Riptide

shopping at Food Fort at eight o'clock the next
    night, hoping the store would be nearly empty. She moved quickly
    down the aisles. The last item on her list was peanut butter,
    crunchy. She found it and picked up a small jar, saw that it had a
    web of mirrored cracks in it, and started to call out to one of the
    clerks, only to have it break apart in her hands. She yelped and
    dropped it. It splattered all over jars of jams and jellies before

smashing onto the floor at her feet. She stood there staring down
    at the mess.
    "I see you buy natural, not sugar-added. That's the only kind I'll
    eat."
    She whirled around so fast she slid on the peanut butter and
    nearly careened into the soup. The man caught her arm and pulled
    her upright.
    "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Let me get you another jar.
    Here comes a young fellow with a mop. Better let him wipe off the
    bottom of your sneaker."
    "Yes, of course." The man not two feet from her was a stranger,
    which didn't mean all that much since she hadn't met everyone in
    town. He was wearing a black windbreaker, dark jeans, and Nike
    running shoes. He was careful not to step into the peanut butter.
    Her first impression was that he was big and he looked really hard
    and his hair was on the long side, and as dark as his eyes.
    "The only thing," he continued after a moment, "it's a real pain
    to have to stir the peanut butter before you put it in the refrigerator.
    The oil always spills over the sides and on your hands." He
    smiled, but his eyes still looked hard, as if he looked at people and
    saw all the bad things they were trying to hide, and was used to it,
    maybe even philosophical about it. She didn't want him looking at
    her that way, seeing deep into her. She didn't want to talk to him.
    She just wanted to get out of there.
    "Yes, I know," she said, and took a step back.
    "Once I got used to it, though, I found I couldn't eat the other
    peanut butter, too much sugar."
    "That's true." She took another step away from him. Who was
    he? Why -was he trying to be so nice?
    "Miss Powell, I'm Young Jeff. Ah, Old Jeff is my pop, he's the assistant
    manager. Just hold still and I'll clean off your sneaker." He

picked up her foot, nearly sending her over backward. The man
    held her up while Young Jeff wiped a wet paper towel over the
    bottom of her sneaker. He was very strong, she could feel it since his
    hands were in her armpits. "I'm sure glad you're here, ma'am. I
    wanted to know if that poor dead skeleton was Mrs. McBride.
    Everyone is talking about how it can't be anybody else, what with
    Mrs. McBride just up and disappearing like she did not all that
    long ago. Everyone says you know it's Mrs. McBride, too, that you
    were sure, but how could you be? Did you meet Mrs. McBride?"
    He finally released her foot. She pulled away from Young Jeff
    and the man, a good two feet. She felt cold, very cold. She rubbed
    her hands over her crossed arms. "No, Jeff, I never met Ann
    McBride. I didn't know anything about her. No one said a single
    word to me about her. Also, everybody is being premature. Now,
    I'll just bet that we'll be hearing very soon that the poor woman I
    found can't be Ann McBride. You tell everyone I said that."
    "I will, Ms. Powell, but that's not what Mrs. Ella says. She thinks
    it's Ann McBride, too."
    "Believe me, Jeff, I was there, and I saw the skeleton; Mrs. Ella
    didn't. Hey, I'm sorry about the mess. Thanks for cleaning off my
    shoe."
    The man stuck out his arm and helped her over the shards of
    glass. "Young Jeff is a teenage boy with raging hormones," he said,
    very aware that she had pulled away from him again. "I'm afraid
    you're now the object of his affection."
    She shuddered. "No, I'm the object of everyone's curiosity,
    nothing more, including poor Young Jeff." She stopped. The man
    couldn't help it that she was spooked. She drew a deep breath, gave
    him a nice big smile, and said, "I've got a few more things to buy,
    Mr.--?"
    "Carruthers. Adam Carruthers." He stuck out his hand and she

automatically shook it. Big hand, hard, just like the rest of him.
    She'd bet the last dime in the bottom of her purse that even the
    soles of his feet were hard. She knew without being told that he
    was very disciplined, very focused, like soldiers or bad guys were
    focused, and that made her so afraid she nearly ran out right that
    minute. Which was silly. Only one thing she really knew for sure--
    she didn't ever want to have to tangle with him.