Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  “You’re incredible,” Harley said, his voice a low whisper. “You’re so damned self-centered that you think everything is about you. This is different, and I’m going to see Claire whether you approve or not.”

  “Then you’d better be ready to move out and forget about going back to Berkeley in the fall. And the car . . . it’s only leased, you know, so I’ll be expecting you to turn over the keys.”

  Harley swallowed the fear that crept through him, the fear that he’d fought ever since he was a kid, the fear that somehow he wasn’t good enough. For years he’d lived in Weston’s shadow. Weston, the tall and athletic god of the football field as well as the backseat. Weston, who breezed through high school and entered Stanford on a goddamned scholarship. Weston the great, the king, the pain in the ass. “You can’t bully me, Dad,” Harley insisted and felt his damned Adam’s apple bob.

  “Sure I can, son.” Neal seemed relaxed, his hands clasped, as if he were savoring this little power play. “How long do you think you’d last in the real world, with a two-bit job and a pile of bills? Claire Holland has expensive tastes, just as you do. She wouldn’t be happy ‘living on love’ or whatever the hell you want to call it. Neither would you.”

  “Kendall’s here!” Paige, Harley’s dip of a sister, didn’t bother knocking, just threw open the door and swung into the room.

  Heart sinking, he glanced out the front window of the den and spied Kendall’s little red Triumph skid to a stop near the garage. She alighted, a frail-looking girl with pale skin, paler hair, and wide blue eyes that had the habit of accusing him of betrayal, deceit, and all manner of sin.

  Harley’s day went from bad to worse.

  “I hope you can explain this better to her than you did to me,” Neal said, straightening as Harley walked through double doors to the foyer and the front door that Paige was flinging open.

  “I thought you were in Portland,” Paige said, beaming at the older, prettier girl. Paige adored Kendall the way that she’d revered the girls who had made the cheerleading squad or who were elected homecoming princess or queen of the prom or some other juvenile fluff—the same way she’d paid homage to her stupid Barbie dolls when she’d been a few years younger with an overblown, exaggerated, and downright obsessive passion.

  Kendall had the decency to blush a little. “I, um, came to see Harley.” She glanced at him with sorrowful eyes that made him cringe inside.

  “Oh.” Paige’s face fell, and the smile that was wired with braces disappeared.

  “But I’ll stop by and see you before I go.” Kendall added a smile to her promise, and Harley braced himself.

  “Kendall!” Neal boomed with a grin any Cheshire cat would envy. “How are you and your folks?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your old man’s golf game?”

  “As bad as ever if you believe him.”

  “That sandbagger? No way.” With a hearty chuckle, Neal gave her a fatherly clap on the shoulder, ignored his own daughter, and glared at Harley without saying a word. The message was clear: This, son, is the woman for you.

  Harley knew differently. While his father returned to the den, and Paige reluctantly made herself scarce, Harley and Kendall walked through the house. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said, as he opened the heavy sliding door. He held the door open for Kendall, then followed her onto a wraparound cedar deck that was poised high above a canyon. Far below the Chinook River sliced through the ravine on its furious path to the sea. The uppermost branches of fir trees offered shade from the summer sun, and the sound of the swift current muffled their voices.

  Taking in a deep breath, Kendall said simply, “I love you.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  “I want to marry you.” Kendall seemed haunted, her white skin even more translucent.

  “You don’t.”

  “For God’s sake, Harley, you know I do.” She stepped closer to him so that the fragrance of her perfume competed with the dank scent of the encroaching forest. “We made love. Right here on this deck. In your car. In your bed. I was a virgin, and you . . . you told me you loved me then . . .”

  His jaw clenched and his fingers curled over the rail as the first tears rained from her eyes.

  “What if . . . what if I got pregnant?” she said, and Harley’s heart stopped for a second before beginning to beat again. Pregnant? Kendall? The world pitched beneath his feet. There was no way she was knocked up. They’d been careful. He’d been careful.

  “You’re not pregnant.”

  “No.” She shook her head, sunlight playing on her pale blond crown. “I wish I was.”

  “So I’d marry you.”

  “Yes! I’d make you happy, Harley,” she vowed, stepping forward, taking one of his hands in both of hers. She started to raise it to her lips, and he drew away, didn’t want to see her grovel, felt enough like a heel as it was.

  “It’s over, Kendall. I don’t know what I have to do or say to convince you.”

  “You still love me.”

  “No.”

  She flinched as if she’d been hit with a spiked two-by-four. Tears fell in earnest, and she sniffed back a sob. Harley had never been heartless. Stupid, yes. Naive on more than one occasion, but heartless? Never. And he couldn’t stand to see her cry.

  Knowing he was making a mistake of gargantuan proportions, he sighed and folded her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Kendall,” he said against her hair. “I really am.”

  “Just love me, Harley. Is that too much to ask?” She lifted her face and blinked, then kissed him with a passion that surprised him. The kiss was hot, wanting, and tasting of the salt of her tears. For a second he surrendered, his bones beginning to melt before he stepped back quickly, his arms dropping to his sides.

  “I’m sorry.” He meant it. He’d never meant to hurt her or lead her on; it was just so damned hard to make up his mind. Now that he had, he felt like a bastard.

  “This is all because of Claire Holland,” she said around a hiccup, as a flimsy cloud blocked the sun before floating slowly inland.

  “What happened between us had nothing to do with Claire.”

  “Like hell.” Swiping at her eyes with her fingertips, smearing mascara already beginning to run, she inched her chin up a notch or two. “If I have to fight for you, I will.”

  “This isn’t a battle.”

  “Not to you, maybe, but to me.”

  “Kendall?” Paige’s voice echoed through the canyon, and, squinting upward, Harley caught a view of his sister sitting on the seat of her open window. Stringy brown hair hung down, and her eyes, when she glanced at her brother, were murderous. She’d probably heard the whole argument, witnessed the entire ugly scene. Great! Just what he needed. More pressure, this time from his kid sister.

  “I’ll—I’ll be up in a minute,” Kendall said, smiling brightly though her eyes were red, her face streaked, her shoulders slumped. As Paige disappeared into the room, Kendall whispered, “That kid should keep her nose in her own business.”

  For once Harley agreed and wondered how many other pairs of eyes had watched his exchange with Kendall through the three stories of windows that looked over this ravine and were cracked open for ventilation. He thought he caught sight of another image lurking behind a pane of glass that reflected the sunlight, then told himself he was jumping at shadows.

  “Just give me one more chance,” Kendall pleaded, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the stairs at the north side of the deck where a clematis trailed, huge purple blossoms nodding in the heat. Still looking over his shoulder, he descended, Kendall in the lead, and told himself that this was dangerous. She was taking him along the path that cut through the forest, following the course of the river, and she was sure to stop where they had a dozen times before—at a shady glen where sunlight stabbed through the trees and tall, sun-bleached grass bent with the breeze.

  “I think you’d better go, Kendall,” he said, but his heart began to pound, a
nd when she threw her arms around his neck to kiss him, male instinct overcame rational thought. “Don’t,” he whispered, without much conviction, as her fingers reached under his sweater. “No, Kendall . . .” He gripped her shoulders as his belt clinked open and her deft fingers slid down the zipper. Then she slithered down his body to kneel before him and he was lost, his fingers twining in her blond hair, his mind screaming that he was surely damned.

  Seven

  Paige opened the window a little wider and bit her lower lip until it hurt. Harley and Kendall had been gone for half an hour, and she was getting anxious. The good news was that Kendall must be convincing Harley that she was the only girl for him; the bad news was she probably wouldn’t so much as glance Paige’s way when they returned.

  Sighing, Paige doodled on the notepad resting on her lap and frowned when a yellow jacket swept in through the window, buzzed loudly, and bounced against the glass in its failed attempts at freedom.

  Paige wrote Kendall’s name over and over again, practicing a signature that could never be hers and silently wished she was more like the older girl. Kendall, thin to the point of seeming fragile, had grace, natural beauty, and knew how to flirt. She had a way of turning boys’ heads without trying.

  So why was Kendall so stuck on Harley? Jeez, he was a wimp. And what did he see in Claire Holland? She’d rather ride a horse than shop for designer clothes. Kendall Forsythe, with an hourglass figure, to-die-for straight hair, and a face right out of Seventeen, lived in Portland, went to a private school with other rich kids, and drove her own Triumph. She’d been a cheerleader and actually modeled.

  Sighing, Paige crossed the room and opened her scrapbook to the section she’d reserved for Kendall. There, in grainy black and white, was her idol, dressed in a lacy half-slip and bra that were half-price because of an anniversary sale. Paige closed her eyes and wished for a minute that she was Kendall Forsythe even though she knew it would never happen. All the diets, braces, and nose jobs in the world would never give her a bit of Kendall’s grace or sophistication.

  She’d caught a glimpse of Kendall naked once, when the older girl had changed into a swimsuit, and Paige had walked into the bathroom just as Kendall had stepped into the one-piece. Her skin was white above and below her tan lines, her navel an “innie,” her waist so small it couldn’t possibly hold all her insides—liver, spleen, kidneys, and all the other things Mr. Minke had tried to teach them about in biology—but what was the most astounding aspect of Kendall’s incredible body was her boobs. Perched high on a rib cage that showed her bones a bit, two white globes with big disklike nipples swung free for a second before they were quickly hidden by red-and-white spandex.

  Paige had blushed and apologized all over herself, but Kendall had only laughed and waved off her embarrassment as if she were used to people seeing her in a state of undress. Even now, Paige’s cheeks turned hot at the thought of Kendall’s beautiful breasts.

  Harley was so stupid.

  Paige’s own boobs were dismal creations. Small, with tiny nipples that were too dark for the rest of her skin. Those breasts, if you could call them that, weren’t her only bad feature. For some reason she’d lost out when it came to the Taggert good looks. She took after heavy Aunt Ida, with her hooked nose and beady eyes. But Paige was smart—probably smarter than Weston because he was such a jerk, and a lot smarter than Harley—which wasn’t such a great feat in itself.

  Weston, the oldest Taggert child, was nearly a god he was so good-looking. Wavy brown hair, eyes as blue as Delft china, a jawline Harrison Ford would envy, and a body sculpted by lifting weights and boxing. Harley, he was an idiot—but handsome in his own way, Paige thought grudgingly. His hair was straight and black, his eyes, fringed by straight dark lashes that Paige would die for, were a hazel hue that was close to green and sparkled easily. His skin was clear, without a single zit, and often dark with a beard shadow.

  By the time Neal and Mikki Taggert had gotten around to having their third child, all the good genes seemed to have been used up on their sons. Mikki had often complained that her last pregnancy had nearly killed her. Maybe the fact that she was just plain worn-out chasing two active boys had robbed her daughter of the looks and energy that were Taggert trademarks.

  Paige didn’t even want to glance in the mirror to see the evidence that her parents shouldn’t have had her. She was dorky and dumpy and nothing worked. Expensive clothes and makeup looked all wrong on her. Whenever she tried anything new with her lank brown hair, it turned into a mortifying disaster. If only she could be like Kendall . . .

  She heard voices and dashed to the window again. Harley and Kendall were climbing up the stairs to the back deck. Both were red-faced, and Harley looked as if he could spit nails. Kendall had been crying. Tears streaked her cheeks and she was clinging to Harley as if she were desperate.

  Shit a brick, was Harley blind as well as dumb as stone? What did he see in Claire Holland that wasn’t ten times better in Kendall?

  “But I love you,” Kendall was saying while vainly trying to hold back tears. Her blond hair was mussed, her skirt grass-stained.

  Paige swallowed hard and felt that particular tingle deep inside her when she realized what had just transpired. Kendall and Harley had done it! Even though he was supposed to be dating Claire.

  “I’ve always loved you.”

  “Stop it,” he growled.

  “But you love me, too.”

  “Shut up!” Harley said and Kendall gasped. “Christ, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” He stopped, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back as if stretching the tension from his spine while searching for the right words in that thick skull of his. “It’s over, Kendall. Just accept it.”

  “I can’t. Not when I know you love me.” She sniffed loudly and lifted her chin the way that Paige had so often emulated in front of her mirror.

  “I don’t love you.”

  “Then you used me, is that it?”

  “You seduced me.”

  “And you couldn’t stop,” she reminded him, a note of triumph in her voice only to disappear when she asked, “What if you just got me pregnant?”

  What? Paige got goose bumps. Pregnant? Kendall? As in fat with big, sloppy boobs? Yuck!

  Harley had the decency to turn white. “You’re not—You couldn’t be—”

  “We won’t know for a few weeks, will we?”

  Harley sagged against the rail, his fingers gripping into the wood, his jaw rigid. The spineless creep. “Then . . . then you’ll have to get rid of it. I’ll help. I’ve got money—”

  “If you’re talking about aborting our baby, ours, Harley, then forget it. I’d never do anything like that.”

  “But I can’t—we can’t—”

  With a sad sigh, she shook her head slowly side to side, as if finally seeing him for the gutless jerk he was. “Things will work out, honey,” she said, as if she had to console him, when she was the one who might be knocked up. Oh, jeez, what a mess. Kendall slipped her arms around Harley’s waist and rested her head against his chest. He didn’t move, just stiffened. “You’ll see.”

  Paige slid away from the window and sat on the floor, her back propped by her bed, her chubby white legs stretched in front of her.

  “Kendall—for the love of God—we can’t let this happen.” Harley’s voice sounded strained, as if he were afraid. What a coward! Kendall was just too good for him. Paige reached up to her nightstand for her pencil and notepad again, but her fingers encountered the tangle of wires that was her headgear, meant to fix teeth that refused to grow straight. She hated the appliance; it made her feel as if she were some alien from outer space, and she refused to wear it at school. Her hand stopped moving when she heard Kendall’s voice.

  “Look, Harley, I can’t see Paige like this . . . tell her I had to leave; I was late for an appointment or something.”

  “You tell her.”

  “I can’t deal with her now. Come on, Harley,” Kendall cajoled, as
disappointment wallowed deep in Paige’s guts. Her fingers encountered her pad and pencil and she drew the writing tools onto her lap. “It’s the least you can do. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s a nice kid. Misguided but nice.”

  Paige brightened a bit. Kendall still liked her.

  “She’s weird.”

  Kendall’s laugh was brittle. “All you Taggerts are weird. That’s why you’re all so adorable.”

  Paige’s stomach turned over.

  “I love you,” Kendall said, and Paige squeezed her pencil so tightly, her knuckles turned white.

  “Just don’t be pregnant.”

  Harley’s words still hung in the summer air as Kendall’s footsteps retreated. Paige’s buckteeth sank into her lip and she started writing, practicing Kendall’s signature in her big, loopy handwriting. In her mind’s eye she saw Kendall as a famous model, strolling gracefully down a fashion runway, her arms swinging, her eyes blue and sexy as cameras flashed to catch her come-hither smile and the play of light on her sequined designer gown.

  I can’t deal with her now. What was that supposed to mean?

  She’s weird. Harley didn’t know up from sideways.

  All you Taggerts are weird. That’s why you’re all so adorable.

  Is that what Kendall thought? What everyone thought? She peeked out the window and saw Harley, hand planted on the deck rail, shoulders hunched as he glared down at the canyon. His face was so white Paige thought he might puke.

  “Scared another one off, eh?” Weston’s voice rose up to Paige’s window like oil when poured into water.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harley turned, his face set in a snarl.

  “Kendall nearly ran me down when she took off.” Weston came into view. Taller than Harley, better-looking by most people’s estimations, he hoisted himself up and onto the rail. One little push and he’d fall thirty feet or so to the river. He didn’t seem to notice, and his smile was as cocky as ever. “You sure have a way with women, little brother.”