Envious

by Lisa Jackson

  “Great,” she muttered, fingering the smooth paper.

  While she was growing up John Cawthorne had never been around. She’d never even met him until a few months ago, and for years—years—she’d believed him dead. So it seemed unbelievable to her that now, when she was thirty-three years old, a widowed mother of two, she, should be expected to forgive and forget. Just like that. Well, guess again.

  For the dozenth time in as many days she read the embossed invitation.

  Mr. John Andrew Cawthorne and Ms. Brynnie Perez

  Request the Honor of Your Presence

  at the Celebration of Their Marriage

  on Sunday, August 7th

  at 7:00 p.m.

  at the Chapel of the Rogue

  Reception Following

  at Cawthorne Acres

  R.S.V.P.

  “Fat chance,” she whispered to herself.

  As far as Tiffany was concerned, John Cawthorne’s upcoming marriage was a sham. She wanted no part of it and had refused to attend the nuptials. Even though John had called over, even though she’d felt a ridiculous needle of guilt pierce her brain for not accepting the olive branch he’d held out to her, she’d held firm.

  Scowling against a potential headache, she retrieved a handwritten note that was still tucked inside the envelope. In a bold scrawl, good old John had tried to breach a gap he’d created when he’d turned his back on her mother thirty-three years ago.

  Dear Tiffany,

  I know I don’t deserve your support, but I’m asking for it anyway. Believe me when I say I’ve turned over a new leaf and more than anything I want you and your sisters to be part of my family.

  God knows, I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. No doubt I’ll make more before I see the pearly gates, but, please find it in your heart to forgive an old man who just wants to make his peace before it’s time to face his Maker. In my own way, Tiffany, I love you. Always have. Always will. You’re my firstborn. I hope you will join me and your sisters at the wedding.

  Your father,

  John Cawthorne

  Father. There was that painful word again. Where had he been when her mother was working two jobs trying to raise an illegitimate daughter? Where had this wonderful “father” been during her growing-up years when she’d needed someone—anyone—to explain the complexities of the male of the species? Where had he been when she’d gotten married and had no one to give her away at the small wedding? What had he thought when she’d had children—his grandchildren?

  John Cawthorne didn’t know the meaning of the word father. She doubted that he ever would. She curled the letter in her fist, felt the edge of one sheet cut into her finger and tossed the crumpled pages into a wastebasket near the back door. Why was she even thinking of the man?

  Because in a few days it will be his wedding day.

  So what? So he was finally marrying the woman he’d professed to love after all these years—a woman who had collected more husbands than most women had pairs of earrings.

  As for her “sisters,” she wasn’t sure she had anything in common with either of them. Bliss was a few years younger than she. Just as she’d appeared today in the agency, Bliss seemed always to be a cool, sophisticated woman who had been born with the proverbial silver spoon firmly lodged between her teeth. She had always had John Cawthorne’s name; had never experienced the feelings of loneliness and despair at being poor or different from other kids who, even if their parents had divorced, knew who their father was. Tiffany was fairly certain she wouldn’t get along with Bliss Cawthorne.

  As for her other half-sibling, Katie Kinkaid—well, Katie was a dynamo, a woman who was naive enough to think she could change the world by sheer willpower.

  Tiffany had nothing in common with either of them. Not that she cared. She went upstairs, changed into jeans and a sleeveless blouse, scraped her hair back into a functional ponytail, then returned to the kitchen where she started unpacking the groceries. She was just about finished when she heard the sound of voices in the backyard. Folding the grocery sacks and placing them under the sink, she glanced through the window and spied Mrs. Ellingsworth carrying Christina toward the porch.

  “Mommy!” the three-year-old cried as Tiffany opened the screen door. Christina scrambled out of the older woman’s arms and ran up the back steps.

  “She’s plumb tuckered out,” Ellie said.

  “Am not.” Christina yawned nonetheless and the corners of her mouth turned down.

  “Well, I am. I wish I had half that kid’s energy.” Ellie mopped her brow as Tiffany held the door open and leaned down. Christina flew into her arms.

  “We swinged and got on the merry-go-round,” she announced, her cheeks flushed.

  “Did you?”

  Ellie laughed as she stepped into the kitchen. “A few times.”

  “Bunches and bunches of times,” Christina said, then struggled out of her mother’s arms and chased Charcoal outside.

  “She’s a goer, that one,” Ellie said, chuckling and watching through the mesh as Christina found an old tin pie plate on the back porch and toddled down the yard. “She’ll be tired tonight.”

  “Good.” Maybe then she would sleep through till morning without the nightmares that had plagued her since Philip’s death. “Taking her to the park was above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Any time. She’s a joy, that one.” Then, as if realizing they were alone for the first time, Ellie asked, “Isn’t Stephen back yet?” Before Tiffany could answer, she added, “That’s odd. Octavia called and asked him to come over to mow the lawn. Said it would only take an hour. That was, when?” She checked her watch again. “Nearly three hours ago.”

  “Figures,” Tiffany said. “I didn’t find any note from him, but this was lying open.” She pointed to the invitation on the counter.

  “Was it?” Ellie’s face puckered thoughtfully. “I didn’t see it.”

  “Stephen must have found it and left it here.” Tiffany checked for another note, found none, and told herself not to worry, that Stephen was probably just with his friends fishing or swimming or hanging out.... But where? “Well, I suppose I’ll hear from him before too long,” she said. “Now, how about a glass of iced tea or lemonade?”

  Ellie reached for a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at her forehead. “I could use a drink, believe me. A vodka collins sounds nice, but it’s a little early. Besides I’ve got a date.”

  “A date?” Tiffany repeated, surprised. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  The older woman positively beamed. “Stan Brinkman. Retired. Once owned a roofing company that he sold to his sons. He’s widowed, too, and spends his summers up here and drives a fifth wheeler down to Arizona each winter.”

  This was news to Tiffany. “How long have you known him?”

  “Long enough.” Ellie gave an exaggerated wink and walked to the door. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” With a wave she was out the door, pausing long enough to say a few words to Christina who was feverishly plucking blades of grass and dropping them into the pie tin.

  The phone rang. Tiffany grabbed the receiver on the second ring and still watching her daughter through the screen, said, “Hello?”

  “Mom?” Stephen’s voice cracked.

  “Oh, hi, kid.” She rested her hip against the counter. “All done with Grandma’s lawn?”

  “Uh . . . a long time ago.”

  There was an edginess in his voice and she realized something was wrong. Very wrong. She froze. “So where are you?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  “Stephen?”

  “I’m at the police station, Mom, and . . . and someone wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter Four

  “You’re where?” Tiffany sagged against the kitchen wall for support. Dear God, this couldn’t be happening.

  “I said I’m down at the—”

  “I know what you said, but how did you get there? Are you all right? What happened?�
�� A jillion thoughts raced through her mind, none of them good. when she considered her thirteen-year-old son and his recent knack for getting into trouble.

  “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  “You’re sure?” She wasn’t convinced.

  “Yeah. The officer wants to talk to you.”

  “Wait, Stephen, should I come get you—”

  “Mrs. Santini?” an older male voice inquired. “I’m Sergeant Pearson.”

  Tiffany’s throat was dry, her heart a beating drum. “What’s going on? Is my son okay?”

  “Aside from a shiner and a sore jaw, I think he’ll be fine.” The sergeant’s voice was kind but did little to soothe her jangled nerves.

  “What happened?”

  “He and another kid, Miles Dean, got into a scuffle down at the Mini Mart.”

  “A scuffle?” she repeated, anxious sweat causing the back of her blouse to cling to her skin. The older boy’s father, Ray Dean, had been in and out of jail and it looked like Miles was following in his old man’s footsteps. What in the world was Stephen doing with him this time?

  “The boys got into a quarrel. One thing led to another and a couple of punches were thrown. The clerk gave us a call and we picked ’em up. All in all, your boy’s fine.”

  Relief caused her shoulders to droop but she rubbed at the headache pounding in her forehead. “And Miles?”

  The officer hesitated and Tiffany felt a niggle of dread. “Miles always manages to get himself out of trouble.”

  Nervously she twisted the telephone cord in her fingers. “Are there any charges filed against Stephen?” she asked. Despite a breeze gently lifting the curtains as it slipped in through the open window over the sink, the temperature in the kitchen seemed to have elevated to over a hundred degrees.

  Tiffany stretched the cord and looked outside to see that her daughter was still busily making mud pies in the dirt.

  “None against your son.”

  “And Miles?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Can I come and get him now?”

  “Actually, an officer will bring him home. They should be there in about ten minutes.”

  “I don’t have to sign anything?”

  “No—but just a minute.” Pearson’s voice was muffled as he spoke to someone else. “Yeah, she’s waiting for him. Now listen, Stephen, no more horsing around, right?”

  “I won’t,” her son mumbled as if from a great distance.

  “I mean it. The next time it could be real trouble. And I’m gonna have to report this to your juvenile counselor.”

  There was another muffled response that Tiffany couldn’t discern. A second later Sergeant Pearson was on the phone again. “Okay, he’s on his way.”

  “Good.” Or was it?

  “Look, Mrs. Santini, this incident at the Mini Mart, well, it doesn’t amount to much more than a couple of kids getting into a difference of opinion and taking a swing or two on a hot afternoon. However, the way things are today, we tend to worry. If either of the boys had pulled a weapon—a gun or a knife—this could have turned out bad.”

  Her thoughts exactly. A chill slid through her despite the heat. Guns. Knives. Weapons. She had moved to the small town of Bittersweet to get away from the gangs and violence of the city, but it seemed that no community was immune. Not even a little burg in southern Oregon. In this part of rural America, boys were given hunting knives and rifles routinely about the time they hit the age of ten or twelve, as if the owning of a weapon was a rite of passage from childhood to becoming a man. “I’ll talk to Stephen.”

  “Do that,” Pearson advised. “I think a ride in the squad car and having to come down to the station probably gave him a scare.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  She was ready to hang up, to wait for Stephen and see that he was okay, then read him the riot act if necessary, but Sergeant Pearson wasn’t finished.

  “There is something more, Mrs. Santini,” he said, and there was a solemnity in his voice she hadn’t heard before. She was instantly wary, her fingers tightening around the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “As I said, the boys were fighting about something—who knows what, maybe even a girl. At least that’s what the clerk at the Mini Mart thought she heard, but there was some discussion about Isaac Wells.”

  Tiffany froze. “Pardon me?”

  “The man who disappeared. Owned a place on the county road just out of town.”

  “I know who he is,” she said, trying to keep the irritation and, well, the fear, from her voice. Deep inside she began to tremble. “I just don’t see what he has to do with Stephen.”

  “Probably nothing. But when we emptied your son’s pockets—just part of procedure, you know—he had a set of keys on him.”

  “Keys?” she repeated, having trouble finding her voice. “To my house,” she said, but knew she was only hoping against hope. Stephen had one key. Only one. No set.

  The sergeant hesitated. “Maybe. But the chain is unique and engraved.” She closed her eyes because she knew what was coming. “Initials I.X.W. I’m thinkin’ it could be for Isaac Xavier Wells.”

  “I see.”

  “Talk to your boy.”

  “I will,” she promised as she hung up and felt as if the weight of the world had just been dumped upon her shoulders. None of this was making any sense. Why was Stephen still hanging out with Miles Dean? What was he doing with that set of keys? What was the fight about? And, what could Stephen have to do with the old man whom he’d worked for, the man who’d disappeared?

  She walked to the back door and noticed John Cawthorne’s wedding invitation on the counter. By the end of the week her father—well, if that’s what you could call the snake-in-the-grass John Cawthorne—would be getting married. But Tiffany couldn’t think of that now. Suddenly she had more important things to consider.

  “Mommy!” Christina shouted from the backyard.

  Tiffany managed a tight smile as she opened the window over the sink. “What’s up kiddo?”

  All smudges and bright eyes, Christina, standing beneath a shade tree, proudly showed off her latest creation of mud and grass piled high in the tinfoil plate that had once held a chicken pot pie. A clump of pansies had been thrown onto the top for color. “Lookie!”

  “It’s beautiful,” Tiffany said as Charcoal mewed loudly at the back door.

  “You want a bite?”

  “You bet,” she lied, trying to push her worries about her son far to the back of her mind. She’d deal with Stephen when he arrived home. “A big bite.” She pushed open the screen door. Charcoal slunk into the kitchen.

  Christina, holding out her prize, started to run up the back steps.

  “Watch out!”

  Too late. With a shriek Christina stumbled over one of Stephen’s in-line skates and pitched headlong onto the porch. Tin pie plate, grass and clumps of mud flew into the air.

  Tiffany was through the door in a second, picking up her daughter just as Christina took in a huge breath and let out another wail guaranteed to wake the dead in the entire Rogue River Valley. Tears streamed and blood began to trickle from a raspberry-like scratch on Christina’s knee.

  “Mom-meeee!” Christina sobbed as Tiffany held her.

  “Shh, baby, you’ll be fine.” Tiffany hauled her daughter into the house to the small bathroom off the kitchen.

  “It hurts!”

  “I know, I know, but Mommy will fix it.”

  In the medicine cabinet she found antiseptic and a clean washcloth. As Christina, seated on the edge of the counter, wriggled and sucked in her breath, Tiffany washed each scratch and cut on her knee and chin.

  The doorbell rang.

  Probably the officer with Stephen in tow. “I’ll be right there!” she called out over Christina’s whispers. Balancing her daughter, she reached into the medicine cabinet for a package of bandages.

  The bell chimed sharply again.

  “Just hold your horses,” T
iffany muttered, placing a bandage over the biggest area of Christina’s wounds. “Come on, sweetie, we’d better answer the door.” She tossed the washcloth into the sink, picked up her sniffling daughter and carried her to the front door. Expecting to have to apologize to a police officer and Stephen, she yanked on the knob and found herself face-to-face with J.D.

  “You were going to get me a key,” he reminded her.

  “Right.” His key had been the last thing on her mind. He shot a look at Christina and his brows drew into a single, condemning line. “I didn’t think about it. The back door was unlocked.” She shuffled her daughter from one hip to the other while Christina blinked back tears.

  “What happened here?” J.D. asked.

  “I falled down!” Christina said with more than a little pride. All of a sudden she was like a soldier home from battle, showing off her war wounds.

  “That you did.” Tiffany pressed her lips to Christina’s curly crown. “Well, come on in—” She waved to the back of the house and then stopped short as she looked over his shoulder toward the street. “Oh, no.”

  J.D. turned in time to see a police cruiser easing up to the curb. His gut clenched, an automatic reaction from too many conflicts with the law when he was a kid. In the house, Tiffany paled and J.D. realized that for a beautiful woman, she looked like hell. Her normally cool facade had slipped, her hair was falling out of a makeshift ponytail, and her clothes—faded jeans and a sleeveless blouse—wrinkled and smudged with dirt were a far cry from her usually neat and tidy, no-nonsense appearance.

  “Excuse me.” Like a brushfire devouring dry grass, she was past him in an instant. Holding her daughter to her, she dashed down the two steps of the porch to the edge of the lawn, where shade trees lined the narrow street.

  J.D. followed, his eyes narrowing as the rear door of the police car opened and Stephen sheepishly crawled out. All of J.D.’s worst fears congealed right then and there, and he wondered if Tiffany was at the end of her rope as far as the kids were concerned.