have to try.”

      “Yeah. I know.” Her words grew softer. “Too bad you were saddled with two reprobates for siblings.”

      There was a hint of humor in her voice, but J.C. knew how she’d struggled with self-image. And hated that deep inside, for reasons he’d never been able to fathom, she might continue to feel less than worthy. “I don’t think of you that way, Marci. And neither does anyone else. You’ve done great.” Then he lightened his tone, knowing praise made her uncomfortable. “I’m impressed with that big word, by the way. Reprobate, huh? All that schooling you’re getting must be paying off.”

      “Very funny.”

      A knock sounded at his door, and he swung his legs to the floor. “Someone’s come calling, kiddo. Gotta run.”

      “Okay, bro. Take care and don’t be a stranger.”

      As the line went dead, J.C. stood and slipped his cell phone into his pocket. Smoothing down the back of his hair with one hand, he opened the door with the other.

      “You must be Justin. Or J.C., as I’m told you prefer to be called. You’re just the way Heather described you. Welcome to Nantucket. I’m Edith Shaw, and this is my husband,

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