Keeping Kennedy

by Debra Webb

  He emerged from the car, closed his door and rounded the hood to join Kennedy on the other side. “Nice place.”

  “Thank you.” She took his arm and started toward the front door. “Remember everything I told you. My parents are not at all like the people you generally associate with. Please don’t say or do anything that will ruffle their feathers. This has to go smoothly.” She sighed wearily. “I just want this whole thing over.”

  He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “Look, I won’t let you down. I’m damned good at fitting in with my environment.”

  She smiled and his heart thumped hard. “Thanks, Drake. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  He blinked, then swallowed back the urge to draw her into his arms. Buddies, he reminded himself. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Walking side by side, and arm in arm, Kennedy led Drake up the steps and across the porch to the front door of the home in which she’d grown up. As she pushed the button to ring the bell, he told himself again that a break would do him some good. He’d been promising himself some downtime for months now. Life in the slow lane would be a nice change of pace. There was something to be said for boring—he just couldn’t think what it was at the moment. As far as her parents went, what kid hadn’t dreamed of having a mother like June Cleaver for at least a day? And her father couldn’t be all bad if he liked football. Kennedy had said he like college ball.

  Really, how boring could they be?

  The door swung inward and Drake’s gaze riveted to the face of the woman who greeted them, an older version of Kennedy, but every bit as stunning.

  “Kennedy!” The woman threw her arms around her daughter and hugged her tight. When she drew back, Drake had to take a second look to make sure he’d seen right.

  A tie-dyed tank top clung to her slim body. Faded jeans hugged her hips and flared into huge bellbottoms at her ankles. Her hair was braided and she wore some sort of headband. A silver peace symbol hung around her neck.

  If this was June Cleaver of Friendly Corners, maybe this trip wasn’t going to be so boring after all.

  ~*~

  Kennedy closed her gaping mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut, counted to three and reopened them. The stranger who looked disconcertingly like her mother was still there.

  “Mother?”

  “Honey, I’m so glad you’re home.” Brenda Malone turned to Drake, who stood mutely at Kennedy’s side. “And this must be your guy,” she enthused.

  Her guy? Kennedy’s mouth dropped open again.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malone,” Drake said politely as he extended his hand. Kennedy’s mother ignored the outstretched hand and pulled him into a big hug.

  Her mother didn’t hug strangers. What was going on?

  “Call me Bren,” she told Drake. “Everybody does.”

  Who called her Bren? Kennedy had never heard her mother called Bren in her entire life.

  “Come on in, you two.” Brenda tugged Drake inside. Bewildered, Kennedy followed.

  “Where’s Dad?” she asked cautiously. What on earth had happened to her mother? A breakdown of some sort? A midlife crisis? Kennedy wrinkled her nose. And what was that smell? “What’s that smell?” she blurted, echoing the thought.

  “Incense, babe,” Brenda all but moaned. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Isn’t it groovy?”

  Incense? Groovy?

  “Oh, no,” Kennedy muttered. Her mother was possessed, obsessed—or on drugs. When had this happened? How was her father handling this? Why hadn’t he told Kennedy? She could have come home sooner.

  “I can’t believe you’re finally here.”

  Brenda Malone ushered Kennedy and Drake farther into the entry hall, then closed the door soundly behind them. Distracted by her thoughts, Kennedy jumped when Drake’s hand pressed against the small of her back. His long fingers moved slightly in a comforting gesture. Playing his part already, she decided.

  “Hey, kiddos, what’s happening?” Kennedy’s father strolled up and sidestepped the mother she didn’t recognize. He pulled Kennedy into a big bear hug, then kissed her soundly on the forehead. “How’s daddy’s little girl?”

  “Fine, Dad,” she croaked, dismayed by his outward display of affection. “Just fine.” Her eyes suddenly widened in shock when she took a good look at the man who’d raised her. “What happened to your hair?”

  “You like?” He turned around slowly, then smoothed a hand over the grey mane he’d secured with a leather strap at the nape of his neck. “It took me nine months to grow it this long.” He waggled his eyebrows at Kennedy. “Cool, huh?”

  Her head spinning, her stomach churning, Kennedy turned helplessly to Drake who looked every bit as bewildered as she. This couldn’t be real. Stress. That had to be the answer. Too many hours at the office. She had to be hallucinating. Maybe she had a brain tumor! She spent entirely too much time on that damned cell phone. She blinked.

  What had happened to her parents? She turned back to the strangers in front of her. Who were these imposters?

  “This must be the man,” Kennedy’s father elated, slapping Drake heartily on the back.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Malone.” Drake smiled and offered his hand.

  “Call me Chuck, D.D.,” Kennedy’s father insisted, pumping Drake’s hand vigorously and giving him another enthusiastic whop between his shoulder blades.

  D.D.? Douglas Drake? Kennedy shook her head. Her father never pulled nicknames out of thin air. This man couldn’t be her father. She knew her father. He wore Brooks Brothers suits—not tattered jeans and muscle shirts. And her father certainly didn’t have a tattoo…

  Tattoo?

  Kennedy’s gaze riveted to the emblem on her father’s left bicep. Harley-Davidson. When had he gotten that? God, she didn’t even know he knew what a Harley was.

  Kennedy felt weak-kneed. She stumbled back a step. This just couldn’t be real. Xanax. She needed a Xanax …or a Valium…

  “Somebody just me what’s going on,” she demanded. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Why not? Everything else was damned strange.

  “Sweetpea, what’s wrong?” Her mother checked Kennedy’s cheek, then her forehead. “You feel a little warm. Are you all right, dear?”

  “I have to sit down,” Kennedy muttered, barely stumbling to the chair next to the hall table. Kennedy recognized the soft hands caressing her hair and the tender voice soothing her now; she just didn’t recognize the woman.

  Her father shot Drake a look, then settled his assessing gaze on Kennedy. “Sweetpea, is there something we should know? Something you’re afraid to tell us?”

  Feeling the blood drain from her face, Kennedy met her father’s worried gaze. He couldn’t be insinuating—

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed, Kennedy.” Her Father smiled widely and swung one arm around Drake’s shoulders. “Love is a wonderful thing, and if a new life springs forth a little earlier than planned, then that’s okay.” He nodded reassuringly, looking first at Kennedy, then at Drake.

  “Dad, I’m—”

  “Don’t worry about it, honey,” he interrupted. “Your mother was expecting you before we were married. It was a little daunting at first, but we managed. We were both heavily invested in our careers. Kids weren’t on the agenda.”

  “That’s right, sweetpea,” her mother cooed. “Everything will be fine. Your father and I handled the change. We got married, bought this house and I became a stay-at-home mom. You’ll get used to it. If you and Douglas are in love, then that’s all that matters.”

  “Amen,” Chuck Malone agreed.

  Her mother pregnant before—? Oh, God. Had she, Kennedy Malone, been an unplanned pregnancy? Her whole life flashed before her eyes. How could she have lived with these people all those years and not have known that significant fact?

  “No one else has to know,” her mother assured.

  Kennedy shot to her feet, annoyance absorbing all other emotion. “Will som
eone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” she demanded. She looked from her mother to her father. Both wore the same confused expression.

  “Kennedy, your hormones will level out in the last trimester. Mood swings are typical early on,” her mother offered, an indulgent smile on her face.

  “I am not pregnant,” Kennedy snapped. She didn’t miss Drake’s look of quiet amusement. The man was no doubt enjoying the show.

  Her father nodded solemnly. “I can dig that, babe. We just want you to know that we’re cool with the situation.”

  Kennedy flung her arms up in exasperation. “Why are you talking like that? Why are you dressed like that? What’s going on?” She’d lost it—this went way beyond Xanax or even Valium. She needed a straightjacket. A shrink. A frigging mental hospital!

  Realization dawned in her father’s brown eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”

  Kennedy frowned. “Don’t know what?”

  “Sweetpea, didn’t you get Cassandra’s letter with your reunion invitation? Why, she told me just yesterday that she couldn’t wait to see you.”

  “What letter?” She met her mother’s concerned gaze.

  “The one explaining reunion week.”

  Kennedy shook her head. “I received an invitation to the reunion and a sketchy agenda for other activities, like the parade and homecoming masquerade ball that’s planned later in the week.”

  “Oh my,” Brenda said, just the way Kennedy had heard her say it thousands of times during her life. Maybe her real mother was in there somewhere behind all that tie-dye and faded denim.

  “You see, sweetpea, Friendly Corners is having its 200th birthday this week,” her father explained. “The Alumni Committee got together and decided that each generation of graduates would have a big, weeklong bash in celebration of the town’s birth, homecoming and reunion. And we’re supposed to dress and act the part. Your mother and I have been practicing for weeks.” He struck a pose. “1969. Am I far-out or what?”

  Kennedy sagged with relief. “I see.” Cassandra, the witch, had conveniently forgotten to inform Kennedy of that small detail. It would be just like her high school nemesis to try and ruin Kennedy’s week.

  “No problem,” Brenda piped up. “There’s still some of your old clothes in your closet, dear.” She smiled affectionately. “I could never bring myself to throw them out or give them away. I’m sure there will be something you can wear.”

  Kennedy held her palms out to call a stop. “That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. Cassandra had merely given Kennedy the means by which to excuse her millennium era attire. “I don’t do retro.”

  Drake rubbed his chin, then grinned mischievously. “Don’t be so hasty, sweetpea. Retro could be fun.”

  “That’s the spirit,” her father chimed in. “Heck, man, we’re even having a mini Woodstock.”

  Kennedy bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. “Speaking of clothes, maybe you should bring our luggage inside,” she suggested to Drake, effectively changing the subject.

  “You chicks just chill, the guys have the situation under control.” Her father turned to Drake. “Come on, dude, let’s get your threads.”

  Kennedy closed her eyes and pleaded with whatever gods would listen to deliver her from this insanity.

  “You look tired. How about a nice nap?”

  Kennedy moistened her lips and essayed a smile. “Sure, Mom.”

  Her mother’s arm still draped around her waist, the two slowly made their way up the stairs. No matter how weirdly her parents were behaving, it felt good to be home. Kennedy sighed as she strode down the familiar hall. She’d stayed away entirely too long. She had to make sure that didn’t happen again. Her parents and her uncle were all she had. She gazed lovingly at the very grown-up flower child next to her. Strange as she looked at the moment, Brenda Malone was the best mother anyone could ever ask for.

  Charles—Chuck—Malone’s booming baritone flowed up the stairs a beat before Kennedy heard the two men’s heavy footfalls. Drake’s huskier, smoky tone sounded rich and exotic next to her father’s. She shivered, then reminded herself of the way things were. Friends. She and Drake were only friends. This wasn’t real. It was all make-believe. A spin.

  Kennedy’s father paused before taking her luggage into her old room. “Your mother and I want you to know that we remember what a bummer it was to be in love and stuck in the house with your parents. Don’t sweat it,” he declared. “We’re hip to your needs. So, we’re putting you both in Kennedy’s old room.”

  “What?” Kennedy gawked at her father.

  “We understand, sweetpea,” her mother put in quickly. “You’re engaged. Of course we know you’re sleeping together. You’re adults. We respect that. When I was your age, your father and I had already been living together for years.”

  Kennedy opened her mouth to protest but her father halted her with a knowing look. “We’re cool with this, sweetpea.” He gave his only daughter a wink. “Relax and enjoy.”

  His gaze carefully averted from her, Drake followed Kennedy’s father into her childhood room. The big canopy bed stood in the center of the room, still adorned with virginal white lace and pink ribbons. What a travesty.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  She couldn’t do this.

  No way could she sleep in the same bed with Drake for one night, much less the next six.

  Her gaze suddenly collided with the object of her discomfort. Instantly and to Kennedy’s supreme annoyance, heat suffused her.

  No way.

  Chapter Three

  Kennedy glanced first at the shimmering lights surrounding the Friendly Corners Country Club, then back at her faux fiancé. She took a long, deep breath. This reception was the first of several social hurdles on the week’s agenda. All she had to do was change the subject when anyone pried too deeply into her love life, and never let Drake out of her sight.

  Sidney T. Booker was a master of public relations and Kennedy had learned well under his tutelage. Never deny anything, keep changing the lead, and always—always—have a diversion.

  “Okay,” Kennedy began, “remember—stick with me and play along with whatever I say.” She pulled a serious face. “I mean it, no improvising. This is my show.” She gave his tall frame a quick appraisal. When she’d told him tonight was casual, he’d definitely kept that in mind when making his wardrobe choices. Criminally faded jeans and a ribbed cotton shirt the color of a sandy beach. Kennedy frowned. The V neck plunged a little lower than was necessary, the jeans molded to him a little more tightly than she would have preferred, but all in all she supposed he would do. She, on the other hand, had opted for a simple black dress with a lady-like neckline and a hem that hit just above her knees.

  “Anything else?”

  “Take those sunglasses off,” Kennedy shot back, annoyed. It was already dark—why did he need sunglasses? This day had been the pits so far and she didn’t want it to get any worse. “And try to…to look intellectual.”

  Drake’s brows shot up as he peered at her over the rims of his confounding eyewear. “Intellectual?”

  Kennedy huffed. “You know, more brain than brawn.”

  Drake pulled off the sunglasses and tossed them into the car through the open window. “Gotcha,” he said with an unmistakably smug expression. “In other words, be my usual charming and irresistible self.”

  Kennedy opened her mouth to take him down a notch or two, but a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Oh, wait!” She jerked the car door open and reached into the glove box. She shoved aside her cell, resisting the urge to turn it back on, and retrieved her borrowed ring. She’d forgotten to put it on before arriving at her parents’ house, but they’d been so excited to see her that they hadn’t noticed she wasn’t wearing one.

  Details. Kennedy never forgot details. This was not a good sign.

  She pulled the one-carat solitaire from its black velvet case and closed the glove box. As she shoved the car door shut wi
th one hip and she admired the diamond beneath the full moon’s glow.

  “Nice rock.”

  Kennedy smiled up at him, oddly pleased by the unexpected compliment. “Thanks.” It was a nice ring. She really loved it. Too bad she’d be giving it back next week. With a shrug, she started to slide the ring onto her left ring finger.

  “Allow me.” Taking her left hand in his, Drake accepted the ring between his right thumb and forefinger.

  Mesmerized by the intent expression on his incredibly handsome face, she held her breath as he slipped the ring into place. She shivered when he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the spot right next to the ring.

  “A beautiful ring for a beautiful lady,” he said softly, that whiskey-smooth voice sending another shiver skittering down her spine. Still holding her hand, he lifted his right and brushed a stray wisp of hair away from her cheek with warm knuckles and smiled. “I like your hair up like this. It’s very sexy.”

  Startled, Kennedy jerked back an awkward step and pulled her hand free of his. “It’s…it’s serviceable,” she explained. She’d only twisted it up out of the way because she hadn’t had time to do anything else. She’d never knowingly looked sexy in her life. Maybe Drake was only getting into character. He was supposed to say things like that, wasn’t he? “Save the compliments for an audience.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Not bothering to respond, Kennedy strode toward the entrance to the country club. He followed silently. What had she ever done to deserve such a fate? Her parents had turned into strangers and her life was a sham—well, her social life anyway.

  What if she couldn’t pull this off?

  Kennedy slowed. For three years she had been Sid’s damage control expert. Otherwise known as a spin doctor—she cringed at the title. Kennedy Malone never failed on an assignment. She worked nearly twenty-four hours a day until the job was done. She scarcely slept or ate until she’d accomplished her goal. Graduating summa cum laude a full year ahead of her peers, with a B.A. in political science and a degree from one of the nation’s top law school, had gotten her a job at the prestigious Booker Firm. Hard work and a vivid imagination had facilitated her climb to the top.