92 Pacific Boulevard - Debbie Macomber [28]
Troy didn’t have an answer for him. “I’ll do my best to make it go away.”
Louie seemed slightly mollified. “I’d appreciate that.” He handed Troy a slip of paper. “In case you need it, here’s that reporter’s phone number. You try and reason with her.”
Troy sighed. The thing he’d noticed about reporters was that the more fuss he made, the keener their interest. Any bit of information he fed them was never enough; they demanded more. Then they’d dig around until they found what they wanted—or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Over the years, Troy had learned that the best policy was to say nothing, or at least nothing of substance. He was polite and cordial, but his lips were sealed.
After the mayor left, Troy hurried to his office. He’d just sat down at his desk when his cell phone chirped. He rarely received personal calls. A quick check told him it was his daughter.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said.
“Hi, Daddy. I wanted to tell you I saw Faith.”
Hearing Faith’s name produced an instant flash of anticipation, immediately crowded out by regret.
“She gave me something for you.”
Troy sat up straighter. “She did?” He hated the hopefulness that elevated his voice.
“It’s a recipe for bran muffins.”
“Oh.” His hopes quickly deflated.
“You didn’t tell me you’d been over to her house.”
“It was a routine call. I stopped by to follow up after the break-in.”
“I think it’s terrible that someone would do that to Faith.”
Troy agreed.
“Have you seen much of her lately?” his daughter inquired. She sounded as if she’d been taking classes from a trained investigator.
“Just that once since the break-in.”
“I see,” Megan said. “Faith looked good, didn’t she?”
In Troy’s opinion, Faith always looked good. “Yes, she did,” he murmured.
“She said you really enjoyed the muffins and suggested I bake them for you.”
As he recalled, he hadn’t had anything to eat that particular morning and had skipped lunch. The fact was, he would’ve eaten sawdust if Faith had served it.
“I thought I’d bake these for you and bring them over this evening.”
“Wonderful, thank you.” A reminder of Faith was the last thing he needed.
“Can I drop them off after dinner? I mean, you’ll be home, won’t you?”
“Where else would I be?”
This was obviously an exploratory question to see if he’d be with Faith.
“Craig wanted to run a couple of errands tonight and I figured I’d go with him, then we’ll stop at your place. Should I call first?”
“No need. I’ll be home.”
“Okay.” She seemed disappointed. “I’ll see you around seven. We won’t stay long.”
“You’re welcome anytime, Megan, you know that.”
“I know,” she said.
They chatted for a few more minutes before Troy closed his cell and slipped it back inside its case. His daughter sounded better than she had since Sandy’s death. Troy was well aware that she missed her mother, but Megan had come to terms with her grief, the same way he had.
Before he went home, Troy left a message for Kathleen Sadler at the Seattle paper. For the second time, he asked that she direct all future calls to him. She probably felt Louie Benson was an easier target, but Troy planned to put a stop to that. He’d prefer the mayor not question him in the parking lot again.
On his drive home, Troy decided to swing past Rosewood Lane. He didn’t expect to see Faith, although he hoped he would. It’d been more than a week since they’d talked.
As it happened, he saw her struggling with a heavy bag of groceries, dragging them from the backseat of her car. She glanced up just as he drove slowly past. Since she’d already seen his vehicle, Troy pulled over to the curb and parked.
“Let me help you with that,” he said, moving toward her.
“I’m fine.” But even as she said it, she surrendered the two heavy bags.