Читать книгу Fathers and Other Strangers - Karen Templeton - Страница 10

Jenna had read about places like this—hell, she’d written about places like this—but before this morning, she’d never experienced one live and in person. Judging from Blair’s owl-eyed expression, her niece wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Ruby’s Café, either.

Blair leaned forward. “God, it looks like a movie set or something.”

Jenna leaned over as well. “I know. And don’t say ‘God.’ It’s tacky.”

Blair made a face, then slouched back against the seat. A pretty brunette waitress in standard-issue pink sleaze had already given them menus and poured Jenna a cup of decaf. The place was crowded, mostly with men in various permutations of denim and cotton jersey. Over a constant stream of good-natured insults and laughter and you-reckon-it’s-ever-gonna-rain-agains?, dishes clattered and bacon sizzled on the grill behind the counter. And, despite the inauspicious start to the morning, Jenna started to feel better. A little.

Then she picked up her cup. And there, shimmering like a mirage in her decaf, stood Hank Logan, half-naked and freshly aroused. Awake. Awake, she corrected herself, quickly lowering the heavy ceramic cup back into its saucer.

Blair frowned. “What’s the matter? Your cheeks are all pink.”

“Nothing.” Jenna tried a smile. “Did you sleep okay?”

That got a shrug.

“Charmaine told me we had visitors,” a rich voice intoned over their heads. Jenna looked up into a round, dark, beaming face topped with short white hair. “How’re you folks doing today?” As Jenna and Blair mumbled their “fines,” the woman, dressed in a loose white shirt and pale-blue polyester pants, topped Jenna’s still-full coffee cup, then said, “Glad to hear it. I’m Ruby Kennedy. My husband Jordy and I run this place, so if there’s anything you don’t see on the menu, just go on ahead and ask, and we’ll see what we can do. Although I’m thinking seriously about making up some blueberry pancakes, if that might be of interest to anybody.” She looked pointedly at Blair, who in turn looked pointedly at Jenna with something almost like interest flickering in her blue eyes.

Jenna chuckled. “Go for it, sweetie.”

“C’n I have coffee, too?”

“Nice try, and you know the answer. Juice or milk.”

For a second, the grump face reappeared, but then, on a sigh, Blair said she’d like the blueberry pancakes with orange juice. Please.

“How about some bacon or sausage with that?” Ruby asked.

Blair visibly shuddered. “I don’t eat meat.”

Ruby’s brows lifted, but all she said was, “And what about you, baby?” to Jenna. “You want the blueberry pancakes, too?”

“Actually, no, I think I’ll stick with a bowl of Special K and a grapefruit half.”

Now Ruby laughed. “Lord, no wonder you’re so skinny. But if that’s what floats your boat, who am I to say? Okay, we’ll get that right out to you—”

“Oh, wait!” Jenna called out to Ruby as she started to leave. “I just remembered—I’m supposed to bring back breakfast for Mr. Logan, too.”

“Mr. Logan? Which one?”

She and Blair exchanged glances. “There’s more than one?”

“Three, as a matter of fact. Brothers. Although one’s a doctor, not a mister. Which one you want breakfast for?”

“Uh…Hank.” Shouldn’t the P.I. have told her there were brothers? “The one who runs the Double Arrow.”

That was worth a frown and a pair of crossed arms underneath a prodigious bosom. “You stayin’ out there?”

“We’re renting one of the cottages for the month, yes.”

“Where you from, honey? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“D.C. Why?”

“And you came all the way out here to stay in one of Hank Logan’s cottages?”

Jenna tried to staunch the uneasiness beginning to fester in her stomach. If her and Blair’s staying there looked odd to this Ruby person, who else might find it suspicious?

Then Blair chimed in with, “My aunt’s a writer. She’s here doing research for her next book.”

Ruby’s gaze drifted back to Jenna. “Is that a fact? You written anything I might have read?”

Feeling the familiar panic rising in her throat as several heads in the vicinity turned in her direction, Jenna mumbled her pen name. Ruby’s face lit up.

“You’re kidding? You’re Jennifer Phillips? Who writes those Stella Moon books? Land, honey, I’ve read all of those so many times, they’re like to fall apart. Hey, Jordy,” she yelled back toward the counter, where a big, bald black man in a sparkling white T-shirt and apron was manning the griddle, “guess who’s sitting right here in our diner? Jennifer Phillips, that writer I’ve been telling you about!”

“No fooling?” Jordy glanced over his shoulder, never missing a beat as he flipped what looked like dozens of pancakes onto several plates, garnishing them with bacon or sausage before setting them out on the counter and hollering to the two waitresses. Then, wiping his hands on a towel, he came out from behind the counter and over to Jenna’s table, his wide grin showing off a gold tooth that coordinated quite nicely with his earring.

“You sure do write some good books, Ms. Phillips. I never can figure out whodunnit until the end, and I almost always do with other mystery writers.”

After a minute’s conversation, Ruby and Jordy went back to the kitchen, but not before five or six other patrons left their seats and came over, all apparently tickled to death to meet her, asking if she’d mind autographing their copies of her books for them while she was there and what her next book was going to be about and if she needed any ideas, you know, in case she got that writer’s block.

To Jenna’s surprise, the panic that invariably made her palms sweat and her stomach knot up so badly she’d stopped doing book signings altogether never really developed. Why, she didn’t know, other than maybe, even though it didn’t make any sense, these people didn’t really feel like strangers.

Ruby brought their breakfast over to them herself, shooing everyone away “so these people can eat their breakfast in peace.” Then Ruby asked Blair how old she was, and when Blair said thirteen, Ruby said Sam Frazier had a girl the same age, he had a farm just out behind the Double Arrow, and wouldn’t it be nice if Blair and Libby Frazier could get together, since Ruby imagined that Libby, who apparently had five younger brothers, might appreciate having another girl to talk to?

Not until a young woman came in, her arms loaded with what looked like pie boxes—“Six apples, three peaches and three cherries, right?” she called out to Ruby, who went to relieve her of her burden—did peace finally descend. About halfway through her grapefruit—which was plump and sweet—Jenna looked over to see Blair looking at her with a funny expression on her face.

“What now?”

“Nothing. It’s just that it must be so cool, to have all those people saying how much they like your books and stuff.” She crammed a huge bite of pancake into her mouth and said around it, “I mean, I would think it was, anyway.”

“Well, yes. It is.” A wry smile tilted her lips. “It’s certainly a nice change from rotten reviews.”

“Then why don’t you do book signings anymore?”

Jenna’s fingers tightened around the serrated spoon. “You know why, honey.”

Her brows dipped. “How come it’s okay for you to be scared of something, but if I say I am, you tell me I have to face it anyway?”

Jenna took a deep breath, then dared to meet her niece’s gaze, deciding the din of chatter and clanking silverware on stoneware was sufficient to mask their own conversation. She’d never really understood the debilitating shyness that had made her childhood a living hell, or why it had pretty much faded away for so many years only to make a cruel and equally puzzling comeback after Phil’s death. The only thing she did understand about it was that she never knew when it was going to strike. And that she’d gotten tired of fighting it, unless she had to.

Like now.

“It’s not okay for me to be afraid, Blair. And as far as facing things that frighten me…” She stopped, thinking about why they were here, about how whatever decisions she made could change her world. Then the memory of Hank Logan’s unapologetically harsh features crashed into her thoughts, speeding up her heart rate, making her skin go clammy, her stomach lurch. Speaking of facing things that scared her.

“I don’t mean to come across as sounding callous, sweetie,” Jenna said. “Or as if I don’t think your fears are valid. I do understand, I swear.” She shook her head, frowning at her grapefruit as she dug out a segment. “I also know what it’s like to let them cripple you.”

“But you were fine just then—”

“Blair, please.” Jenna lowered her voice. “I know I was. But I don’t know why I was. So can we please just drop the subject—”

“I am so sorry,” Ruby said, reappearing at their table. “With all the excitement, I completely forgot to take Hank’s order so I can have it ready for you when you get ready to go. Although I can probably guess—bacon and egg sandwich, side of hash browns and a chocolate shake, right?”

In spite of her quaking stomach, Jenna smiled. “I take it he comes in regularly?”

“Baby, men are so predictable, it’s pitiful. Even though, no, actually, he hardly comes in anymore, not since he moved back. But when he was a kid, he’d come in here just about every day, order the same thing each time. I’d be real surprised to hear he’d changed his stripes.”

“He hasn’t,” Jenna said, and Ruby laughed. After calling out the order to Jordy, she turned back to Jenna.

“And how about you? Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I think that will do,” Jenna said, reaching for her purse. On the other side of the restaurant, she heard the whirrr of the old-fashioned milk-shake machine. She looked up in time to see Jordy dump in enough thick, rich, gooey chocolate syrup to coat the entire state. She felt her lips part, her eyes glaze over, as lust swept through her.

She looked up into Ruby’s knowing, dark eyes, connecting on a level as basic as life itself. “On second thought…”

“Jordy?” Ruby called over.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Need another chocolate shake over here—”

Blair raised her hand.

“Make that three.”

Jenna and Blair looked at each other and started to giggle.

After he’d fixed the john, Hank had a moment’s tussle with himself over whether to go on back to the office or stay put and wait for his breakfast right there. Either way, he’d have to talk to Jenna. Of course, if he hadn’t asked her to bring back his breakfast, it wouldn’t even be an issue, now would it?

He decided to stay. What the hell, he’d already left a note on the office door, in case anyone needed to find him. Well, you never knew.

The metal toolbox clattered mightily when he set it on the porch, right behind the railing. Plunking his butt on the steps, he lit up, then leaned back on his elbows, scratching his chest through the “This Old House” T-shirt Ryan’s new wife Maddie had given him as a joke last Christmas. He’d taken a fast shower after Jenna’s wake-up call, so at least he smelled okay. Still hadn’t bothered to shave, though. Seemed a waste of time.

A mountain jay squawked overhead, setting off a twittering chorus from sparrows and finches. It was going to be hot as hell later, but right now the breeze messing with his still-damp hair was just the right temperature, gliding like a woman’s fingertips over his skin. Except for his growling stomach, he might almost believe he was at peace. Except he knew he wasn’t. And probably never would be. Some things, you just don’t make peace with.

The force shrink had suggested he find something to keep him too busy and too tired to brood. A six-month leave had been the plan. Except then this place had come on the market, dirt-cheap, and he’d snapped it up, even though he’d had no idea what he thought he was going to do with a guest lodge. Still didn’t. But damned if the shrink hadn’t been right—if it was mind-numbing you were after, nothing beat day after eighteen-hour day of grueling manual labor. Still, it was like learning to live without a limb; you adjusted, and you got by, but you never knew when the phantom pain would strike. And that alone was enough to make him vow to never set himself up for that kind of pain again.

Hank stared at the cigarette in his hand, frowning for a second or two, then lifted his gaze toward the lake, sparkling in the distance. Maybe he’d take a dip later, after he finished redoing those gutters on Number 6….

He stood when he heard Jenna Stanton’s Toyota chugging up the road. Kinda on the old side, the car was. But then Toyota owners tended to hang on to the things until they rusted out from under them.

She pulled up alongside the cottage; both doors swung open, both females emerged, sucking like mad on straws poking up out of Ruby’s bright-red take-out cups. A plastic bag swung from Jenna’s left hand, the white foam carry-out box clearly visible through it. Hank’s mouth started to water.

From underneath the brim of her cap, questions flickered in those chilly blue eyes. She handed him the bag, the kid making a great show of swatting at the air in front of her. The girl’s eyes were blue, too, he saw. Darker, though.

“Smoking is so gross!”

The straw popped out of Jenna’s mouth. “Blair!”

“No, she’s right, it is,” Hank said, grinding the cigarette into the dirt with the toe of his workboot. “I just happen to like gross things.”

The young gal shuddered, then stormed up the steps and on inside, making loud slurpy noises with her straw. The screen door slammed shut behind her; Hank looked at Jenna. “She out to save the world?”

“One deluded soul at a time.” She sucked on her own straw for a moment, then said, “So. We have water again?”

“Yep. Much as you want. And only when you want. I changed out the kitchen sink washer, too, since it was about to go.” Which is what he should do—go, instead of standing here and chit-chatting like some yahoo. “The cat will back me up, seeing as he watched my every move.”

“Wow.” More sucking. “You’re talented. And Meringue’s a she.”

“I should’ve known.” Then, for some oddball reason, he sat back down on the steps and dug his breakfast out of the bag, adding, “Anyway, my daddy’s motto was if you can’t fix it, you shouldn’t own it.”

After apparently giving the matter some thought, Jenna sat, too, leaning up against the opposite railing. “Too bad that philosophy doesn’t work with kids,” she said, shoving a strand of hair back up under the hat.

“Eh, your daughter’s not so bad. A bit anal, maybe, but then, I suppose she just takes after her mother.”

When several moments passed, Hank figured he’d probably ticked Jenna off. But before he could make up his mind whether to apologize or not, she said, “Blair’s not my daughter. She’s my niece.”

He’d nearly had his chompers around that sandwich, boy, the doughy white bread all soaked with bacon grease just the way he liked it. Now he looked up. Jenna was still sucking on that straw. He thought for a moment, then took a bite anyway. “Where’s her mama?”

She lowered the cup, toyed with the plastic lid for a moment. “She died a few months ago.”

Hank swore softly, then took another bite of the sandwich before its innards slid out of the bread and landed in his lap. “That’s rough on a kid. I was a senior in high school when my mama passed, and it was still hard.” He wiped his hands on one of about fifty napkins Ruby’d sent along. “I guess she’s entitled to be a little…you know.”

Jenna didn’t smile so much as her face seemed to relax. “Yeah. She is.”

“So she lives with you now?”

She fiddled with the straw for a bit, screaking it in and out of the plastic lid. “Actually, she’s been living with me since she was a baby. My husband and I raised her. My sister…wasn’t exactly a constant in her daughter’s life.”

Hank swallowed, trying to figure out what was bothering him so much about this conversation. Cop instincts again, he decided, keeping an eye out for body language that would alert him that she was lying or something. But all he saw was a pretty lady with her hair crammed up in a stupid hat, her mouth creased some from sucking so hard on that straw.

She nodded toward his sandwich. “How’s your breakfast?”

“What? Oh…good.” He took another bite, then unwrapped his own straw, poking it into the little hole on the plastic lid. Some of the chocolate oozed out around the base. For some reason, Hank’s throat got dry. He looked up at Jenna, her cheeks sunk in as she sucked on her own straw, and his throat got dryer. Then his lips curved up in a smile.

“That wouldn’t be a chocolate shake by any chance, would it?”

She let go of the straw and smiled as well. Not full out, maybe, but it was something. “As a matter of fact, it is.” Her eyes glittered like aquamarines underneath the hat brim. “This is absolutely the best chocolate milk shake I have ever had.”

“See? What did I tell ya?”

She took another short pull, then lowered the cup again, her eyes narrowed. But that almost-smile still flirted with her lips. “It’s not worth getting a swelled head over.”

A drop of chocolate glistened at the corner of her mouth: her tongue darted out, snatched it inside like a mother taking her child out of the rain.

Swelled head, no. Other things, however…

“Oh!” She shifted to one hip to dig in her pants pocket. “I almost forgot…here’s your change.” She leaned over to drop the bills and coins into his hand, her fingers brushing his palm. An innocent touch, brief and meaningless. Except Jenna’s cheeks flushed. And no, he wasn’t imagining it. And let’s just say Hank could see where things could get interesting between them. If he’d let it. If she’d let it, which was even less likely, considering that wedding ring of hers. Hank did not mess around with married women. Hell, Hank hadn’t messed around with anybody since Michelle’s death. Which probably accounted for why he was seeing erotic overtones in milk shakes, for cripe’s sake.

“What’s your husband do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Her laugh startled him, not only because that was the last thing he expected her to do and because he liked the sound. A lot.

“What’s so funny?”

One side of her mouth pulled up. “The way people around here seem to think if you add ‘if you don’t mind my asking’ on the end of a prying question, that somehow makes it okay.”

She didn’t seem particularly offended, though. So Hank shrugged. “I guess that way we can ask whatever’s on our mind, but it still leaves folks the option of not answering if they don’t want to without being afraid they might hurt somebody’s feelings.” He finished off his sandwich, picked up the plastic fork to attack the hash browns. “So. You gonna answer, or you gonna take your out?”

The last thing Jenna had expected was for Hank Logan to sit himself down and get chatty. So it had thrown her for a loop when he had. But then, she suspected Hank was good at keeping people off balance. Like the way he could still look so disreputable—did the man even own a comb and razor?—but smell so incredibly good, even over the cigarette smoke. In any case, after her initial No! Go away! I don’t want to talk to you! reaction, logic took over. After all, she couldn’t very well get to know the man if she never talked to him, could she? And since it might look a wee bit suspicious if she made the overtures, she should be grateful for the opportunity that fate had presented her, right?

The thing was, though, she was supposed to be finding out about him, not the other way around. Still—there went that damned logic business again—if she opened up to him, maybe he’d open up to her. Besides, this was all stuff he’d find out eventually, anyway. If…things worked out, he’d need to know as much about Blair as possible. And everything that affected Jenna affected Blair.

“My husband died three years ago, of cancer,” she said at last. “Almost three and a half, actually.” She still wasn’t quite reconciled to how little her heart twinged when she mentioned Phil’s death, or to the fact that it had been ages since she’d felt guilty about laughing, or that the memories that once ached were more likely these days to suffuse her with a gentle joy. But it had taken a long, long time to get to this point. And even so, her sense of peace was as fragile as spun sugar. She would do nothing to jeopardize it.

Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Hank said, the surprising gentleness in his voice luring her eyes to seek his. And for the briefest moment, she saw her own emptiness reflected in his bottomless black gaze; she hitched one shoulder, then shivered slightly in the breeze. From the cold milk shake, she assumed. Although more likely from the uneasiness of her knowing more about him than he could possibly guess.

“Phil was a real fighter,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure why, especially as she seemed to be the only one baring her soul, here. “But God, it was hard, watching him suffer. So when he finally let go, it was almost a relief.”

Hank stabbed at his hash browns, forked a bite into his mouth. He chewed for several seconds, then said, “I take it you had a good marriage?”

“Yeah. We did.” She shrugged. “It just didn’t last long enough—”

The screen door banged back as Blair picked that moment to come outside. Her hair was wet: she’d apparently taken a shower, then put on clean shorts and a T-shirt large enough to hold a revival meeting in.

Barefoot, she crossed the porch, then plopped herself down beside Jenna, eyeing Hank cautiously. As she’d done since Blair was a little girl, Jenna lifted a hand to rub between her niece’s shoulder blades, thinking, as she did from time to time, that this was the last person she’d ever have to be afraid for.

“There’s nothing to do,” Blair said, her hands framing her face.

Hank snorted. Both Jenna and Blair looked at him. “See, that’s the trouble with city folks. They got it in their heads that doin’ nothing’s a crime.” He tossed a soggy crust of bread out into the yard, presumably for the birds. Or something. “Free time is a rarity for kids around here, so they know how to make the most of it. If nothing else, you could always take yourself off to explore some of the trails behind the lake.”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be real exciting.”

Jenna slid her hand to Blair’s shoulder to give her a little warning squeeze, just as she caught the muscle ticking in Hank’s beard-hazed jaw.

“Far as I can tell,” he said, his words clipped, “you got two choices. You can either sit around and mope for the next month, or you can get up off your duff and go find something to do.”

Blair’s hands smacked to her knees and her mouth fell open, but before she could say anything, Jenna put in, “I just remembered…the car’s air conditioner is on the fritz. Is there a mechanic around here who can fix a Toyota?”

Hank and Blair glared at each other for a moment, then Hank seemed to force his gaze back to Jenna. “Yeah. Darryl Andrews at the Chevron in town. He’s good, he’s fair and he’s honest. You might have to leave the car, though. He’s always pretty backed up.”

“Oh.” She frowned. Haven wasn’t exactly rife with public transportation options. Except, she thought on a sigh, it wasn’t as if she was in a split to go anywhere. She didn’t, however, relish the idea of trekking back out here on foot. She jogged, yes, but not in ninety-degree heat, and not five unfamiliar miles. But, since she didn’t know another soul, that meant…

Another opportunity. Oh, joy.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into following us into town, then bringing us back if I have to leave the car?”

The flimsy fork hovered over the hashbrowns.

Blair popped to her feet and stormed back inside.

“I don’t know,” Hank said, stabbing at the potatoes. Not looking at her. “I’m kinda busy this morning.”

Ah. “Blair doesn’t have to come. She’s old enough to stay by herself for an hour or so.”

“And do what?”

Jenna caught herself toying with her wedding rings, tucked her arms against her ribs. “Actually, she’s got plenty to do, including getting started on her required summer reading. Or she can go for a walk, like you suggested.”

Hank glanced up, then back down at his breakfast. “So how come you didn’t remind her of that a while ago?”

“Because sometimes I feel all I ever do is nag. It gets old.”

Silence dragged on between them for several seconds before he said, “She’s not exactly the easiest kid to get along with, is she?”

Jenna’s brows knotted. “At the moment, maybe not. But she’s been through a lot in the past three years. Which you acknowledged yourself.”

“I know I did. But that’s no excuse for her acting like a snot.”

“Oh? And what’s yours?”

Again, his movements stilled. Then he abruptly stuffed his stuff back into the plastic bag and rocketed to his feet, and Jenna thought, Whoa, welcome to Arrested Male Development Central. Talk about getting your boxers in a bunch. If he wore any, that is. Which, considering her earlier encounter, was definitely not a given.

Could she trust a man who didn’t wear underwear?

And while she was musing about all this, Hank reached behind the railing and retrieved the largest toolbox she’d ever seen, the veins on his hand popping out in stark relief as he tromped down the porch steps. Then he turned, his expression kicking up her pulse. Even from here, she could tell every muscle in his body had gone taut, alert and unyielding underneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, his worn jeans.

“If you’re so damn intent on mollycoddling the gal, why’d you bring her out here to begin with?”

Now her heart jumped into her throat, even as her brain scrambled to make sense of his vacillation. He’d certainly seemed sympathetic earlier—why the sudden switch? “I hardly think trying to be sensitive to the emotional needs of a child who’s just lost her mother is mollycoddling her.”

“Thought you said you raised her?”

“I did.” She lowered her voice, resisting the urge to dodge that intense, assessing gaze. “But Blair still knew her mother. On top of my husband’s death, her mother’s came as a blow. And I told you. I’m here on a research trip. I obviously couldn’t leave Blair by herself back in D.C., could I?”

His eyes narrowed. “And she couldn’t stay with anybody back home?”

“No.” Jenna folded her arms over her quaking stomach. But there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about her heated cheeks. “She couldn’t.”

For an excruciatingly long two or three seconds, their eyes remained locked, suspicion rolling off him in suffocating waves. Her potentially fatal mistake, Jenna realized, was forgetting that Hank Logan had been a cop. A good one, too, from what she’d been able to glean. Anything out of the ordinary was liable to set off his alarms. Her being here with Blair, not to mention her deliberate evasion of her sister’s name, definitely qualified.

Why the hell had she thought she’d be able to pull this off?

Then he looked away. The frown was still in place, his jaw still set, but his breaking eye contact felt like being released from a stranglehold. Jenna hauled in a deep, shuddering breath, only to feel it catch when his eyes met hers again.

“Okay, look—I’d planned on goin’ into town tomorrow anyway, to pick up some supplies. Don’t suppose it matters a whole lot if I push it up a day. Just tell your niece, if she goes with us, I won’t get up her nose if she doesn’t get up mine, okay?”

Jenna stood, hugging herself. Even though she stood a step up from the bottom, Hank still towered over her, solid and strong.

And alive. Very, very alive.

She swallowed back bitter, out-of-nowhere tears. “Sounds fair to me.”

He cocked his head, his brows dipped, and Jenna willed the tears back, thinking, Oh, please God, don’t let him ask me if I’m all right.

But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Got some things to do first, though, before I can leave.” He twisted away, heading down the driveway. “Give me an hour,” he said, his words nearly swept away on the breeze swooshing through the trees, “then come on down to the office.”

A moment or two passed before Jenna collected herself enough to shout, “Okay! Thanks!” at Hank’s rapidly retreating back. Without turning around, he lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

As Jenna watched him stride down the driveway, she realized just how much of a hellish position she was in. While there was no way she was going to tell Hank the truth until she determined whether or not he was worthy of being entrusted with that knowledge, if and when she did decide to tell him, she suffered no illusions about what was going to hit the fan. And yes, she knew she was being judgmental. But she had sole responsibility for the welfare of a child she loved with all her heart, a responsibility she was more than willing to put her butt on the line for…even if it meant royally pissing off the man who was, in all likelihood, that child’s father.

Exactly one hour later, Jenna pulled the Corolla up alongside Hank’s truck, parked outside the office, and honked. And waited. When, after several minutes had passed and no scary, scruffy man emerged, Jenna left the car and went inside, leaving the engine running. An on-its-last-legs air conditioner rattled and wheezed from a small window on her left; the door to his apartment was cracked open.

“Mr. Logan?” She batted the bell a few times. “I’m here!”

No answer.

She drummed her nails on the counter for a second, then walked around the counter and called again. Nothing. So she knocked on the door. Which, not being completely closed, swung open.

She didn’t mean to look, honestly. Nobody was bigger on privacy issues than she was. But the door fell away and the room was just…there.

In all its A-bomb glory. In fact, she was so stunned by the state of Hank’s apartment—she’d seen more orderly dumps—the music, only half-audible over the air conditioner’s groaning, barely registered. Then it did.

Hold the phone—the man listened to opera? To Wagner, no less? She would have expected country. Hard rock, heavy metal, maybe. Opera…uh, no.

Hank’s scowling face was suddenly inches from hers. Jenna yipped and jumped back.

“I said I’d be ready in an hour,” he said.

“Which was up fifteen minutes ago.”

The scowl deepened. He glanced at his watch, some gigundo number that probably did everything but launch the space shuttle. He swore, mumbled “Sorry,” then grabbed his wallet, slid through the door and shut it firmly behind him.

“Anybody ever teach you to knock?” he asked, loping through the office and on outside, making Jenna scurry behind him.

“Anybody ever teach you how to pick up your clothes? And slow down, for heaven’s sake! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”

He did—sort of—then whipped out a pair of sunglasses, ramming them into place as his legs ate up the space between the office and the truck. “Don’t see how I keep my own apartment is any business of yours.”

Okay, he had a point. Besides, so it was a little…messy. That didn’t mean it was actually dirty.

Did it?

“Anyway,” she said, neatly evading the issue, “I did knock. The door wasn’t closed tightly.”

They’d reached the vehicles. Hank shot a glance at her car and asked, “Where’s the kid?”

“What? Oh, she decided not to come. Anyway—”

Hank jerked open his truck door, climbed inside.

“—I guess you didn’t hear me knock over the music. So you like opera?”

Seated behind the wheel, his door still open, he glared at her for a moment, then slammed shut the door. “Yeah, I like opera. Now can we get goin’? I haven’t got all day.”

He backed out of the parking space in a cloud of dust, barely giving Jenna time to hop in her car and follow.

Blair crunched up into a sitting position on her bed and tossed A Tale of Two Cities across the room, then apologized to Meringue for making her jump. God, this was the suckiest summer of her entire life. And A Tale of Two Cities was like the suckiest book ever written. Why did they make them read this boring old stuff, anyway? Like who cared what happened two hundred years ago?

She felt all knotted up inside, like she wanted to cry, but when she screwed up her face, nothing happened. Which is the way she’d felt when Jenna’d told her about her mother, like she should’ve been sadder or missed her more or something. Mostly, she’d just been mad, even if she didn’t really know why.

Feeling weird and jittery, like when she drank a whole Coke before going to bed, she got up and walked out into the living room, Meringue trailing her. Maybe she should’ve gone back into town with Jenna. Except then she would’ve had to ride back in Mr. Logan’s truck, between him and Jenna. No way.

God. Hank Logan was like the weirdest man she’d ever met, acting like he thought he was all cool and stuff because he smoked and didn’t comb his hair or shave.

And she did not like the way he looked at Jenna.

Her arms crossed, Blair stood in the middle of the room—which still smelled funny—listening to the irritating clink-clink-clink from the pull-chain rattling against the overhead fan’s light globe. What was really sucky was having everyone tell you to stop acting like a baby but never letting you make any decisions about your own life. If she’d been older, sixteen or seventeen, Jenna wouldn’t’ve dared drag her out here like this.

Meringue mewed, snaking around her ankles; Blair picked her up, burying her face in the cat’s soft white fur, getting a head bump for her efforts. Then she sneezed and let the cat drop back onto the floor, swiping at her nose.

“God, Merry—keep your fur to yourself!”

The cat flicked her tail and stalked away; Blair plopped down at the dining table where Jenna had set up her laptop and logged online, but nobody she knew was on. So she sent a couple of e-mails to her best friends, DeAnna and Tiffany, but since they had gone to camp, she didn’t know if they could write her back.

She slumped in the chair, her arms folded across her chest. Maybe she should go for a walk or something. Not that she figured there was anything to see, but it was either that or A Tale of Two Cities. So she found a piece of paper and left Jenna a note, squirted on some sunscreen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left, heading for the far side of the lake.

Once there, she found the trail Mr. Logan had mentioned, cutting through the woods. She hesitated, then figured she wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t like she was going to get lost or anything. If she had to, she could always double back.

She hiked for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, hearing nothing but her breath coming in short, ragged pants and a bazillion birds and her thoughts buzzing around inside her head. But it was cooler in here, and kind of pretty, the light all green-gold and sort of…heavy, like being underwater, and eventually the buzzing got softer and softer until she couldn’t really hear it anymore.

The path suddenly brightened ahead of her; a minute later, she came out onto a rutted dirt road leading to a farm or something in the distance. On the other side of the road, a field planted with long, soft grassy stuff rippled in the warm breeze like the ocean’s surface; looking toward the farm buildings, she could see a small cornfield, and beyond that several rows of smallish trees. An orchard maybe.

The bleat of a bicycle horn behind her made her spin around. Blair shaded her eyes against the sun as, in a cloud of dust, three bikes screeched to a stop in front of her.

“Who the heck are you?” yelped one little boy, seven or eight years old. His blond head was shorn so close his ears seemed to jut from his head like open taxi-cab doors. And she could see his scalp, which was kind of gross. Another boy, a little younger, his dark hair just as short, his ears just as big, giggled. But the third rider—who had let out a really pissed, “Wade, for heaven’s sake!” at the blond kid’s question, was a girl. A dark-haired girl wearing a loose, bright purple T-shirt over white shorts with fringed hems. She looked like she might be about Blair’s age, but even under the floppy shirt, Blair could see she already had breasts. The boys were barefoot, their toes practically gray.

“Hey,” the girl said, her light-brown eyes sparkling. Her hair was really long, like to her waist. And she was pretty. Really pretty. Even without makeup. “I’m Libby Frazier, and these are my brothers. Two of ’em, anyway. This here’s Wade, and this is Frankie,” she said, jerking her head toward the littlest one. “He doesn’t talk much on account of he can’t hear out of one ear.”

“Oh. Hi. I’m Blair. Blair Stanton.”

The girl grinned, and Blair could see her eyeteeth were crooked. “Cool name! You new here?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m staying with my aunt at the Double Arrow.”

“Oh.” Libby scrunched up her nose. “We live up there.” She nodded toward the farm. “Where’re you from?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Really?” the blond boy said. “Where the president lives?”

In spite of herself, Blair laughed. “Yeah.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just a stupid boy—”

“Am not!”

“Are, too.”

“Am not!”

Libby gave Blair a pleading look. “You got brothers?”

“Uh-uh.”

“You’re so lucky. I’ve got five. All of ’em younger,” she said, which is when it finally dawned on Blair that this must be the girl the woman in the café was talking about. “How old are you?”

Blair stuck her thumbs in her back shorts pockets and tried to look cool. “Thirteen.”

Libby grinned so widely, her eyes practically disappeared. “Me, too. Hey—you wanna come up to the house, play some CDs or something?”

Blair hesitated. Libby seemed okay and all, but she was nothing like Blair’s friends back home. What if she wanted to talk about…farm stuff? Or what if she was still into *NSYNC? Or Britney? Ewww.

But then, she supposed it beat talking to the cat all afternoon.

“Okay, sure. Long as I can call my aunt on her cell, let her know where I am.”

Libby’s whole face lit up. “Cool,” she said.