by Karen Rose
Steven pulled the chair from Brad’s desk and straddled it, resting his chin on the chair’s back. Brad’s stare had gone from suspicious to hostile. “We need to talk, Brad.”
Brad shrugged sarcastically. “Can I stop you?”
“No.” He met his son’s turbulent gaze and held it until Brad looked away. “What’s going on here, Brad?” he asked quietly.
Another shrug. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Steven swallowed, let his eyes roam the room, taking in the familiar posters from Brad’s favorite horror movies. Steven wasn’t certain why his son wanted to stare up at Anthony Hopkins sporting a wire muzzle when he woke in the middle of the night, but Brad apparently did. Should he comment on the football that lay idle in the corner, suggest they throw a few? He drew a breath and let it out. No, he’d tried all those things already, in one form or another. He had to confront this head-on and pray for wisdom. And courage. The picture of Jenna Marshall’s face filled his mind and this time he held on to it as long as he could. Courage, Steven.
“Dr. Marshall called me today.”
Brad’s head whipped around, a look of unholy rage lighting his eyes. “She had no right!”
“She had every right. She cares about you, Brad.” Suddenly weary beyond measure, Steven closed his eyes. “So do
I.”
“Yeah, right,” came the muttered response.
Steven opened his eyes abruptly to find his son’s arms folded tightly across his broadening chest, his face staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on nothing at all. Steven bit the inside of his jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Brad huffed a mirthless chuckle. “It means ...yeah... right.”
“What’s happened to you, son? One month ago you were bright, happy, clean. Now you’re failing chemistry, for God’s sake! How many other classes are you failing where the teachers haven’t called me? Where they don’t care enough to stay an hour late on a Friday afternoon to tell me how low my son has dropped?”
Brad said nothing and Steven felt his frustration building. “Just tell me the truth, Brad. Are you doing drugs?”
Brad stiffened, then deliberately turned only his head to stare coldly. “No.”
“And I can believe you?”
One corner of Brad’s mouth turned up in a surly parody of a smile. “Obviously not.”
Steven jumped to his feet, staring at Brad, incredulity robbing him of any intelligent response. He turned his back and stared at the wall, unable to stand the virulent anger, the dark hatred in his son’s eyes. It was as if Brad blamed him. “Why, Brad?” he whispered.
“Why, which?” Brad answered with a sarcastic question of his own.
“Why are you doing this to me, to your brothers? To yourself?” Steven folded his arms across his chest, putting pressure against his heart that felt physically sore. His throat ached, but he managed to contain the emotion, swallowing back the lump he feared would choke him. His son. The fear clawed at his gut. Betrayal ripped so deep it left him numb. “Why?” He could barely hear his own whisper.
Brad simply looked at him, his eyes gone cold. “Because.” Because? Because? What the hell kind of answer was that? Steven waited, his heart pounding in his throat. And then he stepped backward toward the door, because it seemed that was the only answer he was going to get. When his back hit the door he cleared his throat.
“I have to go out again. I have a missing girl in Pineville.” Was that a flicker in his son’s eyes? Some evidence of compassion? “I don’t know when I’ll be home. Aunt Helen has a canasta game tomorrow night. I need you to be here with your brothers in case I’m not here. Brad?”
Brad jerked a nod, then leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes. Steven stood for a moment, watching his oldest son effectively ignore him. Dismissed, he opened Brad’s bedroom door, waited until he closed the door on the other side, then let his body sag against the wall.
“What should I do?” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes clenched shut. “Please, God, tell me.”
But the voice quietly murmuring in his mind was Jenna Marshall’s. Have courage, Steven. If only it were that simple.
Friday, September 30, 7:30 P.M.
Jenna unsnapped the leash from Jim’s collar and straightened her back with a sigh. Her ankle throbbed, but at least both dogs were walked for the evening. There was no way she’d have asked Steven Thatcher to do it for her, although he probably would have welcomed the chance to put off going home another fifteen or twenty minutes. She wondered if he’d talked to Brad.
Wondered if there was anything more she could do.
She put the thought out of her mind. Casey was right. There was truly nothing more she could do other than let the parents know. She needed to tell them, then walk away, even if they had broad shoulders, beautiful eyes, muscular biceps, and smelled really good.
Jenna chuckled at herself. “Hormones,” she murmured. It was a good thing she didn’t need to see Steven Thatcher again, she thought. She needed a bit of time to bring all those newly awakened hormones under tight control. “Wouldn’t want to do anything stupid,” she said to Jean-Luc who sat looking up hopefully.
But Jenna Marshall rarely did anything stupid. “I rarely do anything at all,” she said to Jean-Luc, who licked her hand. And tonight would be no exception. Tonight she’d snuggle into the corner of her sofa, alone. And watch old movies, alone. And, if she was lucky, she’d have some leftovers in the fridge she could warm up and eat. Alone.
It was rare for her to indulge in self-pity. So stop it, she told herself. But once rolling, the pity train was hard to brake. Her thoughts ran to Adam, about the days she hadn’t been alone. “Great,” she muttered aloud. “Now I feel even worse.” She eyed Jim and Jean-Luc balefully. “At least you two can’t tell me I’ve grieved long enough and to get on with my life.”
A knock at the door sent both dogs into a snarling crouch. “Settle,” Jenna commanded and limped over to the door to peek through the peephole. And sighed. Adam’s father stood there, tapping one foot. She opened the door. “Hi, Dad.” Having lost her own parents years before, she’d been instantly adopted by Adam’s family. She nodded to the pair of eyes peeking from the darkened apartment across the hall. “Hello, Mrs. Kasselbaum.”
Mrs. Kasselbaum appeared, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her housedress perfectly starched—as usual. She patted her hair, then lightly stroked the ever-present pearls around her neck. Jenna often thought this was how Beaver Cleaver’s mother would look, forty years later. “Hello, Jenna. Your young man didn’t stay very long.”
Adam’s father raised his bushy brows. “What young man? Where’s your car? It’s not outside.”
“I don’t have a young man. Come in, Dad.”
Seth Llewellyn turned to Mrs. Kasselbaum with a frown. “What young man? Where’s her car?”
Mrs. Kasselbaum leaned forward conspiratorially. “She came home with a man. Tall, clean-cut, very handsome. Blond hair, size forty-eight long, brown eyes. I know nothing about her car.”
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Come in, Dad. Good night, Mrs.
Kasselbaum.”
Seth didn’t even glance Jenna’s way. “How tall? How handsome?”
Mrs. Kasselbaum looked up, batting her eyelashes. Mrs. Kasselbaum had a thing for Adam’s father, a widower for as long as Jenna had known him. “About as tall as you,” Mrs. Kasselbaum said coyly and Jenna rolled her eyes. Steven Thatcher, although not her young man, was at least three inches taller than Seth. Maybe four. Mrs. Kasselbaum batted her eyes again, with enough power to take off in flight. “But not as handsome as you.”
Seth laughed. “Go on with you, now.” He leaned a little closer toward Mrs. Kasselbaum, only encouraging her further. “And how long did he stay?”
Jenna hit her head against the door frame. Several times. The two matchmakers ignored her.
“Sixteen minutes,” Mrs. Kasselbaum answered, nodding emphatically.
<
br /> Seth pursed his lips. “Only sixteen minutes?”
Mrs. Kasselbaum shrugged her thin shoulders and sighed dramatically. “I can only tell what I see.” She raised a superior gray brow at Jenna. “She’ll have to do the rest by herself.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jenna said. “Dad, I hurt my ankle and shouldn’t be on my feet.”
Seth was instantly contrite. “Why didn’t you say so, young lady?” He waved a fast good-bye at the disappointed Mrs. Kasselbaum and hurried inside where he put his hands on his hips. “What happened to your ankle? Who was the young man? And where is your car?”
Jenna rolled her eyes again. She loved Adam’s family dearly, but sometimes they could be a bit smothering. She limped to the sofa and sat down. “He’s not a young man. He’s the father of a high school senior so he’s got to be—oh, I don’t know—forty at least.”
Seth winced. “Forty is ancient.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Does this forty-year-old father of a high school senior have a name?”
“His name is Steven Thatcher. I called him for a conference and when we met he accidentally knocked me down and I twisted my ankle. He felt badly and brought me home.”
Seth looked alarmed. “Your car’s still in the school parking lot? We shouldn’t leave it there over the weekend—I’ll drive over and get it.” He turned for the door and Jenna cleared her throat.
“Dad, wait.” He stopped and turned, his expression expectant. Jenna had hoped not to have to tell them that her car— Adam’s car—had been towed. Adam had restored the old 1960 Jag XK 150 as an undergraduate. It had been his pride and joy, even when he’d become way too sick to drive it. Adam had left her the car in his will and although none of Adam’s family had disputed it, the well-being of the car was well monitored by the entire Llewellyn clan.
“The car’s fine, Dad.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “But the tires were slashed today.”
His whole body tensed. “How?”
Jenna shrugged. “I flunked one of the kids on the football team. It was childish retaliation.” She would keep the threatening note to herself. “Don’t worry, I asked the guys that towed the car to replace the tires with the same kind Adam used.” It would cost her a fortune, but ...Well, it was Adam’s car. And hopefully the insurance would cover most of the cost.
Seth sat next to her on the couch. “I’m not worried about the car.”
Jenna raised a brow. “You are so full of it.”
“Okay,” he amended. “I was a little worried about the car.” Jenna nodded. “Just so we’re square.”
Seth smiled and shook his head. “Such a mouth on you, girl.” His smile faltered. “Such grandchildren the two of you would have made.”
Jenna’s stomach turned upside down. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and reminded herself she was over this. “I’m missing him tonight, Dad,” she whispered.
Seth swallowed. “Me, too, Jenna. That’s why I came to see you. I always feel a little closer to Adam when I’m with you.”
She patted his arm and for the second time that day tried to remember Adam as he’d been when he was healthy. For the second time that day she failed. She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly feeling guilty for having sexual thoughts about Steven Thatcher when she couldn’t even remember Adam’s face clearly. The guilt was irrational. She knew it in her head. But that made no difference to her heart. There was, of course, one primary solution for guilt. “I was going to have ice cream for dinner. Want some?”
“You really need to have better nutrition, Jenna.” Seth stood up. “Butter pecan is my favorite.”
“It’s Rocky Road.”
Seth pushed her hair behind her ear and smiled. Looking into his kind face, so like Adam’s, Jenna finally conjured a mental snapshot of a healthy Adam. Somehow that made her feel better, being able to remember the face of the only man she’d ever loved. Seth cleared his throat. “Like I said, Rocky Road is my favorite.”
Jenna swallowed hard and leaned her forehead against Seth’s shoulder. “I love you, Dad.”
Seth’s arms came around her, hard and strong. “Love you, too, Jenna.” He let go and tilted up her chin. “So tell me about the not-so-young man who’s almost as handsome as me. And please don’t make me go to Mrs. Kasselbaum for all the details.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but that woman is a terrible gossip.”
Jenna hiccuped a laugh. “Last one to the kitchen has to eat the top layer with all the ice.”
SEVEN
Friday, September 30, 8:30 P.M.
“STEVEN, YOU NEED TO EAT,” HELEN SAID FROM the kitchen doorway.
Steven set his briefcase by the front door and followed his aunt to the kitchen where a single hot plate of food waited. Helen poured herself a cup of coffee and sat in the chair across from him.
“Eat.”
A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth at the barked command. “Yes’m.” Dutifully he ate while she watched, her eagle eye trained on every bite he put in his mouth.
“You were late tonight,” she observed, her voice gone softer.
He nodded, swallowing. “I had an appointment with one of Brad’s teachers.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah.” His fork drew an aimless design in his gravy-laden mashed potatoes. He looked up to find Helen patiently waiting. “He’s failing chemistry, Helen. His teacher wanted me to know.”
Helen closed her eyes and sighed. “What’s happening to our boy, Steven?”
He kneaded his browbone. “I don’t know. Jenna recommended I see his guidance counselor.”
“And will you?”
“I’ll call him first thing Monday morning.” He shrugged, feeling utterly helpless and hating the feeling. “I tried to talk to Brad, but he shut me out.”
“I know.” Helen reached across the table to squeeze his hand and they held on quietly until she asked, “So who is Jenna?”
Steven’s fingers tightened on his fork. His face was turning red, he could feel it. He damned the involuntary response that was the curse of redheads and he damned the light that came on in his aunt’s matchmaking eyes. He pulled his left hand from Helen’s. “Brad’s teacher,” he muttered, dropping his eyes to his potatoes.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see anything, Helen,” he ground out. “She is a nice woman who cares about my son. She stayed late on a Friday afternoon to tell me he was failing her class. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
He glanced up to find her expression serene. Chills went down his spine. Extreme measures were called for. “She’s married, okay? She’s sixty and married with four children.” He’d confess the lie whenever he made it back to church.
Helen sighed in resignation. “Do you really have to go back out tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.
Steven thought of the Egglestons. “Yes,” he answered. “I do. I should be home before midnight, though. I read Nicky a story and put him to bed already.” Which meant tucking his baby into a sleeping bag on the floor. Since being abducted from his bed in the middle of the night six months before, Nicky had refused to sleep in his own bed. The counselors said Nicky would return to his bed in his own time. He wondered what the counselors would say about Brad.
“Then eat your dinner, Steven.”
He ate the rest of his dinner in silence, trying to ignore his aunt’s watchful stare. Truth be told, he loved her more than any other woman in the world. He could tell her fifty times a day he never planned to marry again and it was like talking to the wind. But Helen loved him and loved all his boys dearly. At the end of every argument it always came back to that.
He cleaned his plate. “Thanks, Helen. That beats dinner out of a sack any day of the week.”
“Do you want any more? I made plenty.”
Steven stood up and pecked her weathered cheek. “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to get fat.”
Helen had the good grace to loo
k embarrassed before she laughed aloud. “I’m going to have to teach that son of yours when to keep his big mouth shut.”
He arched a brow. “You can try.” He got to the front door and stopped short. “Shit.”
“Steven!” Then she saw it too. “Oh, no. Cindy Lou!” She ran to the door and pulled the hundred-pound sheepdog away from Steven’s briefcase. “She didn’t mean to, Steven.”
With a grimace, Steven fetched a towel from the kitchen and cleaned the dog drool from the handle. “Look at these teeth marks! That dog’s a menace.”
“She’s a sweet dog.” Helen’s lips twitched. “She just has overactive drool glands.”
“So get her a glandectomy.” He wiped the bag, then cleaned his hands. “I need to go now.”
She followed him to the driveway, the drooling ball of hair from hell in tow. “Drive carefully.”
“I always do.” He opened the rear passenger door and stopped short again. “Shit,” he repeated, this time in a whisper.
“I heard that,” Helen said from behind him, then peered around him to peek inside the car. “Whose briefcase is that?”
He could feel his cheeks heating again. “It belongs to Brad’s teacher.”
Helen was quiet for a half beat. “Jenna?”
Steven rolled his eyes, damning his own slip of the tongue. “Yes, Jenna.” He should return it, he thought. He should return it to that comfortable little apartment of hers where she was probably sitting on that soft brown sofa with her two dogs at her feet. She’d be grateful, he thought. She’d smile up at him with those violet eyes. And those full lips. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it was too late. His body had already responded to the image his mind had conjured. He pulled her briefcase from the backseat with a harder jerk than necessary.
He put the bag in Helen’s arms and she stumbled a little from the unexpected weight. “Put it in my study. I’ll return it to her on Sunday.”
“But—”
“I need to get to the office.” He put his briefcase in the backseat and slammed the car door.
