“What makes you ask that?”
“For a man who wants to travel quickly, you did a good job of keeping us off the turnpike.”
“I don’t like turnpikes.”
“You love them. You’re a turnpike kind of guy. Be honest, Mat. What’s going on with you and those kids?”
“I’m not kidnapping them, if that’s what you want to know.”
She’d been fairly certain of that. Lucy complained about bumpy roads and warm Coke—she’d hardly keep quiet about being kidnapped. “So what are you doing with them?”
He took a sip, looked off into the distance, shrugged. “A long time ago, I was married to their mother. Sandy put my name on both girls’ birth certificates, even though neither one of them is mine.”
“So you are the girls’ father.”
“Aren’t you listening? It’s only on paper. I didn’t even know Butt existed until a few days ago.”
“Please stop calling her that.”
“Anybody who screams like she does deserves a crummy name.”
“She may scream, but she looks like a cherub.”
He was clearly unimpressed.
In the distance, an owl hooted. “I still don’t understand. You obviously don’t want them, so why do you have them? It shouldn’t be hard to prove you’re not their father.”
“You try getting Lucy to a lab for a blood test.” He slid one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “You’re right, though. It won’t be hard, and as soon as we get to Grandma’s house, I’ll take care of it.”
“You still haven’t explained why you dodged the turnpike.”
“Sandy’s mother isn’t due back in the country till the end of the week, and child services was getting ready to take them. The baby’d probably be all right, but can you imagine Lucy in a foster home, even if it was only for a little while? She’d end up in a juvenile detention center before she ever made it to Iowa.”
“I know she’s awful, but there’s something about her I like. And I’m sure she could have survived.”
“Maybe, but . . . I don’t know . . . it seemed safer to get them to their grandmother.”
As he told her about Joanne Pressman, the letter she’d sent, the red tape involved in turning the girls over, Nealy realized there was a lot more to Mat Jorik than that crusty macho exterior. “So you decided to sidestep the local authorities.”
“Not from any affection for the little brats,” he said dryly. “But despite what Sandy did to me, I have some good memories of her, and I figured I owed her a favor. At the same time, I didn’t think the local authorities would be too happy about having me take them out of state before this was cleared up.”
“So you did kidnap the girls.”
“Let’s just say I didn’t have the patience to wait around until somebody got the legalities figured out. Originally I’d planned to fly, but Lucy took strong exception to that.”
“Underneath the crusty exterior, you’re a real softie.”
“You just keep right on thinking that.”
She had to admit that he didn’t look much like a softie. He looked more like a man who’d been seriously inconvenienced. Still, since his need to keep to the back roads coincided with her desire to see small towns, she wasn’t going to protest.
His eyes skimmed over her, lingering for a moment on her mouth, then moving to her eyes. “Now it’s your turn to answer a few questions.”
She felt slightly breathless. “Me? I’m an open book.” God was currently off duty because lightning didn’t strike her.
“Then why are you using a phony Southern accent?”
“How do you know it’s phony?”
“Because half the time you forget.”
“Oh. That’s because I lived in California.”
“Give it up, Nell. You’re obviously well educated, and I didn’t see anybody else at that god-awful restaurant eating their drumstick with a knife and fork.”
“I don’t like greasy fingers.”
“Save it for somebody stupid.”
Nealy thought fast. “All kinds of women get caught up in bad relationships.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you think he might be following you?”
“Not now,” she said carefully. “But he might have been.”
“Don’t you have any friends who can help you out? Any family?”
“Not right now.”
“No job?”
“I had to quit.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
She was getting herself in deeper by the minute. “Restraining orders aren’t always effective.”
“What’s his name? The baby’s father?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“If somebody’s on our ass, I don’t want to be taken by surprise.”
Only one name sprang to her mind, maybe because she’d recently pulled out her old video of Titanic. “Leo.” She swallowed. “Leo . . . Jack.”
“Weird name.”
“Probably an alias. That’s the kind of guy Leo is.”
“If he’s so bad, why did you hook up with him?”
“I have codependency problems.”
He stared at her.
She’d thought it was a good response, but he obviously wasn’t satisfied, so she embellished. “He’s quite good-looking. Light brown hair, great eyes, nice body. Bad swimmer. A little young for me, but . . .” For God’s sake, what was she doing? “I didn’t realize until too late that he was psychotic,” she said hastily.
“How does he feel about the baby?”
She tried to imagine Leonardo Di Caprio’s reaction if she told him she was carrying his baby. She imagined he’d be quite astonished.
“He doesn’t know.”
“So you haven’t seen him for a while?”
This time she didn’t forget she had a wad of padding sticking out in front of her. “Not for a while. He wasn’t around when I borrowed his car. I’d really rather not talk about this. It’s quite painful.”
He gave her a long, searching look that made her wonder exactly how much of this he was buying. He seemed to have an extremely agile mind.
“It’s hard for me to imagine you getting mixed up with a psychotic.”
“That’s because you don’t know me.”
“I know enough. I’d even hazard a guess that you’re a blue blood. Episcopalian, I’ll bet.”
“Presbyterian.”
“Same thing. You’re obviously intelligent and well educated, even if you don’t have a lot of street smarts.”
That annoyed her. “Lots of people have their cars stolen. And my mammy and pappy sure would love hearing me described as a blue blood.”
“Did you know that the corner of your mouth scrunches up when you tell a lie?”
She deliberately tightened the corner of her mouth. “You’re a kind and sensitive human being.”
He laughed. “All right. I’ll back off. But remember, you’ve only got a ride for as long as you keep the girls out of my hair, and you did a lousy job of it today.”
Blackmail could work two ways. “You’d better be nice to me, or I’ll leave you on your own. Just you, Lucy, and little baby Butt. Isn’t it cute the way she says da da?” With what she very much hoped was a saucy smile, she picked up her steps and left him behind.
Saucy. It was so un-Cornelia-like. She loved it.
He smiled as she walked away. The lady had attitude, he’d give her that. From the rear, it was impossible to tell that she was pregnant. He didn’t want her pregnant, he realized. He wanted her in sexy lingerie.
It wasn’t often he shocked himself, but this time he’d managed it. His smile faded. Pregnant women represented everything he didn’t want in his life, yet he’d just mentally undressed one. The idea made him shudder.
His relationship with the female sex had always been complex. Growing up surrounded by so many women had made him crave the
masculine. He loved smelly locker rooms, rough contact, and no-holds-barred political debates. He enjoyed gruff voices and a little blood at hockey games. He liked shampoo that only had shampoo in it—no flowers, vegetables, or fruit salad. He loved having a bathroom to himself. No pink barrettes on the basin, no underwire bras hanging from the shower head. A cupboard beneath the sink that held shaving cream instead of boxes of mini pads, maxi pads, tampons of every size and shape, products for light days, heavy days, bad hair days, and I’m-too-fat days. He was a guy! He wanted to be surrounded by guy things. Unfortunately, the best guy thing of all was having sex with a great woman.
It was a dilemma he’d solved in the only way he knew how, by being up-front. He let women know at the beginning that he’d served his time as a family man, and he didn’t ever intend to do it again. Then he laid out the rules—great sex, mutual respect, lots of personal space, and no permanent commitments.
Still, there were always women who had a death wish that attracted them to a man who set hard boundaries. A few of them had convinced themselves they could get him to the altar, although he couldn’t imagine why they’d want to drag a commitment out of someone with such a deep-seated aversion to family life. As bad a husband as he’d be, he’d make an even worse father.
He still winced when he remembered all those sucker punches he’d thrown at his sisters when he was a kid and he hadn’t known any other way to keep them in line. It was a miracle he hadn’t hurt them.
He pitched his root beer can into a trash barrel and stuffed his hands in his pockets. At least one good thing was coming out of this misadventure—he didn’t have time to brood about the way he’d screwed up a professional life he’d worked so hard to build.
Not long after he’d put himself through college, his mother had died. With more financial responsibility for his family, he’d worked harder than ever to build his career, and it had paid off as he’d moved from a small-town paper to the Chicago News Bureau and finally to the Standard. He’d had everything he’d wanted: a high-profile job in a great city, money in the bank, good friends, and enough leisure to play some ice hockey. And if he sometimes thought a man who’d accomplished all his goals should be happier . . . well, nothing in life was perfect.
Then Sid Giles had come courting. Sid had been developing a television news program called Byline, and he wanted Mat as his head producer. Although Mat had no experience in television, his journalistic credentials were impeccable, and Sid needed him for the credibility he’d lend the show. In addition to offering Mat an astronomical amount of money, Sid promised that he’d be able to do quality work.
Mat initially turned him down, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the offer. Maybe this was what was missing from his life, he’d thought. A chance to push himself in a new direction. He’d finally accepted the job and set off for L.A.
At first Sid had kept his promise, and Mat had been able to do some good work. But Byline’s ratings didn’t grow fast enough, and before long he found himself producing stories on cheating husbands, lesbian wives, and clairvoyant pets. Still, he held on, fueled by pure stubbornness and the inability to admit he’d made a mistake. Finally, as the stories had grown sleazier and his old newspaper friends started ducking his calls, he’d known he couldn’t do it any longer. He’d turned in his resignation, put his luxury condominium up for sale, and walked away.
Now he wanted to find a couple of great stories to redeem his pride before he went back to Chicago. He’d already stumbled on some good stuff—a group of street kids in Albuquerque that’d tear a reader’s heart out, a small-town bank making a fortune off farm foreclosures. But neither story was enough. He wanted something bigger.
Until two days ago, finding that big story was all he’d been able to think about. Now, however, he’d been distracted by a pair of kids who weren’t his, along with a pregnant lady who had skinny legs, a quirky sense of humor, and an allure he didn’t understand. Even though he wasn’t much of a drinker, he decided he deserved to find a little oblivion in that pint of Jim Beam he’d spotted in one of Mabel’s overhead bins.
7
“I’M NOT SLEEPING with you!” Lucy declared. “how do I know you don’t have lice or something?”
“Fine,” Nealy sighed, pulling down the spread on the bed. “Then sleep up front.”
“You said Mat was going to sleep up there.”
“He probably will.”
“Make him sleep in the back.”
“Think for a minute, will you? Marigold’s sleeping on the floor by the double bed because it’s the only place to keep her contained, so it’s not hard to figure out that Mat will make sure he sleeps in the front. The banquette makes up into a small bed. The couch makes up into another bed. You can either sleep back here in the double bed with me or up there with him.”
“That’s so gross. How do you know he’s not one of those kiddy porn creeps or something?”
“Instinct.”
“Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who might get overpowered.”
Why did the idea of being overpowered by Mat Jorik not seem all that awful? But sex was one thing she absolutely never let herself think about, so she looked around the kitchen for some cleanser.
“Let him sleep with you,” Lucy said. “He wants to.”
Spray bottle in hand, Nealy turned back to the hostile teenager with the small, perfectly proportioned features. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. He only likes me marginally more than he likes you, which isn’t saying much. Now I’m taking a shower. Sleep anywhere you want.”
Nealy didn’t have much experience cleaning, but she couldn’t stand using the bathroom as it was. It took her a while, but when she was done, she felt reasonably satisfied with the result. Afterward she showered, then reluctantly fastened the padding back around her middle. It would be uncomfortable for sleeping, but in such close quarters, she didn’t have much choice.
She’d picked up the inexpensive long blue cotton nightgown she’d bought at the discount store. She was accustomed to silk, and the fabric felt strange as she settled it over her head.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she was relieved to see that Lucy had fallen asleep. Still wearing her clothes, she lay sprawled across the double bed. The smeared makeup formed a mask over her delicately innocent face.
Marigold lay on the bed Nealy had made for her on the floor. She was curled on her side, her plump, baby lips parted, fragile lashes lying in dainty half-moons on her cheeks, the Beanie Baby walrus under one knee. For the first time Nealy noticed that all ten of her tiny toe-nails were painted iridescent blue.
She smiled down at Lucy, then opened one of the back windows. As the night breeze touched her skin, she instinctively gazed toward the shadows outside for the guards who were always there. But tonight she saw only the gentle sway of tree branches. She felt completely isolated from the rest of the world and absolutely safe. Cornelia Case had vanished.
Lucy felt something poke her, heard a soft noise. It was too early to get up, and she didn’t want to open her eyes, especially when she knew exactly what she would see.
“Gah?”
The word was soft, almost whispered. Lucy forced open one eye and then the other. For a moment, she simply stared at her sister as she peeked over the edge of the mattress. Little blond tufts stuck out here and there, most of them stiff from yesterday’s meals, and a big smile, full of love and trust, was spread like peanut butter over her face. It made Lucy’s stomach hurt.
“Gah,” she whispered back.
The smile beamed brighter. Lucy lifted her head and saw a purple stain on her pillow from the color she’d sprayed in her hair. She also noticed a wet spot where she’d drooled while she slept. Gross.
Nell was asleep, and Lucy felt a stab of jealousy as she saw how pretty she looked lying against her pillow. Now that Nell was here, Jorik was paying attention to her instead of Lucy.
She didn’t like thinking about how muc
h she wanted him to pay attention to her. It reminded her of all those years she hadn’t been able to get Sandy’s attention. The only things her mother had cared about were booze and her boyfriends.
As Lucy sat up, she caught sight of Jorik sprawled face down on the couch, legs hanging off the end, one arm dragging on the floor. Fourteen years worth of resentment against Sandy churned inside her. Why couldn’t Jorik have been her dad instead of some drunk Carnegie Mellon fraternity guy Sandy’d never seen again?
“Gah?”
Sharp little fingernails dug into her legs. She gazed at those dirty blond curls and grubby knees. Nell and Jorik thought they were so smart, but neither one of them seemed to know that babies needed a bath before they went to bed.
Freeing herself from her sister’s grip, she stood up and began pulling some clean clothes from the pile she’d tossed on the floor yesterday morning before they’d taken off. When she had everything, she leaned down and grabbed the baby, too.
The digital clock on Mabel’s dashboard read 6:02. Just one time Lucy’d like to sleep in late like other kids her age, but she never got to.
Her sister was heavy, and Lucy banged into the table on her way to the door, but Jorik didn’t move. Then she saw the half-empty whiskey bottle lying on the floor. Betrayal burned inside her. Was he going to turn out to be a drunk, too?
The only time in the past four years when Sandy hadn’t gotten drunk was when she was pregnant. Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. That had been a pretty good time. Even though Sandy’d been with Trent a lot, sometimes it had just been the two of them laughing and talking about stuff.
Sometimes Lucy felt guilty for not being more sad about Sandy dying, but in a lot of ways, she felt like Sandy had died right after her little sister was born, when she’d started drinking again. All she was interested in from then on was partying. Lucy had sort of started hating her.
Outside it smelled like bacon and fresh air. She’d been to a place like this once with Sandy and Trent, and she knew there was usually a rest room with a shower for people who didn’t want to use the one in their motor homes. She had to set the baby down in the grass a couple of times so she could rest her arms. Finally, she spotted a wooden building painted green. She hoped it wasn’t too crappy inside.
First Lady Page 8
