Forever Never

“Come on, Brick. I was just having a bit of fun.”

Maybe it was the measly thirty minutes of sleep he’d managed the night before. Or maybe it was the whine in Duncan Firth’s voice as they stood over the mangled frame of the Polaris after it had done battle with a split rail fence and a stop sign.

Whatever the reason, he wasn’t feeling particularly fond of fun in the moment.

“That’s Sergeant Callan to you when I’m in uniform,” Brick said, handing over the citation. “Next time you think about ramping your vehicle, try aiming it away from the fences and street signs.”

“Yes, sir,” Duncan said, morosely stuffing the ticket into the pocket of his snowsuit. The man was in his early sixties, a grandfather of three, and a bit of a daredevil. He was the first islander to test out the ice bridge that connected the island to the mainland every year. The longer winter stretched on, the dumber his decision-making got.

“Pops! Pops! Didja see the video?” Duncan’s seven-year-old grandson jogged over holding a phone over his head.

“Lemme have a look-see,” Duncan said, pulling out a pair of reading glasses.

With a shake of his head, Brick decided it was time to leave before he had to add any other charges to the citation. Knowing Duncan, there was a six-pack of beer buried somewhere in the snow nearby.

His horse, one of the few left on the island for winter, stamped an impatient hoof at the fence. Like his owner, Cleetus was quiet, dependable, and bigger than most. He stood sixteen hands high, his dark coat glossy in the Friday morning sun. Brick stashed his gear in the saddlebag and gave the horse a pat on the rump before heaving himself into the saddle. “All right. Let’s get you some breakfast, bud.”

The big, black horse tossed his head in agreement, and together they headed toward town.

It was the kind of morning that took a man’s breath away. The sun threw thousands of diamond glints off the snow, blinding in their brilliance. Meanwhile, the lake wind worked its way under layers of gear, reminding anyone who stepped out under that brilliant sun that it was still February, still a long haul to the spring temperatures of May.

Brick appreciated the rugged beauty of winter. The long, dark nights. The blanket of quiet. Work was slower, easier. The focus shifted from policing thousands of tourists to keeping an eye on the few hundred neighbors who called Mackinac home all year round.

It was peaceful.

At least it had been until yesterday.

The lights at Red Gate had stayed on all night. He knew that because he’d checked every hour or so, standing in his old bedroom at the front of the house and staring across the street at the cottage.

She’d always been a night owl, always been on the forgetful side. She’d never really had to deal with the consequences since there was always someone walking along behind her to turn out the lights.

But his instincts were telling him this wasn’t just a case of Remi being too lost in paints and adventure to pay attention. Something was off. She was off. He’d seen it in the shadows under her eyes, the way she startled when he’d caught her outside the grocery store.

The snow-covered road stretched out in front of him, woods to the right, glimpses of water views through the trees to the left. The little downtown where most of his adult life had played out was straight ahead. He’d made this place home. Carved out a spot for himself. He wasn’t going to upset the balance by getting too close to her. Not again. He had his reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Remington Ford had been born with wings, not roots.

It was better, simpler if it was just him, Cleetus, and Magnus, the stray cat. He had his house. Work that he loved. Good friends. And a place at the table of a family he’d often wished was his own. Wanting more was greedy. And in his experience, greed greased the road to hell.

Cleetus picked up the pace when the white clapboard stables came into view. His hefty hooves were muffled by the few inches of snow on Market Street.

Brick did what he did best, focused on the tasks at hand and let all the what-ifs and what-could-bes go. With his mount fed and tack stowed, he shouldered the saddlebags—his version of a briefcase—and headed up the street. He ducked into the coffee shop conveniently located halfway between the stables and the station where he picked up the usual, a box of assorted pastries.

The small talk between the staff and the two other customers reminded him that no matter where he went on the island, he wasn’t going to escape mention of the troubled redhead.

Yes, he did hear that Remi Ford was back.

No, he didn’t know how long she was staying.

Yes, he supposed she did look just as pretty as the last time she’d been home.

While he’d made a place for himself here, she’d been born into one. The entire island looked forward to her visits because everything was just a little bit brighter, a little more fun with Remington around.

She was the kind of girl that when she gave a guy a nickname, the entire town was still using it over a decade later.

He kept his shoulders hunched against the gusts of wind that funneled between buildings and hurried the final few hundred feet to the station.

The white, two-story building on Market Street always reminded Brick of a church. However, instead of Sunday sermons, it was home to the Mackinac Island Police Department, town hall, and town court.

Slipping in the side door, he took off his hat and coat, hanging them both on designated pegs. There was only one other parka on the rack so far that morning. In season, the tiny department swelled to include dozens of cops policing the streets of Mackinac on foot, bikes, and horseback. But off season, only a handful stayed on to serve the full-time residents.

He took the pastries into the break room, where he found the boss pouring a fresh cup of coffee into her It’s Called Snow, Get Over It mug.

“Morning, Brick.”

Chief Darlene Ford was a formidable woman. A lifelong resident of the island, a windchill of eight degrees didn’t faze her. Not much of anything did. She was tall and athletically built. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was scraped back in its usual short, serviceable tail. Her eyes were a cool, assessing green. The rangy build came from a rigid adherence to daily weight training. She could do more push-ups in one shot than most of the rest of the small force.

Brick excluded, of course. He made it a point to be able to out-work, out-ride, and out-shoot any other officer.

“Morning, chief.” He poured his own mug.

“What did Duncan do this time?” Darlene asked, perusing the pastry selection. She selected a bacon-topped bear claw then offered him the box.

He shook his head, heading for the fridge instead, where his protein shake waited. “Ramped his brand new Polaris into a fence and took out the stop sign on Huron Road.”

“Dang fool is gonna get himself killed one of these days,” she said.

“Anything happen overnight?” Brick asked, taking a hit of coffee.

“Remi’s home.” She glanced down at the protein shake and didn’t bother hiding her shudder.

“I heard. She okay?”

Those green eyes landed on him and held. “Seems to be. Surprised us on the front porch yesterday morning. Got herself a broken arm from some fender bender. Looks tired, but who isn’t this far into winter?”

Brick grunted, swallowing the questions he had.

“That reminds me. Family dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Be there.” Darlene started for the door. “And don’t bother telling me you’re too busy or you don’t want to intrude.”

Damn it. There went both his best excuses.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

“Good. Bring bourbon. Gil’s moved on to Manhattans,” she said over her shoulder. “And eat a damn pastry to wash down that shake. A man can only have so much discipline before it’s unhealthy.”

He settled in at his desk, a dented, green metal throwback that he’d grown attached to over the years. While his computer booted up, he downed half of his shake and fired off a text to Darius, knowing full well his partner at the bar wouldn’t be awake for a few hours yet.

Brick: Won’t be in tonight.

It wasn’t his night to work anyway. But he liked checking in. The more in tune he was with the bar, the fewer surprises there were.

Refusing to think about spending an entire evening across the table from Remi, Brick got to work. Wincing at the 10 a.m. slot on the department’s calendar, he logged Duncan’s accident, then perused the afternoon’s welfare checks. Community policing involved more “driving seniors to church on Sunday” tasks than chasing down criminals.

He enjoyed the adrenaline of the high-season with all the challenges one million tourists brought with them. But he preferred the winters when he felt he was doing his part, not just keeping the island safe, but making sure everyone had what they needed.

He plotted out a route for the welfare checks and found nothing pressing in his email inbox. By the time he hit the bottom of his shake, he’d run out of willpower.

With his gaze on the chief’s office, he typed the name he’d been trying his entire adult life to forget into the database and sat back while the engine populated results.

Remington Ford had five traffic violations. Not a surprise.

She’d also been arrested twice.

He’d known about the first. Hell, he’d been the one doing the arresting.

The second arrest was more recent. He skimmed the report. It stemmed from a protest in Philadelphia three years ago. The charges had been dropped. Also not surprising.

What did surprise him was the fact that there were zero motor vehicle accidents listed. An accident with injury warranted a report and a victim name.

He glanced toward the chief’s office again. Darlene was on the phone, boots propped on the desk as she shot the shit with a few members of the chamber of commerce on a Zoom call.

Since the boss was still busy and he was already looking, he decided to dig a little deeper. He expanded the search and skimmed the rest of the results.

Pay dirt.

Four days ago Remington Honeysuckle Ford, 30, was transported from an apartment in Chicago to the emergency department of St. Luke’s Hospital for a “severe asthma attack.” Edging closer to the screen, his elbow caught the empty shake bottle, sending it tumbling to the floor. Snatching it up, he shot a guilty look in Darlene’s direction then shifted his attention back to the monitor.

The emergency responder report ended there. Without a warrant, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the hospital’s records department.

Had she passed out from the asthma attack and broken her arm in the fall? If so, who had been at her apartment to call 911? And why would she lie about a car accident?

The side door burst open, and Brick sent his shake bottle flying again.

God damn it. Less than two days on the island and the woman had already frayed his nerves.

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” sang Carlos Turk as he wandered into the bullpen, hands on his hips. The corporal was obnoxiously and permanently cheerful. Every day was beautiful. Every work shift was fun. Every burger was the best he’d ever eaten. It was hard to dislike a man for being happy all the time, but Brick still made the attempt.

“It’s fourteen degrees,” he countered.

“A beautiful fourteen degrees.” Carlos paused and gave Brick the once-over. “You look like shit, man.”

“Beautiful shit?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Reasonably attractive shit?”

“Good enough. Pastries are in the break room,” Brick said, exiting out of his search. He’d worry on the problem later.

“You caffeinated enough for this morning?” Carlos asked, rubbing his palms together. “I believe it’s your turn to be the bad guy.”

The Styrofoam bat caught him mid-thigh as a six-year-old screeched for help.

“Nice work, Becky. Hit him again,” Carlos instructed cheerily from the sidelines.

Brick bit back a sigh as he monster-walked toward the little girl with lopsided pigtails.

She shrieked as she wound up then let the bat fly, hitting him in the gut.

He should have had that bear claw.

“Look, guys! He’s going down,” Carlos called, winking at the perky kindergarten teacher.

Taking his cue, Brick lumbered down to his knees and then slumped onto the floor, growling and moaning dramatically.

His partner blew the whistle as the rest of the dozen kindergarten and first graders erupted into cheers. “Now what do we do?” Carlos yelled over the din.

“Run away and go get help!” the kids shouted in delirium.

“Great job, kids,” the teacher said. “Now that we know how to handle stranger danger, who wants a snack?”

There was a small but terrifying stampede to the back of the room, where cookies and juice awaited.

Carlos helped Brick back on his feet. “Decent death scene. You’re really improving,” he said.

“Thanks,” Brick said dryly.

Becky skipped over to him and held up a napkin-wrapped cookie. “Thanks for letting me hit you real hard, Mr. Brick,” she said, showing off dueling dimples in her round cheeks.

He accepted the cookie. “Any time,” he said. “Thanks for the cookie.”

“You’re welcome,” she bellowed, beaming at him before sprinting back to the snacks.

Deciding he’d earned the sugar, he took a bite.

His cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and nearly dropped it and the cookie when he saw the screen.

Remi Ford.

“Yeah?” he answered gruffly.

“Brick, it’s Remi.”

“I know,” he said, sounding more exasperated than he’d intended. “What do you need?”

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” she said lightly. “I was wondering if you were using that room on the back of your place for anything?”

Once an accessible space for his wheelchair-bound grandfather, Brick now used the room to store horse and fishing gear.

“Not really,” he hedged.

“If you’re not using it, I was wondering if I could rent it from you.” Her words came out in a rush. Like bubbles in a glass of champagne. The cadence was so familiar it built an ache dead center in his chest.

“Uh.”

The woman wanted to rent space in his own house. How in the hell was he supposed to stay away from her if she was under the same roof?

“I need space to fling some paint at a canvas, and the cottage is a little small and a lot clean.”

He envisioned her wielding a brush in one hand, another clamped in her teeth as music blared and turpentine and oil paints splattered everywhere. It was a guaranteed disaster.

He should say no. It was the only answer that made any sense.

“Uh. Yeah. Shouldn’t be a problem,” he lied. It was a big problem. A huge one. The last thing he needed was Remi under his roof. Distracting him. Annoying him. Worrying him.

“Really?” Her voice rose like it always did when she was excited. “Brick, you are my hero. My own personal hero. Thank you! Let me know when I can come over and look at the space and we can talk rent.”

“I don’t want your money, Remi,” he said.

“Money or something else. We’ll work out a trade that doesn’t piss you off,” she promised sunnily.

He looked at his watch. “Fine. Meet me over there in an hour.”