Work Text:
Rose always oversleeps. It happens.
In her ideal life she’s able to get up promptly at five thirty, make the bed, brush her teeth, shower, feed the cats, feed the dog, walk the dog, fetch the newspaper, wake the boys, make sure the boys make it out the door fed/dressed/with all their homework/actually headed in the direction of school, and feed herself; drive to May’s, get the donuts, get the coffee, possibly also drive to Jesse’s place if he’s on a bender or doing the thing where he shuts everyone out including Reggie the dog, drive to Paradise Bay Park without spilling the coffee, listen to Suitcase say oddly soothing and mildly prophetic things about whatever case they’re working on, placate both men if they need placating, eat the donuts, drink the coffee, drive back to town, go to work properly; take a break at 2:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays to go pick up Ben from school and take him to play rehearsal over in Westchester; yell at Ryan sometime around 4:00 because he’s trying to get out of picking his brother up from rehearsal after he’s done with soccer practice, quit at 5:30 sharp, sometimes sooner if Ryan’s decided to be “late” picking Ben up from practice; maybe get Ben, get takeout, drive home, pet the cats, walk the dog, read the newspaper, feed the boys, feed herself, stop by Mrs. Griswold’s and see if she needs anything, feed the dog, feed the cats, do the laundry, fold the laundry, iron clothes, yell at the boys to do the dishes and/or their homework, try to work on the cozy mystery she’s been picking away at for the last few months, and get to bed by 11.
Oh, and she has to able to cram everything after five or so into the span of an hour on nights when one of the boys brings home a friend, or if it’s a game night, or if there’s a murder in Paradise.
In reality, she lets a lot of things slip. The newspapers pile up on the coffee table. The Google doc that houses the cozy mystery hasn’t been opened since March. She leans on Ryan more than she should. She oversleeps.
On this particular morning when she drags herself out of bed at closer to 6:15, the grey pallor that coats this part of the Atlantic coast 80 percent of the year or so has given way to a bright stretch of clear blue sky between the heavy layering of clouds that filter the sunrise. She thinks cynically that it can’t last and then has to laugh at herself. Some days she sees perfectly why Pat wanted to divorce her. Jesse’s rubbed off on her, she thinks. On Suit, too.
But she’s right, as it turns out. By the time she gets the dog walked, the clouds are already thickening and turning the bright sky overcast.
It’s a struggle to get the boys out the door that morning; Ryan is angry because they lost the regional semi-final match last night against Pine Ridge and Coach Denton will make sure they all feel it in practice. She has no idea what Ben is mad about, but it’s probably a boy. He’s 15 and she really wishes he’d just come out to them already. She doesn’t know how many more leading “you know you can tell me anything, right?” conversations she can have without it just being insulting to both of them. Well, to all of them, since Ryan has known for years; she doesn’t know if he knows because Ben told him or because he knows, and she can’t ask him without disrespecting Ben. She’s been in a holding pattern. She worries it’s driving Ben away from her—that he thinks he can’t tell her because her silence on the subject means she doesn’t care.
But maybe that’s just an excuse for the real problem none of them talk about. She knows the boys don’t like living in Paradise. They don’t like having to rush to get to school in the mornings because she transplanted them nearly half an hour away from Clermont; they’re too young to like the rustic coastal setting, to appreciate the way it hangs on your skin, dim light and bleak vastness settling over you like a thick wool blanket to wrap yourself in when you have nothing else to warm you. They don’t understand why she gave up a perfectly fine job after the divorce to come here, of all places. She’s not even sure they understand why she gave up a perfectly fine husband. And she knows they hate the rich kids who come to spend their summers on the upper shore. She’s seen the looks the boys exchange when the upper crust infest the town, the tourist shops and the tavern and Lindy’s cafe. It’s strange, she thinks; they hate it here, but like her, they already feel fiercely protective of the place without knowing why.
She almost doesn’t see the headline. She’s on her way out the door, running late, when she realizes she forgot to collect the newspaper. Because she’s in a hurry she doesn’t bother opening up the house again, just tosses it on the front seat. She’s halfway to May’s when she glances over and sees it in giant print: ANOTHER MURDER IN PARADISE.
She pulls over at the inlet by Fergie’s market, parking next to a row of unused lobster traps. Her heart sinks every time, but this time she’s a little perplexed, too: if it was a murder in the precinct, why didn’t Jesse call her?
The Gazette says it’s a double homicide, a 60-year-old summer islander named Collinsworth and his 33-year-old son. Found in his private residence, Briarwood, out at Red Cove.
Geez, Rose thinks, letting out a huff of nervous laughter. If it’s the kind of rich islander who names their house, there’s no telling what kinds of ridiculous secrets they’ll have been into. Jesse’s probably already thrown three phones against the wall.
She laughs again, a bubble of relief she didn’t know she felt until everything unclenched inside of her: At least it’s not another dead girl. At least not that.
She picks up an extra round of coffee in case the new deputy, Lee, joins them at Paradise Park. When she gets there, sure enough, Suitcase and Lee are sitting with their knees up on a bench, shivering against the bay wind.
“Mornin,’” Suit says. “Not much of a good one, though.”
Lee throws her cigarette on the ground. “Thanks for bringing coffee,” she says, taking a cup and inhaling it like it’s not scalding.
“Where’s Jesse?” Rose asks. “Did he call you out to the scene last night?”
Suit scratches the top of his head and looks vaguely guilty. “Yeah,” he says. “Lee here was on dispatch, got the call around ten pm.”
“I couldn’t go out because Stone made me stay on dispatch in case whoever did it killed again,” Lee says. “Instead I got a strip club fight and a guy shoplifting Red Bull from a 7-11.”
“Jesse’s on his way,” Suit says.
“Jesse’s here,” says Stone’s voice from behind him. Rose turns, steeling herself to be exasperated. She doesn’t really have to try once she sees him: he’s got day-old stubble and sand in his eyes. And a wan look, like he was either at a crime scene all night or he stayed up all night listening to Brahms and drinking alone. That’s right, you damned codger, she thinks. I know you. What was that line from the Shakespeare play? You always end with a jade’s trick—I know you of old.
Ben played Claudio in the Clermont Junior High production two years ago, just before they moved. Rose remembers that line because she had to google it later. Ending with a jade’s trick means flaking out. Never finishing what you start.
That’s Jesse, all right. At least in everything but work.
She holds out the donut box to him without a word. He takes one, plucks a coffee out of the holder with a nod of thanks.
“So the dead guy was probably killed by one of his ravenous family members,” he says without preamble. “Niece says he was in the middle of drawing up a new will leaving everything to the dead son.”
“Nah,” says Suit, munching on a donut and looking out over the open water toward Dodge Point. On a clear day you can see Maine, they say—not that they ever get many of those. “Too easy. Why kill the son, too?”
Jesse shrugs. “Anger? Leads to hate?”
“Leads to the Dark Side,” Lee says automatically. Suitcase and Jesse both send her puzzled looks. Rose stifles a grin.
“Neither of you have teenage sons,” she says, exchanging a look with Lee.
Lee pushes her glasses up and says simply, “It’s a way of life, people. Your losses.”
Jesse squints at her but doesn’t bother asking, and Rose is reminded that this is why she likes him. Most of the time. “There is a chance it was drug-related,” he says. “Line of coke found in the son’s bedroom but no evidence of a forced entry. Forensics is looking into it. Cooper’s on call, so Suit, I want you and Lee to go interview the relatives. If you can, find out what they were doing on the 23rd, that’s when Collinsworth last saw his attorney.”
“Has anybody talked to the attorney yet?” Suit asks.
“That’s what Rose is doing today,” Jesse says with a tight smile.
“What about you?” Rose asks.
“I’m gonna go talk to Hasty,” Jesse says.
“Hasty,” Rose echoes. “Why?”
Jesse tries to look innocent. “Hasty knows rich people. And I like talking to Hasty.”
“Are you gonna talk to anyone else?” Rose asks.
“Anyone else like?”
“Like your friend in Boston,” Rose says. Sometimes she thinks Lou Carson is slowly rolling over in his grave to see what’s become of the Paradise chief of police.
Jesse’s grin turns shit-eating. “Healey? Nah, family was mostly from New Hampshire.”
“I meant your other friend in Boston,” Rose says pointedly.
“Who’s she talking about,” Lee says sotto voce to Suit.
“I think she means Gino Fish,” Suit mutters back.
“Is that the mob boss who’s like in love with him?” Lee asks.
Jesse sends her a mock glare. “We have an information exchange network.”
“Friends with benefits,” Suitcase clarifies. Rose is impressed with him for managing the straight face, but then Suit laughs less these days.
“Fine, I might pay a visit to Fish to see if he knows who Junior’s dealer was,” Jesse says. “Okay, you’ve got your orders, you’ve had your donut.” He blinks at all of them. “Shoo.”
Rose calls his name as he heads back to the patrol car. Jesse keeps walking. “Jesse,” she says again. He stops, puts his hands in his pockets, and turns with a grimace, like he’s expecting her to lecture him. She doesn’t think that’s fair.
“Jesse, why didn’t you call me?” Rose asks. “It was a game night, you knew I’d be up.”
Jesse gives her a shifty look. “I figured you would be busy.”
“Busy,” she repeats, hoping the blank look she’s giving him suffices to tell him what she’s thinking. He sighs and takes his hands out of his pockets.
“The victims had been dead for hours when they were found,” he says. “The housekeeper who found them told the 911 dispatcher they had signs of rigor mortis. That meant the killer wasn’t still on the premises and hadn’t gone on a rampage, and there most likely weren’t going to be any more developments that night. Suit and I went out, secured the scene, called the coroner, took photographs–it was fine.”
“But you told Lee to stay on dispatch in case there were updates,” Rose says.
Jesse rolls his eyes. “She gets way too excited about dead people,” he says.
“So you didn’t want her there.” Rose narrows her eyes. Jesse hems and haws, doesn’t answer. She crosses her arms. “So why didn’t you want me there?”
Jesse shoots her an exaggerated glare. “I didn’t not want you there,” he says, “You know I always like having you there. I just—” he halts and chews his words like they taste bad. “You know, I just thought you could use a decent night’s sleep for once.”
Oh. That was unexpected. The look she gives him probably counts as a double take.
“This is our job,” she says. “This is what we do.” She frowns, and she can see him wanting to jump in but clamping down and waiting instead. A flash of something—annoyance or petulance or maybe relief—shoots through her at the knowledge that he knows her as well as she knows him, knows she’s struggling to find words. “And we should do it together,” she says. “All of us, as a team. If you can’t depend on me then you shouldn’t have hired me.”
“Well, that’s just silly,” he says. “Of course I can depend on you. But we have shifts, and seniority, and you weren’t on shift because you have seniority, so therefore I don’t have to call you on duty just because someone gets killed.”
“That’s a pretty good reason to call a cop on duty,” she says.
He starts to reply to this and then looks away instead.
“I know you were being nice,” she says. “But I... I don’t need you to be.”
He gives her an odd look. She amends. “I mean, of course I want you to be nice to me, but do it some other way. You can get the coffee and donuts for once. You could explain why you and Suitcase are always calling each other Luke. You could have dinner with us more often, or ever. But don’t...don’t coddle me.”
“Why not?” Jesse asks.
She lets out an exasperated, “Oh, come on, Jesse.”
“No, I’m serious!” Jesse insists. “It’s a legitimate question. If it were me I’d want to be coddled. I wouldn’t want to get called out to an island in the middle of the night. You have the legal right to go off duty and you know it doesn’t mean I respect you any less if you do. Suit’s got no life, he’s, I don’t know, at home reading Star Wars or playing Pac-Man or something. You’ve got a family you want to spend time with. I figure the least I can do is let you.”
The wind coming off the bay is starting to nip at her shoulders. She bites her tongue and shivers, and he says, “Why don’t you come on and explain it to me while we drive out to see Hasty.”
“I’m coming with you?” she asks. He shrugs.
“I can drop you off at the station, if you’d rather talk to the attorney first,” he says. “I just figure it’ll save time if we bicker on the way.”
“We’re not bickering,” she says, but stows the donuts and joins him in the patrol car anyway. The hulu-dancing bobblehead Lou had stuck on the dashboard years ago sends her a wobbly greeting.
When they’re alone in the car, though, they drive in a companionable silence for the most part. “I’m thinking,” she says after a while.
“I know,” he says, and then they’re at Hasty’s car dealership. Hasty doesn’t know much except that the nephew came in about a month ago to see about special ordering something small and European and very expensive. That doesn’t look good for the nephew, but personally Rose suspects the real purpose of Jesse’s visit is the banter with Thelma Gleffey.
While he flirts, she watches the window and thinks about life here in Paradise—the slow, steady ebb and tide of lazy small-town consistency occasionally interrupted by the hurricane of a murder case. And so rarely the satisfying kind. She thinks about Jesse traveling all the way to New Mexico to tell a little boy’s mother that all hope was lost. And the dead girls; all the dead girls.
It really is a legitimate question: if you can be coddled, shielded from at least a little of the horror that’s out there, why shouldn’t you be?
Across the bay a small fleet of fishing boats is heading out onto the water for the day, the sun glinting off their shiny red sterns. The water below them churns up muddy brick-colored water that bleeds into the cobalt sea as they huff along. It’s beautiful and ugly.
Just what she likes to look at.
“The answer to your question,” she says when they’re on their way back to the park to get her car, “Is that it’s our job to be the coddlers. Not the coddled. I signed on to do this job, to be a police officer, and, to me, that means I... I have the same responsibility that you and Suit and everyone else has to face what’s out there and handle it. Because that means we can protect more people.
“And it means...” she swallows. Jesse looks over at her but doesn’t say anything, keeps driving. “It means that I can show my boys that we moved here for a reason, that we’re not just kicking around this small town waiting on my retirement pension.”
After a long pause, Jesse says, “Okay.”
She looks over at him. He’s relaxed; his hands on the wheel aren’t tense, and he looks perfectly at ease.
“Okay,” she says.
After another moment, she adds, “So if you have an assignment you think you might need to use Luther on, then you can just go ahead and expect me there as well.”
“Okay,” he says. After another, even longer pause, he adds, “Thank you.”
She looks over. “What for?”
“For for not telling me where to stick it,” he says.
She laughs. “Well, if I got started, I’d probably run out of locations.”
“You should let me make you dinner sometime,” Jesse says.
“Jesse, you don’t keep groceries in your house,” she says, still laughing, before realizing he’s serious. “Oh,” she says, recovering. “Or you could come over to our house and help me make dinner.”
“Well, I’d like that,” Jesse says, “But I was thinking maybe we could have a... a night in, just the two of us, sometime when the boys are wherever boys go.”
She stares at him. “Are you...asking...?”
Now his hands tighten on the wheel. “Well, I mean, you know,” he says, scrambling to backtrack, “we could steam some blue crab, sit out on the dock, swap war stories. Might be a nice change of pace.”
“As... colleagues,” she says.
He winces, and gives her a half glance. “As... friends,” he musters.”If you want.”
“Oh,” she says. Then she smiles. “I’d like that.”
It’s true, she thinks, pleased by the idea. She would.
That afternoon when she drops Ben off at rehearsal she sees him getting more nervous by the second as they pull up to the curve. She watches him go in, then waits two minutes before retrieving his script where she snuck it out of his bag earlier.
When she walks into the auditorium he’s leaning against the wall, talking to a sandy-haired boy with beautifully tousled hair. Her kid’s face is lit up, eyes trained on the other boy like there’s no one else around. She knows that look.
When she manages to wave him over he’s blushing. “Hey,” she says, refraining from doing anything to motherly like hugging him or ruffling his hair in front of the guy he likes. “You might need your script.”
“Oh,” he says, eyes widening as he checks his backpack for it and realizes it’s not there. “Oh, wow, yeah, thanks, Mom.”
“Who’s that you were talking to?” she asks, nodding towards the back of the room where his crush is still standing.
“Huh? Oh,” Ben says, blushing even harder. “His name’s Jacob, he goes to Westchester.”
“Ah,” Rose says. She takes a breath, says as casually as she can muster, “He’s cute,” and smiles at him.
Her son goes through a series of expressions in rapid succession, shifting from incredulous to terrified to mortified to embarrassed to, finally, relieved.
“Uh,” he mumbles. “Yeah.”
She can’t help it. She reaches up and squeezes his shoulder. He leans in.
“Have a good rehearsal,” she says.
He lets out a nervous laugh and smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
On the way back into Paradise, her cell rings.
“You said to call if something came up,” Jesse says grumpily. “Well, something came up.”
She grins. “Yeah, I did,” she said. “Let’s have it.”
She rolls down the window and lets the night air sweep over her as the sunset slides across the horizon and the water turns a chalky purple.
She gets her assignment. She goes to work.