“I made my share of mistakes,” Holt said. “At least the statute of limitations has run out on everything I did wrong when I was a teenager.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on sin.”

  Holt, who was raising the water bottle to his lips, stopped and lowered it. His claim about the statute of limitations didn’t apply to Calico’s death. Lying to the state patrol officer kept alive the possibility that Holt could be prosecuted for vehicular homicide if the truth ever came out. It was another huge reason to keep his mouth shut.

  “God forgives and forgets,” the bishop continued, “but not until we do our part, which is to confess and repent.”

  “I thought you were supposed to preach good news,” Holt grunted.

  “It is good for those who believe and act on it.”

  Holt picked up the basketball and bounced it a few times. He took a shot and missed. The ball rolled away from them, and Henry took off after it. When the dog returned with the ball, Holt scooped it up and took another shot. He missed again.

  “Jamal would have made that shot,” he said.

  “You would, too, if your mind was on basketball,” the bishop said. “Whatever you do, don’t put your trust in the statute of limitations.”

  Trish stood in front of the mirror. She usually wore her long blond hair in a ponytail at work, but tonight she let it fall past her shoulders. She brushed it vigorously a few more times in an effort to impart a bit more sheen to the dull gold. There was a knock on the bathroom door.

  “Keith just pulled in the driveway,” her mother said. “Do you want me to let him in?”

  “No, I’ll be there in a sec,” Trish replied.

  She adjusted the dark blue dress she’d chosen for the dinner date. The discipline of salads and sit-ups kept her trim. She left the bathroom and arrived at the front door as Keith rang the chime.

  Keith was wearing an open-collared shirt and a sport jacket. He’d taken time to make his dark hair look nice, and Trish caught a whiff of cologne.

  “You look fantastic,” he said when he saw her.

  “Thanks.”

  Marge was sitting in the living room.

  “Hey, Mrs. Carmichael,” Keith said.

  “It’s time you started calling me Marge. Once one of Trish’s friends gets a real job, I make them drop the ‘Mrs. Carmichael.’ ”

  “I’ll work on that,” Keith replied with a grin before he turned to Trish. “Thanks for agreeing to go out later than we planned.”

  “I had a little snack to tide me over.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night, Mrs., uh, Marge,” Keith said.

  “I won’t be late,” Trish said.

  “Stay out as long as you like. You’ve been such a good girl this week that you don’t have a curfew.”

  Trish and Keith both stared at Marge for a moment, then realized she was joking. All three of them laughed.

  A slight breeze was stirring the air as they walked down the narrow sidewalk that led from the front of the house to the driveway. Keith held the door open for Trish. He’d emptied his car of all the paraphernalia he carried in his job.

  “Do you want me to drive?” Trish stopped. “I bet you’re tired of spending so much time behind the wheel during the week.”

  “No, riding with you is nothing like being by myself late at night on a back road in Alabama.”

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the restaurant. They passed through Paxton toward Interstate 20, the main route from Atlanta to Augusta. The owners of the restaurant wanted to attract customers traveling on the highway as well as local residents.

  “Tell me about your week,” Keith said. “Except for the confidential parts, of course.”

  The first thing that came to Trish’s mind was the tingly feeling she had when Holt scooted his chair close to her desk. That was immediately followed by their dinner at the sub shop and the tears Holt wiped from his eyes. Finally, she revisited their time together in the interrogation room poring over the Rex Meredith file.

  “Uh, I ran all over the county the other night trying to arrest one of the men I’ve been tracking for months,” she managed.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Yes, in an abandoned house at the end of a dirt road that must have been a half mile from the highway.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “I was nervous,” Trish admitted. “But Nick Watkins was with me.”

  Keith smiled. “We used to call him Nicky, but I doubt he’d go for that these days.”

  Keith began to reminisce about Nick and their days together on the football team. Trish listened and tried not to think about Holt. But it was hard to keep her mind from going where her heart wanted to take her. When they arrived at the restaurant, the parking lot was packed.

  “I hope that’s a sign that the food is good,” Keith said.

  “Or everyone had the same idea we did and wanted to check it out.”

  Trish was wearing high heels that forced her to shorten her lengthy stride. Keith held out his hand as they crossed the parking lot, and she took it. No tingling feeling ran up her arm.

  “Did you call ahead for reservations?” she asked.

  “No.”

  The restaurant was a wooden structure. Inside there were several dining rooms located off a central area that featured an extensive salad bar. Exposed beams cut across the ceiling. Keith approached the hostess, a young woman in a black dress.

  “Two for dinner,” he said.

  “It’ll be about ten minutes,” she said. “Would you like to wait in the bar?”

  Keith glanced at Trish, who nodded her head.

  The bar was small and dark. Trish didn’t drink. The role alcohol had played in the wreck that killed her father and paralyzed her mother tainted even an occasional glass of wine. She wasn’t sure about Keith. Being a salesman on the road, she suspected he might occasionally go to a bar, especially with clients.

  “You can have something,” she said.

  “No, I’m driving,” Keith replied immediately.

  His response made Trish feel warmer toward him, and she began talking more freely. Once she lightly touched him on the arm while telling him about a movie she and her mother recently enjoyed. The hostess called Keith’s name, and another young woman led them to a table for two against the wall in the farthest room on the left. As soon as they were seated, Trish looked up.

  And found herself staring into the eyes of Holt Douglas.

  16

  Holt and his girlfriend were sitting at the next table along the wall. Angelina Peabody had her back to Keith. Trish had never met Angelina, but she knew more and more women were going to her salon. Holt smiled at Trish and raised his wineglass in greeting. Trish felt herself blush. The assistant district attorney pushed his chair away from the table and stepped over to them. As he did, Angelina turned sideways in her chair. She was wearing a black dress that made her look like she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. She was stunningly beautiful. Her hair didn’t look like it needed any extra swipes of a brush to make it glisten.

  “Hey, Holt,” Trish managed.

  “Hello.” Holt smiled. “It’s nice to see you in something other than a deputy sheriff’s uniform.”

  Trish felt herself blush again. She hoped the dim light in the restaurant hid her embarrassment. Angelina got up and came over. Trish was surprised how short she was.

  “Keith,” Trish managed, “this is Holt Douglas. He’s one of the district attorneys I work with.”

  Keith stood and the two men shook hands. Seeing them together brought out their contrasts. Holt was taller and leaner with more chiseled features. Keith was stockier but handsome in his own way.

  “And this is Angelina Peabody,” Holt said.

  Angelina smiled and extended her hand to Trish. Angelina’s nails were also flawless. Her hands were tiny compared to Trish’s.

  “You have gorgeous hair,” Angelina said.

  “You’re kidding,” Trish replied.

  “Don’t argue with her,” Holt said. “It’s her business to know about that. She owns the All About You Salon and Spa.”

  “I know. Everybody is talking about your place,” Trish said. “It’s the biggest thing to hit Paxton in a long time.”

  Angelina laughed. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound.

  “You should check out the salon,” Angelina said. “If you have to put up with Holt on a regular basis, you deserve a discount.”

  “Oh, he’s great,” Trish said. “I mean as a lawyer.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Trish wanted to crawl under the table.

  “You’re the one who makes me look good,” Holt replied, not seeming to notice. He turned to Keith. “Trish is superorganized. She prepares such excellent summaries of her cases that I can read them verbatim to the judge. It makes my job a lot easier.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Keith said. “But don’t play chess with her. She’ll blow you off the table before you realize what hit you.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Holt put his hand on Angelina’s shoulder. “Enjoy your dinner. I recommend the rib eye, medium-rare with red wine sauce.”

  After a waiter took their drink orders, Trish and Keith went to the salad bar. Trish’s emotions were in turmoil as she absentmindedly fixed her salad. She was having trouble getting the image of Holt’s hand on Angelina’s shoulder out of her mind. When they returned to their table with the salads, Holt and Angelina were gone.

  “That was quite a compliment the lawyer gave you,” Keith said as they sat down. “Maybe you should consider going to law school.”

  “Are you serious?” Trish asked.

  “Everyone knows how smart you are. All you lack is confidence.”

  The way Keith spoke about her lack of confidence didn’t sound like a put-down. Trish had secretly considered the possibility of law school but hadn’t mentioned it to Marge or Sue Ann.

  They sat in silence as they ate their salads.

  After taking a drink of tea, Keith asked, “Are you familiar with the piece of property for sale on Cockburn Road? It’s not far from the Eakins place.”

  Trish nodded. The property was about two miles from where she and her mother lived. A faded real-estate sign out front described a five-acre tract.

  “Yes. It’s a soybean field with a little creek running along the side.”

  “That’s right. I’m thinking about buying it and building a house there.”

  “What about the creek? Doesn’t that make it a floodplain?”

  “The land rises toward the rear of the property, and I don’t think the water would be a problem if that’s where the house is located.” Keith became more animated. “I mean, it wouldn’t be smart to put in a basement. I talked to Mr. Eakins and asked him the same thing. He’s lived next door for forty years and has never seen the creek flood the little hill I have in mind. And I thought having flowing water on a piece of property would be nice. I’ve been looking at house plans, and a couple of weeks ago I installed a program on my computer that lets me play around with designs. It’s cool how the program automatically adds the things I would forget. Would you like to see some of the concepts I’ve come up with?”

  “I guess so,” Trish responded slowly. “I mean, I can give you an opinion, but you’re going to have to decide what you want in a house.”

  “What you think is very, very important to me.”

  Trish was chewing a bite of salad and suddenly had trouble swallowing it. She took a quick sip of water to help the food go down. The waiter brought their food.

  “This looks good,” Trish said as she eyed her steak, a petite fillet.

  Keith had taken Holt’s advice and ordered a rib eye. The waiter placed a steaming dish of creamed spinach in the center of the table.

  “You could grow an awesome garden on the property,” Keith said. “It’s all bottomland, and the creek runs year-round in case there’s a drought. It’s been in soybeans for years. They put nitrogen back into the soil.”

  Trish was chewing a bite of steak while Keith talked.

  “Try your steak,” she said. “Mine is delicious.”

  The steak got Keith’s mind off the property beside the creek. Like Holt, he’d gotten the red wine–reduction sauce. Trish dipped a piece of her meat into the sauce. It had deep, rich flavors.

  “Wow,” she said. “Holt was right. This is very good.”

  “He seems like a nice guy,” Keith said. “How well do you know him?”

  Trish suddenly wished Keith would change the subject back to creekfront property and soybeans.

  “Uh, he’s from Atlanta and came here two years ago. Some people say he’s the best trial lawyer in the DA’s office.”

  “And Angelina is his girlfriend?”

  “Yes.” Trish licked her lips.

  “Is there any chance he and his girlfriend would come to church if you invited him?”

  “I have no idea,” Trish replied with surprise.

  The possibility of sitting in a pew with Keith, Holt, and Angelina on a Sunday morning sounded like something from a low-budget reality TV show.

  “Our church isn’t very sophisticated,” Keith continued, “but Brother Carpenter is a good speaker. I think he could relate to a lawyer.”

  Trish wasn’t so sure. “Maybe. Did Brother Carpenter get in touch with you to talk more about the building program? He came by the house and talked with my mom when I wasn’t there.”

  “Not yet. We’re supposed to meet for lunch again next week. I’m only going to be on the road Monday and Tuesday. The rest of the week, I’m working from my home office.” Keith smiled. “Which is the same bedroom I’ve had since I was eleven years old. What’s your shift this week? Maybe we could get together so I can show you my house plans.”

  “I’m on first all week.”

  “Great. Late in the afternoon would be perfect for me. How about Wednesday?”

  “That would probably work. I’ll let you know.”

  With a satisfied look on his face, Keith focused his attention once again on the steak on his plate. Trish took small bites and chewed thoughtfully.

  Saturday morning, Holt woke up early and took Henry out for a morning run. The dog’s short legs were built for quick bursts of speed rather than a long jog, so Holt followed a course that looped back around to the house after about a mile. Henry was breathing rapidly when Holt took him off his leash and released him into the yard. Henry pattered over to the deck and buried his face in his water dish. For the next few minutes the neighborhood squirrels wouldn’t have to fear for their lives.

  Holt continued his run at a faster pace. This early in the day the air was cool and the humidity low. He ran down Magnolia Avenue. As he passed Rex Meredith’s mansion, he saw a man on his knees working in a colorful flower bed. It was the caretaker whose name Holt couldn’t remember. Holt slowed and walked up the brick pathway that led to the long porch.

  “Good morning,” he said to the man who still had his back to him.

  The man spun around and held a garden trowel out in front of his chest like a knife. He was wearing a dirty denim cap and soiled overalls. Wisps of white hair stuck out from beneath the cap.

  “Sorry,” Holt said and held his hands up in the air. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. . . .” Holt waited for the man to fill in the blank, but instead the caretaker glanced down at the trowel and flicked off a piece of dirt. “I was out for a run and stopped to see the flowers.”

  “Be that what,” the man said. “It be that.”

  “Pardon?” Holt asked.

  The man motioned with the trowel for Holt to move on. There was no misinterpreting the message. Holt backed up a few steps and jogged to the main sidewalk. He continued into town, where he circled the courthouse and retraced his steps. When he reached the Meredith place, the caretaker wasn’t in sight. Holt tried to get a better view of the small house where the man lived, but except for a corner of the building, it was hidden behind the main dwelling.

  Holt’s route took him past the Paxton Apostolic Church. He saw Bishop Pennington leaving through the side door near his office. The bishop motioned for Holt to come closer.

  “I’m going to keep my distance,” Holt said, stopping a few feet from the minister. “I got steamed up the last mile.”

  “I’ve never quite figured out the reason for jogging,” the minister replied. “I guess I worked so hard when I was a youngster that I looked forward to a rest, not a workout.”

  “I’d probably feel the same way if I had to break a sweat for a living.”

  The bishop rubbed his hand across his gray hair. “I visited Jamal and his mother the other day. She promised to bring him to church tomorrow. I think she was just waiting for someone to show up and ask her. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been playing ball with those boys.”

  “You could have come out and talked to them.”

  “Maybe, but I suspect they’d have taken off when they saw me. Even though I’m old and slow, people still believe they need to run from me.”

  Since their conversation about the absence of a statute of limitations for sins, Holt could identify with that feeling.

  “I just had a guy run me off. Do you know the man who takes care of Rex Meredith’s house on Magnolia Avenue? I tried to say something to him, and all I got was a hostile attitude and nonsense.”

  “Oh, Sonny has a speech problem. What do they call it when a child sees the letters jumbled up in a sentence?”

  “Dyslexia.”

  “Right. That’s the way it is for Sonny when he talks. He understands you well enough, but he has a lot of trouble making himself understood. Did he have a writing pad with him?”

  “No, he was digging in the flower beds.”

  “When he goes to the store, he’ll write down what he wants. He can do that well enough to make clear what he needs. But he’s not much for socializing with anyone. Sonny is happier being left alone.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “We’re about the same age. He played with us when we were little because the white kids made fun of the way he talked.”