Free Exposure by Susan Andersen

the narrow waist and the tight little butt hugged by the worn denim of his jeans. She fanned herself. "I'm tellin' ya, chere, there's just somethin' about that man that makes my toes curl."
    "Elvis?" Ruby looked at her in surprise. "You think he's sexy? "
    "Oh, my yes. Don't you?"
    "No." Ruby tried to study him objectively but couldn't get past the scar or the prosthesis. "I think he's. . . well, okay, maybe not creepy exactly, but—I don't know—intimidating, I guess."
    "What—his size, the scar, the hook—what?"
    "Yes." Ruby nodded. "Exactly." She watched him the same way someone else might observe a snake poised to strike, half fascinated, half repelled.
    Emma had noticed the same attitude in other islanders. "The way everybody treats that poor man like Leonard the Leper Boy," she said, "it's something of a wonder to me that y'all could bring yourselves to elect him sheriff."
    "I don't see where one thing has to do with the other," Ruby retorted, shrugging a pink-uniformed shoulder. "He was some hotshot big-city detective, and Sheriff Bragston trusted him. In my book that qualifies him for the position. On the other hand, his mama practiced the world's oldest profession until he himself put a stop to it; I can still remember the days when he used to fight at the drop of a hat; and he's scary looking. I want him to keep my town safe. I don't want to socialize with him."
    "But that's so unfair, Ruby." Emma was genuinely puzzled. "He's not responsible for his maman's career choices, and he's obviously outgrown the need to settle a situation with his fists. Certainly you don't hold him accountable for the explosion that maimed him, do you?"
    Ruby considered her for several silent moments. "It probably is unfair," she finally conceded, "but it's the way I feel, Emma. Partly, I suppose, it's fear. Things don't change rapidly here. Not the way we think; not the way we view things."
    "Oui, it's a small town; I think I understand what you're sayin'. Except . . . fear, Ruby?"
    Both women watched Elvis accept the steaming cardboard cup from Bonnie and dig change out of his front pocket. He said something in a low voice as he extended the money, took a sip of his coffee, and then walked out of the diner. Ruby turned back to Emma.
    "Port Flannery isn't a comfortable place to have a different point of view in," she said. "There are certain accepted . . . convictions here. But even if I had any desire to fly in the face of public opinion, Emma, Elvis himself probably wouldn't allow it."
    "Oh, come on, now," Emma protested.
    "No. I mean it. He has that damn-your-eyes attitude that makes you doubt he'd even trouble himself to meet you halfway."
    Emma's wavy hair slid against her cheeks as she shook her head. "Isn't that funny, chere? I don't get that impression at all. He seems lonely to me. And he's so gentle with Gra—" She broke off. "Where is Gracie?" Her eyes darted around the cafe, panic rising instantaneously when she didn't immediately spot her baby.
    "She's got herself a little fort over there under number seven." Ruby gestured toward the table closest to the kitchen door and Emma sagged back in her seat. Gracie was sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath a table, over which someone—presumably Bonnie—had haphazardly thrown a cook's apron, forming a little private space; and she was quietly singing to herself while she removed rocks and shells from the ever-present sand pail and arranged them around her in patterns on the floor.
    "I should probably clear her out of there and straighten that table before your lunch crowd starts arrivin'"
    "Oh, don't worry about it, hon. The rush isn't gonna get underway for a good half an hour yet, and that table's always the last to get filled anyway." Ruby got up and wandered to the windows overlooking the square. She pulled back a crisp navy-checked curtain and stared out at something across the common.
    Finally she turned away and came back to the table. "You know, Elvis did have the