Читать книгу The Last Honest Man - Lynnette Kent - Страница 9

“MR. DEVRIES?”

At the sound of his name, Adam looked up from the news magazine he’d been pretending to read.

Across the waiting room, a woman whose long hair was the color of natural ash wood smiled at him. “Good morning. I’m Phoebe Moss.”

His heart began to pound against his ribs. He put the journal aside and got to his feet, pretending his palms weren’t sweaty, his throat hadn’t closed down completely. The receptionist, a grandmotherly woman with unlikely red hair, smiled at him as he passed by. Though he tried to return the favor, he doubted he’d been successful.

Phoebe Moss looked up at him when he got close—she was almost a foot shorter than he—and tilted her head toward the hallway behind her. “This way, please.”

With every step, Adam’s resistance mounted. He didn’t want to be here, would rather have been just about anywhere else on the planet besides this place, this morning. Walking down the hall felt like pushing against an incoming tide. In the middle of a hurricane.

“Come in and have a seat.” She ushered him into a north-facing office with a couch and an armchair, a desk positioned in the corner between two windows, and an assortment of assessment machines with which Adam was all too familiar, thanks to past experience. His strongest impulse was to run…as far and as fast as he possibly could.

But when Phoebe Moss sat in the chair in front of her desk and turned to face him with a clipboard in her lap, Adam lowered himself into the armchair.

She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up on her nose and settled down to business. “What can I do for you, Mr. DeVries?”

“Y-you’re a s-s-speech th-therapist.” He clenched his fist, hitting it against his leg. Bad enough to be here, without having to explain why.

“Yes.” The word definitely held a question. Waiting for his answer, she wrote briefly on the paper held by the clipboard.

“A-as y-you c-c-can hear, I s-s-stutter.”

Nodding, Phoebe Moss scribbled something else. “Fairly badly.”

“I w-w-want to s-stop.”

Her gaze lifted to his face. “Why?”

This was even worse than he’d expected. “W-why do you think? Talking this w-w-w-way s-s-sucks.”

Another notation. “I understand. Have you tried therapy before?”

He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Did it work?”

“Obv-v-viously n-n-not.”

“Not even for a brief time?”

Adam shrugged. “If I c-concentrate,” he said, very slowly, “I can g-get th-through short s-sentences. But that’s n-not e-enough.”

“Has something changed in your life to prompt this new attempt?”

He gripped his hands together, studying his thumbs. The answer to her question was straightforward enough. Yet he dreaded her reaction.

When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “What’s changed?”

After staring a little longer at his linked fingers, Adam lifted his gaze to her face again. Her eyes, he saw in that instant, were the dark gray of a stormy ocean.

“I’m going into politics,” he said, using the exaggerated drawl he’d been taught. “I have to be able to talk without stuttering.” He finished the sentence and winced. God, he hated the sound of his voice.

His worry over her response had been justified. Phoebe Moss stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment. “Politics? You’re going to run for office?”

He nodded. “M-m-mayor of N-New Sk-Skye.”

“That’s an ambitious goal for anyone.” Looking down at the paper in her lap, she tapped her pen on the edge of the clipboard for a moment. “When were you thinking about running for office?”

“Th-this y-y-year. I-I’ve al-already f-filed.”

Her startled eyes met his. “Aren’t elections in November?”

“Y-yes. B-but the c-campaign w-w-will s-s-start by L-Labor D-Day.”

“You expect to stop stuttering in less than three months?”

“Y-yes.”

“Mr. DeVries—”

“C-call me Adam.”

“Adam, do you realize how much you’re asking of yourself? Curing a stutter can take many months—years—of practice.”

He shrugged. “I’ll j-just h-have to work hard.”

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together, maintaining eye contact. “I can’t make any kind of guarantee on your progress. Not in three months, or six or twelve.”

“I c-can d-do it.”

“Why are you so sure, when the past hasn’t shown success?”

“Th-that w-w-was for…for o-other p-p-people.” Adam took a deep breath. “This time is for m-me.”

“I…SEE.” STUNNED, impressed—and, to be honest, a little scared—by Adam DeVries’s resolve, Phoebe sat back in her desk chair. A glance out the window to her right showed a white pickup truck, with the red-and-blue DeVries Construction logo on the door, parked next to her lime-green Beetle. Now that she thought about it, his company’s signs were posted on building projects all over town.

“You’re obviously a successful businessman.” She gestured toward the truck. “Why worry about the stutter? Let the voters accept you as you are.”

“G-good p-p-point,” he said, without the rancor she’d expected. “B-but I have to be able to make my ideas plain.” For the first time, he smiled. “At a speed g-greater than the average snail’s p-p-pace.” His words were clear—though very, very slow—and his tone was distorted, due to his prolonged speech pattern.

But that smile… Seeing it, Phoebe couldn’t get her breath. The aristocratic planes of his cheeks softened, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his firm lips stretched wide—Adam DeVries’s smile was like the return of the sun after an eclipse, all the more valuable for being rare.

After a shocked moment, she gathered her wits to speak. “As I said, I can’t make any guarantees.”

“I-I und-derstand.”

“We’ll need several sessions every week.”

“N-no p-problem. C-c-can w-we sc-schedule at n-n-night? I-I can’t s-s-spend so m-many m-mornings away f-from w-w-work.”

Phoebe frowned, not so much at him as at the frantic beating of her heart. What was she thinking? “I-I have responsibilities after work. And I live thirty minutes out of town.”

“Oh.” His dark brows lowered as he considered.

That was when she gave in to a truly crazy impulse. “I could see you at my home in the evening—if you wanted to drive that far.”

Adam thought for another moment, then nodded. “Th-that w-w-would w-work for m-me. Wh-wh-when?” As he had during the whole interview, he clenched his right fist and pounded it on his thigh, as if the motion helped him get the words out.

That gesture would be one of their first points of change, when they began their sessions at her house. Phoebe got to her feet, not really believing she’d agreed to this situation, let alone that she’d suggested it to begin with. “Thursday night? Seven-thirty?”

“S-s-sounds g-good.” He came to her at the desk with his arm extended. “Th-thanks, M-Miss M-M-Moss. I-I’ll see you th-then.”

“C-call me Phoebe,” she said faintly as they shook hands.

For that, Adam gave her another one of those heart-stealing smiles. “O-okay.”

She managed to remain standing as Adam DeVries left her office and headed down the hall toward the reception area. As soon as he was out of sight, she let her shaking knees give way and dropped back into her chair.

What was she thinking, inviting a man she didn’t know to her home? No smart woman acted so carelessly these days.

The DeVries family itself was well-known in New Skye, of course, with a history dating back to before the Civil War. Preston DeVries, Adam’s father, was a respected surgeon at the local hospital, while Cynthia, his mother, worked with the most prominent charity and volunteer groups. Phoebe had moved to North Carolina only a year ago, but she’d seen the DeVries name in the newspaper often enough to be curious. Her friends who’d grown up in town had filled her in on the details, which made Adam less of a stranger, surely. Less of a risk.

Then her first glimpse of him across the waiting room this morning had set her pulse skittering. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with a workingman’s hands and a poet’s sad, farsighted gaze, Adam DeVries embodied the sum of all her romantic fantasies. His thick, neatly cut brown hair, his smooth, tanned face and strong chin, belonged on a movie poster…or a campaign flyer. How could she say no to a dream come true?

And there was that smile…

Still, had she allowed her physical and emotional reaction to a client to overwhelm her professional good sense?

No, she concluded, I didn’t. The smile hadn’t caused her to bend the rules. Her decision resulted from the moment before the smile. The moment when he’d said, “This time is for me.”

Phoebe knew exactly what he meant. She’d spent years trying to meet the expectations of other people, only to fail time and time again. Not until she’d begun to live for herself had she succeeded in dealing with her own stutter.

She wouldn’t deny Adam DeVries his chance to accomplish the same miracle.

And she wouldn’t consider the notion that he…and she…could possibly fail.

TUESDAY NIGHT, ADAM MET Tommy Crawford in the parking lot outside the Carolina Diner. “Th-thought you w-were g-gonna be l-l-late.”

Tommy shook his hand. “Me, too. My last client decided not to come out in the rainstorm to discuss insurance. These elderly Southern ladies do have certain…peculiarities.”

“D-don’t I kn-know it. T-try b-building a h-house f-f-for one of th-them.” Adam held the door and let Tommy go in ahead of him. “The rain s-slowed us d-down, too. I s-sent most of the c-crews h-home early.” Combined with his late start, that meant not much work got done today.

Tommy turned a hard right and slid into Adam’s usual booth. Just as Adam settled in, Abby Brannon appeared with two glasses of iced tea.

“Hi, guys. Isn’t the rain great?” Abby’s dad, Charlie, owned the Carolina Diner, but everybody in town knew that Abby was the real engine running the place. She flipped to a new page in her order book. “Tonight’s special is porcupine meatballs, and I baked a red velvet cake yesterday. You want to think, or you want to order?”

Since they’d been eating here since they were teenagers, along with most of the other kids who attended nearby New Skye High, neither Adam nor Tommy needed a menu. They both ordered the special. “With green beans,” Tommy said, “and macaroni and cheese.”

“I’ll h-have o-okra and ap-p-ples. L-looks like you’re g-gonna b-be b-busy t-tonight.”

Abby glanced around at the rapidly filling tables and brushed her brown bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Rainy nights tend to bring folks out to eat. Unlike some people,” she said to Adam as she grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Some people eat out every night.”

“S-some p-people don’t c-cook.”

She winked. “You oughta find a nice woman who’ll solve that problem for you.”

He winked back. “I d-d-did.”

Abby rolled her eyes and walked away. Tommy laughed. “So why don’t you marry her and then you wouldn’t have to drive out for breakfast?”

Adam looked at his best friend. “M-me? M-marry Abby?”

“Why not?”

“B-because…” He narrowed his eyes and thought. “There’s always s-something Abby h-holds b-back. You kn-know? Y-you c-can’t qu-quite r-r-reach her.”

“She’s a busy lady.” They watched her bustle from table to table, serving drinks, clearing plates, taking orders. “But she’d be a sweet armful.”

“S-so y-you m-marry her.”

“Yeah, right.” Tommy shook his head. “I’m too much of a wiseass for Abby. Give me a woman with a good suit of armor. That way we won’t kill each other.”

“Campaign meeting, gentlemen?”

Adam looked up to find one of his worst nightmares standing beside the table—Samantha Pettit, reporter for the New Skye News. Surprise made words impossible. He glanced at Tommy.

His friend took over smoothly. “Hey, Sam. How’s it going? Sit down and have a drink.”

“No, thanks. I’m meeting an interview in a few minutes. But I saw you two sitting here and figured you must be planning election strategy.”

Adam had pulled himself together. “Election?”

Samantha flashed him a mocking smile. “I saw you’d filed papers for the mayor’s race, Adam.”

Tommy stepped in. “You just can’t keep a secret in this town. You want the first interview, Sam?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, when we’re up and running, I’ll give you a call.”

“You’re the campaign manager?”

“Who else?”

The reporter nodded. “I’ll remember. Keep me up to date on your schedule.” Behind Adam, the bell on the door jingled. “Gotta go.”

As she walked away, Tommy swore under his breath.

“W-what?”

“Her interview. She just sat down with L. T. LaRue.”

Adam’s gut tightened. “I g-guess they’re t-talking about him w-winning th-that public housing p-project.” The official announcement had only been made Monday, though the grapevine had predicted the city council’s decision several weeks ago. “D-d-dammit, I really w-w-wanted that c-contract for D-DeVries C-Construction. We would have d-d-done a g-g-good j-job for the p-people of this t-town.” He bounced his fist off the Formica tabletop. “LaRue will throw up s-something cheap and let s-somebody else d-deal with the hassle when the p-p-place starts f-f-falling apart.”

Tommy shrugged. “You don’t play footsie with Mayor Tate and the rest of the city council like L.T. does.” He kept an eye on the table across the room. “Don’t take ’em to dinner, pay for their golf rounds. Don’t cut ’em in on your deals, put an extra ten grand or so a year in their pockets. If you won’t play the game, son, I don’t know how you expect to get the prize.”

“J-just s-s-stupid, I g-g-guess. I thought a g-good plan, a low b-b-bid and a reputation for honest d-dealing would b-be worth s-something.”

“Your mistake. Meanwhile, it looks like LaRue and our Brash Female Reporter are having a grand old time together.” Jaw clenched, Tommy glanced down at the napkin he had shredded, then wadded the paper and pushed it to the side.

Adam risked a glance over his shoulder. “N-not for m-much l-longer, if I have anyth-thing to s-say about it. When I g-get elected m-mayor, you c-can damn well be sure th-things are g-gonna change in this t-town.”

His best friend and campaign manager reached over to shake his hand. “I’m with you, buddy. All the way.”

Abby brought their plates, and they allowed good food to distract them from the jerk and the journalist on the other side of the room. Rain fell steadily outside the plate-glass windows and the bell on the door rang almost constantly, until there were only a couple of tables in the diner left empty. Much as he liked Tommy’s company and Abby’s teasing, Adam wished he’d taken fast food home tonight. In a place as small as New Skye, where most people knew him and his family, this kind of crowd almost invariably meant running into somebody who wanted to chat. And Adam really didn’t do chat.

As a prospective candidate, he was realistic enough to admit that running for mayor invited the intrusion of a whole town of people into his life, people who would believe they owned his time and attention. His goal was to clean up New Skye government, and if that was the price he paid, so be it. Let him get the stutter under control and he’d talk all day long.

Tonight, he just wanted to eat in peace.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. “Hi, Adam.”

He nearly groaned aloud. Then he looked up from his slice of cake and barely kept his jaw from dropping. Phoebe Moss?

“H-h-hi.” Somehow, he’d never expected to see her out in the real world.

But here she was, smiling at him, and then at Tommy. “This looks like the place to eat tonight. Jenna and I thought we’d have it all to ourselves.” She nodded toward the tall blonde beside her. “This is Jenna Franklin, my business partner. Jenna, Adam DeVries.”

“Hi, Adam.” Jenna smiled as she shook his hand.

“J-J-Jenna, g-good t-to m-m-meet you. Th-this is T-T-Tommy C-Crawford.”

Tommy nodded. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your dinners—Abby’s cooking is some of the best.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened at the obvious dismissal. Her smile disappeared. “Um…it was good running into you. I’ll see you—” Tommy shook his head, and she stopped for a second, then cleared her throat and glanced quickly at Adam. “I’ll see you around sometime. Enjoy your cake.”

The two women moved away, and Tommy went back to his dessert.

Adam nudged his friend’s plate with the tip of his knife. “Wh-what k-kind of b-brush-off was that?”

Tommy took a bite of deep red cake frosted with buttery icing. “You want to be seen talking to your speech therapist in front of the whole diner? Especially with L. T. LaRue and a reporter for the newspaper just across the room? We picked Phoebe Moss to begin with ’cause she’s new to town, can’t know all that many people. But if you start having dinner together, I can see the headline now—Mayoral Candidate Seeks Therapy Before Election Bid. What a start for the campaign.”

“R-running f-for mayor means b-being r-rude?”

“Winning the mayor’s race means being careful.” Then he shook his head in mock sorrow. “Though I do admit, I hate giving a cold shoulder to women as pretty as those. Just goes against the laws of nature, you know?”

“P-pretty?” Adam had been so tense this morning, Phoebe Moss could have had two heads and he wouldn’t have noticed.

His friend stared back at him. “When’d you go blind?”

Looking around, Adam found Jenna Franklin first, at a table almost directly in his line of sight. Phoebe sat across from her, in profile to his perspective. Studying her now, he found details from this morning coming back to him, characteristics he hadn’t realized he’d noticed. She reminded him of the woman on the cameo brooch he planned to give his mother for her birthday tomorrow, with that wonderful hair drawn back into a knot at the base of her neck, a high forehead and straight nose, a slightly stubborn chin. Her skin was pale and smooth, her mouth soft pink. He remembered, with perfect clarity, her kind gray gaze.

“Y-you g-got it almost r-r-right,” he told Tommy.

“What do you mean?”

“Ph-Phoebe’s not p-p-pretty.”

“Not?”

Adam shook his head. “She’s b-b-beautiful.”

“DeVries!”

He gave Tommy a wry smile. “And r-r-right n-now she’s all that st-stands b-between me and t-total humiliation.”

To himself, he said, “And I hope to hell I can justify her effort.”

AFTER A HARRIED DAY SPENT trying to catch up with the work he’d missed on Tuesday as well as cover Wednesday’s quota, Adam arrived only ten minutes late for his mother’s birthday party at the Vineyard Restaurant.

Named for the grape arbor still maintained in back of the house, the elegant restaurant had only recently been converted by DeVries Construction from one of the town’s older homes. Adam took great satisfaction in the lustrous interior woodwork and, especially, the sliding pocket doors he’d installed to separate the front and rear parlors on both sides of the entry hall. To accommodate the sixty or so people attending tonight’s dinner, the two south parlors had been combined into one large room, where white-draped tables, fresh flowers and a violinist playing classical music set the refined tone that characterized every event his mother planned.

As Adam surveyed the crowd from an unobtrusive position near the bar, his brother clapped him on the shoulder with one hand and offered a glass of whiskey with the other. “I was beginning to wonder if you would show,” Tim said. “You and mom are usually the punctual ones in the family.”

Smooth as silk, a long sip of Maker’s Mark went down Adam’s throat. He lifted the glass in a belated toast. “Here’s t-to architects who ch-change their m-m-minds h-halfway through a p-p-project and then w-want to argue about who…who p-pays the c-cost of st-st-starting over.”

Tim returned the salute with his martini. “And to physicians who believe practicing medicine is a nine-to-five career, making life hell for the rest of us who know the truth.”

They stood with their backs against the wall, nursing their drinks until Tim spoke up again. “I heard on the news that LaRue won the housing project bid. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well.” Adam shrugged. “He c-can’t w-win all the t-time.” And he won’t, once I get to be mayor.

His brother eyed him sharply, but took Adam’s unspoken hint and changed the subject. “Trust Mother to turn her sixtieth birthday party into a royal reception.” He brushed a hand through his sandy hair, always worn a little long because he forgot to take time off work for a haircut. “You’d think she was the queen of England. Somebody needs to remind her about that little disagreement we had, back in 1776.”

“Sh-she l-looks the p-part.” Tall and graceful, with thick silver hair in waves around her face, Cynthia DeVries had been beautiful all her life, but never more so than tonight. “And she d-does l-love the sp-spotlight. N-n-not to m-mention the g-glory, admiration and p-p-power that g-go w-with it.”

“Hence her involvement in every volunteer organization the town offers since as far back as I can remember. How many hot dog suppers did we eat as kids because dad was at the hospital and mom had a meeting?” Tim drained his drink. “She’s been president so often, she should run for political office. We could be talking about Senator DeVries. Or, hell, even President DeVries.”

Their sister joined them. “I’m afraid I must decline the nomination, being too young—thank God—to accept the office under current constitutional standards.” Theresa clinked her glass against Adam’s. “Good evening, boys. Are we having fun yet?”

“Aren’t we always?” Adam took another sustaining swallow of bourbon as he looked his sister over, from the top of her short, stylish dark hair to the red high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. “You l-look g-great tonight. As always.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You sure do know the right thing to say.” She kissed his cheek, giving him a whiff of expensive perfume, then moved to stand on his right, surveying the candlelit tables and chattering guests. “I am happy to celebrate Mother’s birthday. And a free meal at the town’s best restaurant is an opportunity not to be missed. Your guys did a superior job on the renovation.”

“We d-do our b-best.”

“You would have done a great job with the public housing project, too. I’m sorry to see LaRue get his way again.” Theresa shook her head in disgust. “Makes me ashamed to work for the city, watching people cave in to his bribes and threats.”

“Th-there’s an election c-coming up. M-Maybe th-things will change.” He had yet to tell his family about the campaign. Until his meeting with Phoebe Moss yesterday, he hadn’t known if he could actually go through with therapy. Even though Phoebe hadn’t promised success, she’d made him feel hopeful. The commitment to meet at her home was such a remarkable gesture, Adam felt certain she believed they would succeed.

“Maybe.” Theresa drew a deep breath. “There sure are a lot of people to smile at and talk nonsense with.” Straightening to her full height, as impressive as their mother’s, she tossed back the last of her wine and handed Tim the glass. “I guess I’ll get to work. I just might want these votes one day, when I run for district attorney.”

Tim put her glass next to his own on a nearby tray, then turned back to Adam, arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the wall. While Adam and Theresa resembled their mother and each other, Tim was the spitting image of their dad, right down to his lazy posture, sleepy gaze and slow, genial smile. “Fortunately, I don’t have to solicit votes for my job. When you’re having a heart attack, the cardiologist’s opinions, political or otherwise, don’t matter a damn. Want another drink?”

Before he could accept the offer, the clink of silverware on crystal heralded his dad’s suggestion that everyone find their seats for dinner. Adam checked the seating chart and winced when he found himself trapped between his aunt Diana, who always talked to him with a raised voice as if he couldn’t hear, and his dad. Not the recipe for a relaxing meal.

“I heard on the radio that you lost that public housing contract to LaRue Construction,” Preston DeVries said as their salads arrived. “Couldn’t expect much else, I suppose.”

Adam concentrated all his will on the one word. “No.”

Aunt Diana put a hand on his arm. “Will losing this project ruin your business, dear?” Conversation around the room ebbed as everyone waited for the answer to the question they’d all heard. From a distant table, Theresa sent him a sympathetic frown, but there wasn’t much she could do to help.

Again, Adam made the supreme effort. “Not at all. I’ve g-got p-plenty of work to d-do.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his dad’s grimace. The slightest hesitation in his speech, the smallest repetition or block, was always noticed. And regretted.

Talk resumed in a buzz, but Adam put his fork on the edge of the plate and pushed his salad away. Aunt Diana turned to talk with the person on her right, which was a relief, but when Preston directed all of his attention to the teenage cousin on his other side, Adam understood quite clearly that he’d failed. Again. The folks on the opposite side of the table gently ignored him, no doubt thinking to spare him the shame of having to stutter across the flower arrangement. Some kind of chicken dish arrived, but he barely touched the food. Knowing that he was a disappointment to his father destroyed what little appetite he’d arrived with. The party bubbled around him, but he might as well have been marooned on a desert island. Hell, he might as well not have come to the party at all.

Finally, the tables were cleared for dessert. Getting to his feet, Preston motioned for the cake to be brought in. “Cynthia, honey, happy birthday!” Then he looked at Adam. “Son?”

Adam had been hoping to avoid this particular tradition tonight, with so many people listening. No such luck. But this, at least, he could do right.

He drew a deep breath. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang to his mother, aware of every face in the room turned his way. The words were perfect, the pitch true. The words he couldn’t speak, he could sing. So he sent birthday wishes to his mother in a song.

He’d sung solos in church choir since the age of five, and stuttered since he was eight, but that talent had never influenced his speech, no matter how many years of choral practices he endured. He only hoped Phoebe could change the pattern. In less than three months.

When the verse ended, Preston gestured to the crowd and they all sang another round as Cynthia DeVries smiled and delicately wiped tears from her eyes. More champagne circulated with the servings of cake.

Since his chair faced the doorway, Adam had a chance to watch the arrivals and departures of other diners in the restaurant. About nine-thirty, he looked up from the cake he was moving around his plate to check out the commotion going on in the entry area…and then wished he hadn’t.

L. T. LaRue had come to the Vineyard for dinner. The mayor stood next to him, with an arm around LaRue’s shoulders, every few seconds patting him on the back. They’d come in through the bar in the back of the house, because they already had drinks in their hands. The hostess approached and led them to their seats—not in the rear parlor, of course, but in the front room directly across the hall from the banquet room where Adam sat.

During the next hour, when he wasn’t watching his mother open her gifts and smile at the toasts made in her honor, Adam watched LaRue celebrate “winning” the housing project contract. The word should be “buying,” of course—a fact confirmed by the arrival of several city council members who joined the mayor’s party with every evidence of satisfaction at a deal well made.

Preston DeVries leaned across the corner of the table. “The only way we’re going to get this town cleaned up,” he told Adam, “is to elect a new mayor.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet as guests prepared to take their leave. “I wish to God there was an honest man with the guts to take on that crook and give him a run for his money.”

Adam swallowed hard. After setting an appointment for speech therapy, then actually showing up, this was the hardest moment he’d had to face since the day in the third grade when his dog died. “D-Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve already g-got that m-man.”

“You don’t say? Who is it? I’ll be damn glad to write a check for his campaign, help get those crooks evicted.”

Standing, Adam faced his father eye to eye. “M-make your ch-check out to m-me.”

“You?” Preston’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve already f-f-filed the p-papers. I’m running for m-m-mayor of New Sk-Skye.”

His father stared at him, speechless, for a long moment. “Dear God, son,” he said finally, too loudly. “Surely you’re not serious! You wouldn’t do something that stupid.” His anxious brown gaze searched Adam’s face. “Would you?”