Dance Upon the Air by Nora Roberts

people overmuch. Ripley would’ve been the last one to argue with him about that.
    She caught sight of him now, heading down the street. It would, she estimated, take him a good ten minutes to make the half block. People stopped him, always had a word to say.
    More, she thought, people just liked being around him. He had a kind of . . . she didn’t want to use the word “aura.” It was too Mia-like. Air, she decided. Zack just had the kind of air about him that made people feel better about things. They knew if they took their troubles to him, he’d have the answer, or take the time to find it.
    Zack was a sociable creature, Ripley mused. Affable and patient and consistently fair. No one would accuse her of being any of those things.
    Maybe that was why they made a good team.
    Since he was heading in, she opened the front door to the summer air and street sounds, the way he liked it best. She brewed a fresh pot of coffee and was just pouring him a cup when he finally arrived.
    â€œFrank and Alice Purdue had a baby girl—eight pounds, five ounces, at nine this morning. Calling her Belinda. The Younger boy, Robbie, fell out of a tree, broke his arm. Missy Hachin’s cousin in Bangor bought a brand-new Chevrolet sedan.”
    As he spoke, Zack took the offered coffee, sat at his desk, propped up his feet. And grinned. The ceiling fan was squeaking again. He’d really meant to see to that.
    â€œSo, what’s new with you?”
    â€œSpeeder on the north coast road,” Ripley told him. “Don’t know where they thought they were going in such a hurry. I explained that the cliffs and the light and so on had been in place for a few centuries and weren’t likely to move away in an afternoon.” She plucked a fax out of his in box. “And this came in for you. Nell Channing. That’s the new cook at Mia’s place, right?”
    â€œUmm-hmm.” He scanned the motor vehicle report. No traffic violations. She still carried an Ohio driver’s license, due for renewal in just over two years. The car was registered in her name. He’d been right about the new tags. She’d had them less than a week. Before that, the car had carried Texas tags.
    Interesting.
    Ripley scooted onto the corner of the desk they shared and sampled his coffee since he wasn’t drinking it. “Why’d you run her?”
    â€œCurious. She’s a curious woman.”
    â€œCurious how?”
    He started to answer, then shook his head. “Why don’t you drop into the café for lunch, check her out yourself. I’d be interested in your impression.”
    â€œMaybe I will.” Frowning, Ripley glanced at the open door. “I think a storm’s coming in.”
    â€œIt’s clear as glass out there, honey.”
    â€œSomething’s coming,” she said half to herself, then grabbed her baseball cap. “I’ll take a walk around, maybe stop in the café and take a look at our newest resident.”
    â€œTake your time. I’ll do the afternoon beach patrol.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to it.” Ripley slid on her sunglasses and strode out.
    She liked her village, the order of it. As far as Ripley was concerned, everything had a place and that’s just where it should stay. She didn’t mind the vagaries of sea and weather—that was just another natural order of things.
    June meant a fresh influx of tourists and summer people, temperatures moving from warm to hot, beach bonfires and smoking grills.
    It also meant excess partying, the routine drunk and disorderly, the occasional lost child, and the inevitable lovers’ spats. But the tourists who celebrated, drank, wandered, and squabbled brought summer dollars to the island that kept it afloat during the frigid gales of winter.
    She would cheerfully—well, perhaps not too cheerfully—suffer the problems of strangers for a few months in order to preserve