The Sheriff Of Wickham Falls. Rochelle Alers

Falls and the next eighteen serving his country as a marine. Now, at thirty-eight, he was back to stay. Unlike some kids who couldn’t wait to grow up to leave, it had been different with Seth. Perhaps it had something to do with reconnecting with his parents and sisters, because each time he was granted leave it was to come back to his hometown.

      He walked into his house and descended the staircase to the basement. In the two years since his honorable discharge, Seth spent most of his spare time working on the house where he had grown up. He had updated the kitchen and finished the basement. He’d also had a company put on a new roof and replace worn shingles with vinyl siding.

      Seth knew he had disappointed his late father when after graduating high school he refused to join Adam Collier’s general contracting business. But, the elder Collier understood his son’s wish to embark on a military career because of the stories he’d told Seth about serving in Vietnam, as well as Seth’s grandfather fighting in Korea.

      Seth opened the door to a storeroom and selected an extension pole for a paint roller, a pan and several pan liners, a pair of safety glasses and a package of respirators to prevent the inhaling of paint fumes. He checked the shelves and made a mental note to restock several items the next time he went to Grand Hardware. Like most residents in The Falls, Seth made a concerted effort to shop locally, although he could save a lot more money by shopping in the stores off the interstate.

      Ten years ago, members on the town council embarked on a shop locally campaign to sustain the viability of the independent stores in the business district. Every couple of years, they voted down proposals to allow national chains or franchises in Wickham Falls, much to the delight of local business owners.

      Gathering what he needed for the painting project, Seth returned to the first story. The throbbing in his left thumb was an indication he had to ice it again. He retrieved an ice pack from the freezer and placed it over his hand. He’d hoped the swelling would disappear before he was scheduled to return to work. The sheriff, an ex-marine drill sergeant, who was noticeably out of shape himself, expected all of his deputies to be physically and mentally fit to perform their duties.

      After icing his thumb, Seth exchanged his jeans and T-shirt for a pair of painter bib overalls, a long-sleeved cotton polo and paint-spattered running shoes, then covered his head with a tattered baseball cap. He felt as comfortable in what he deemed work clothes as he had in his military police and deputy sheriff uniform.

      * * *

      Natalia had emptied the bags and stored her groceries in the refrigerator-freezer, on shelves in the miniscule pantry, and had changed out of her blouse and jeans and into a pair of shorts she should’ve discarded last summer and an oversize white T-shirt. A pair of flip-flops had replaced the ballet flats. She debated whether to cover her short hair with a hat or a bandanna, and then decided on the latter.

      Affecting a short, natural wash-and-go hairstyle had been advantageous when working double, and on occasion triple, shifts at the hospital. Then she would shower in the doctors’ lounge, grab at least four hours of sleep, then go back on duty. She had been so sleep-deprived, Natalia knew she would never catch up on the hours she’d lost. She was looking forward to assisting Dr. Franklin, because not only would it be a different environment but she would be able to develop a relationship with her patients.

      Natalia left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen, smiling when she saw Seth standing on the ladder and putting blue tape around the windows, cabinets and along the ceiling. He’d removed the stools at the breakfast island and covered the countertops and the round oaken table and four chairs in the eat-in kitchen with drop cloths. The radio positioned under a row of overhead cabinets was tuned to a station playing soft jazz.

      “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said. Seth had entered the house so quietly that Natalia hadn’t detected his presence.

      Seth glanced at her over his shoulder. “That’s a warning that you should keep at least one of the doors locked whenever you’re home alone, because you don’t want someone to walk in on you. Nowadays you have to take every precaution to protect yourself.”

      “Wickham Falls is so small that I thought there wouldn’t be a lot of crime here.”

      He climbed down off of the ladder. “We don’t have much when compared to larger towns or cities but there is crime here.”

      “What about opiates?” Natalia asked.

      Turning slowly, he gave her a direct stare. “Did Dr. Franklin tell you about our drug problem?”

      Natalia shook her head. “He didn’t have to. It’s become an epidemic that’s affecting large and small cities and towns throughout the country. Even the so-called affluent neighborhoods aren’t exempt.”

      “Amen,” Seth confirmed under his breath. He opened a gallon of paint, attached the pour spout and slowly drizzled paint from the can into the pan with a liner, then repeated the action with the second one. “I brought over an extra pan for the paint, so we can both use rollers.”

      Natalia glanced around the kitchen. “How long do you think it’s going to take us to finish painting this?”

      “Probably about two to three hours.”

      “What I don’t understand is the walls in the other rooms are spotless, while the kitchen is a mess.”

      The house’s pristine condition and updated appliances, along with a washer and dryer in the unfinished basement, were the reasons Natalia had decided to rent it. When she’d questioned the realtor why the home had remained vacant for a year, the woman said interested tenants complained that the rent, which included a two-month security fee, was out of their price range, but for Natalia it was less than what she’d once paid for her mortgage and maintenance on her condo.

      “I’m willing to bet that Chandler’s nephews are the culprits,” Seth said.

      “Mrs. Riley at the realty company told me that my absentee landlord is a confirmed bachelor and lived alone.”

      “He is and does, but every once in a while, his sister would drop off her twin boys and that’s when chaos erupted. Chandler and his sister were raised by a single mother. They were never allowed to have friends over because Mrs. Evans said she didn’t want them tracking dirt inside. Chandler is also a neat freak, but he’s also a very indulgent uncle when it comes to his nephews.”

      Although she was curious to know more about her landlord and her neighbor, Natalia decided not to question Seth further because she wanted them to finish their painting project. Picking up a disposable respirator, she put it on and then protected her hands with a pair of rubber gloves.

      * * *

      Natalia stood next to Seth admiring their handiwork. They’d completed painting the kitchen in less than two hours. The bluish-gray color was the perfect complement for the stainless-steel appliances. “You did a very nice job, Seth.”

      Attractive lines fanned out around his eyes when he smiled. “So did you,” he countered. “And I’m willing to bet that this isn’t your first painting project.”

      Folding her arms under her breasts, Natalia nodded. “The year I turned thirteen, I asked my mother if I could paint my bedroom and she said okay as long as it wasn’t black. One year it was fluorescent pink, and another year it was lavender. I was in the pink and purple phase for a while until I left for college. It was only after I graduated medical school that Mom told me since I was a doctor, I’d forfeited the room and she was going to paint it with a color of her choice. My mother liked oyster-white walls, which I’ve always found much too sterile. Although Mom tells everyone she’s a very modern woman in reality, she’s very conservative.”

      “There’s something to be said for conservatism.”

      Natalia glanced up at Seth. “You’re a conservative?”

      He angled his head. “I’m more of a traditionalist middle-of-the-road guy.”

      “Is that another way of saying you’re old-school?”

      “Not