One in a Million

by Susan Mallery

  To Kenzie’s surprise, Mrs. Sanchez wasn’t quick to fill in the blanks of JT’s history as she had been with the other occupants.

  “Before he moved here,” was all she said. “He had a different life and must have been a very different man. Maybe you can get to know him better at the Labor Day rooftop picnic. Everyone in the building comes! Well, not Meegan, if she’s traveling. You’ll still be here Labor Day, won’t you? That’s right around the corner.”

  Kenzie nodded. “We don’t move until mid-October. We just needed somewhere to stay in the interim.”

  “You picked the right place! Peachy Acres is a nice group of people, but a little nosy,” Mrs. Sanchez said with a grin. “Once residents know I’ve met you, they’ll want to hear all about the new lady in 3D.”

  “Not much to hear,” Kenzie said. “Mother of two with a desk job at a bank. Very staid.”

  Mrs. Sanchez raised an eyebrow. “I suspect there is more to your story than that.”

  Not if I’m lucky. After her unorthodox childhood and tumultuous marriage, Kenzie aspired to an uneventful life with as few surprises as possible. Although, she conceded as she walked Mrs. Sanchez to the door and thanked her again for the unexpected visit and wonderful food, not all surprises were bad. As she had the thought, she couldn’t help glancing past Mrs. Sanchez at the closed door of apartment 3C. Mrs. Sanchez’s earlier words ran through her head. He had a different life and must have been a very different man.

  What kind of surprises had life dealt Jonathan Trelauney?

  In art school, entire semesters could be spent in the study of perspective. There was no question JT needed to change his perspective. With a growl of frustration, he stood up from his desk. Maybe a change of scenery would help this afternoon. Sure as hell couldn’t hurt.

  In times past, he’d enjoyed the familiar scents of his workroom—the faint bite of oil, the sweet beeswax he sometimes worked with—but now he seemed to be suffocating on the stench of failure. Fresh air and a fresh outlook were definitely in order. The roof. He grabbed a sketch pad and a couple of charcoal pencils. Without allowing his gaze to linger on the door of Kenzie’s apartment, he crossed the hall to the roof-access door, then took the stairs two at a time until he emerged into the brightness.

  There was a lot to be said for natural light, but the sun overhead was nearly punishing in force. He was grateful for the rooftop breeze, even if it ruffled his pages and his hair. Impatiently pushing aside the dark strands that blew into his eyes, he tried to remember the last time he’d had a haircut. Sean had remarked that JT looked less civilized with each passing week.

  JT had always been absentminded when it came to trivialities like regular haircuts—he’d been preoccupied creating his art. Now he was preoccupied with not creating it.

  He settled himself in one of the chairs and scowled at the pencil in his hand, willing it to do something. Anything. After Sean’s visit yesterday, JT had tried to work on the commissioned painting. How could he be stuck on something that was already finished? In theory, all he had to do was duplicate it—any halfway decent forger or first-year art student could do that.

  The work needed something new, though, some flourish or detail or spin, otherwise the buyers weren’t getting their money’s worth, merely an adult version of paint-by-numbers. He’d tried throwing some paint on a canvas, playing, to see where it led…which was nowhere. Rather than continue to waste supplies, he thought he could sketch some ideas first. Finally his hand began moving, the pencil making a familiar soft scratching against the paper.

  When it stopped, he stared at the thickly lettered sentence he’d written: I am going to kill Sean. Friend or not, the man had no business accepting a job on JT’s behalf.

  The sound of the metal door scraping across the concrete drew his attention. Kenzie’s daughter stepped outside, blinking. When she saw him, she froze.

  “You’re that guy!”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “And you’re that kid who lives across from me.”

  “Leslie.” She held a book in front of her, almost as though it were a tiny shield. “Mom said I could come up here to read.”

  There was little danger of anyone falling off the roof, with or without adult supervision, since the patio was surrounded by a tall mesh fence that slanted inward at the top. It was safe enough as long as the kid was wearing sunscreen, and all tenants had an equal right to be here. He gave her a gruff nod and hoped that she’d immerse herself in the book and leave him alone.

  It took about two seconds for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen.

  “What are you doing up here?” she asked curiously.

  “Working.”

  She didn’t take the hint. “What kind of job do you have?”

  “I paint.”

  “But you aren’t painting now.” She’d dropped her book on a chair and studied him, her expression imperious despite her diminutive status. Something in that moment reminded him of Holly, making him want to smile. “You don’t even have paints with you.”

  JT ground his teeth. “I sketch ideas first, then paint later.”

  “Oh. Can I see what you’re working on?” She was walking toward him as she voiced the rhetorical question.

  “No, I—” He flipped the pad closed, but apparently not before she glimpsed some of the words.

  “Kill Sean?” Her blue eyes were wide.

  No doubt she’d tell Kenzie they were living across the hall from a homicidal maniac. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story.” And none of her business, although that wasn’t proving much of a deterrent.

  She stiffened. “You think I wouldn’t understand because I’m some dumb kid?”

  “I—”

  “Mrs. Griffin, our librarian, said she thought I was one of the smartest students in the whole elementary school!” Leslie’s bottom lip trembled. Her indignation was morphing into something far more uncomfortable. “Now I won’t get to see her or the teachers or the other kids in my class because we had to move. I wanted to stay in Raindrop!”

  It wasn’t his place to warn her that life often took unexpected directions. And it wasn’t as if he could counsel her on weathering the bumps, since he hadn’t recovered from his own. At a loss, he pointed toward her book, his tone abrupt in his own ears. “I thought you came up here to read. I’m trying to work here.”

  She burst into tears.

  Oh, hell. He’d wanted to dissuade further conversation, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. “Wait, I… No, don’t do that. Please stop.”

  He stood, even though he had no idea what he planned to do. Go toward her? He couldn’t reassure a little girl. What would he say—that everything would be all right? Yeah, that would be really convincing, coming from him. He could tell her that recent sleep deprivation made him a jackass, but that seemed inappropriate. Certainly his entreaty for her to stop hadn’t accomplished anything.

  Panic rose within him. What if she got more hysterical? Should he go get Kenzie? He winced, imagining what she’d do to him for reducing her kid to sobs.

  “You’re still crying,” he said helplessly.

  Oddly enough, that penetrated the girl’s sniffles and fluttery gestures. She sent him a damp glare. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

  Her reaction surprised a chuckle out of him. “Aren’t you too young for sarcasm?”

  “No.”

  Well, all right then. What did he know about kids? He recalled his wife’s excitement as she talked about their becoming parents. Would he have been a good father?

  Leslie rubbed one eye, scowling at him with the other. “I wasn’t crying because of you, just so you know.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “It’s just…I’m a pest. I should learn, being one of the smartest kids in Raindrop. I bothered my
dad once when he was working on a song. He yelled at me.”

  What a jerk. Not that JT had done well himself, but shouldn’t her actual father do a better job of relating?

  “Sometimes I wonder if Drew and I weren’t such pains, whether Dad would’ve stuck around. Then maybe we could have stayed in Raindrop. As a family.”

  Despite knowing that no one else was on the roof, JT reflexively looked around for help. The situation called for someone like Mrs. Sanchez or Sean, who always knew what to say to people. JT wished he were anywhere but here. This kid’s home life was none of his business, and anything he said could potentially make her feel worse.

  “I, ah…there are a lot of good things about Atlanta,” he said awkwardly.

  “Like what?”

  “We have libraries here, just like they did in Raincloud.”

  “Raindrop.” She sighed miserably. “But the libraries here won’t have Mrs. Griffin, will they?”

  “Eventually you’ll miss it less,” he mumbled.

  “That doesn’t help now.”

  Her matter-of-fact statement was so true, he sent her an admiring glance. “You really are a smart kid.”

  “I know.” Juxtaposed against the seeming arrogance in her words was the painful fragility in her expression. Her features were so much like her mother’s that it was easy to picture the same vulnerability in Kenzie’s eyes, although the mental image added to his discomfort. Did Kenzie know she was better off without her jerky ex, or did she—like her daughter—second-guess what went wrong and wonder if they’d made a mistake in coming to Atlanta?

  “There’s a great aquarium here,” he said. “And some really good restaurants. Zoo Atlanta. Museums. I did a mural for a children’s fine arts museum.”

  She looked skeptical a moment before allowing, “I guess you really are a painter.”

  “I really am.” Or had been, once. “I even have VIP passes to the museum. I can bring guests in free of admission and stay for a little while after closing hours.” Part of him recoiled in anticipation of the coming invitation. What was he doing, getting more involved with the Greens? Hadn’t these few minutes on the roof been painful enough?

  But he hated the expression in Leslie’s eyes and his part in putting it there.

  He never used his passes, and this kid was going through a rough time. Was he really such a heartless recluse that he couldn’t spare a couple of hours to give her family a guided tour through a museum? Maybe he’d rediscover some inspiration while he was there.

  “If your family’s not already busy next weekend and your mom approves the idea, perhaps I could take the three of you to the museum for a little while, show you that Atlanta’s not all bad?”

  “For real?” Leslie’s face brightened so suddenly she rivaled the sun. “That would be cool. Let’s go ask Mom!”

  “What, now?”

  Nodding, she scooped up her book, then dashed toward the door. She shot a look over her shoulder, as if double-checking to make sure that he was coming. As if she was worried that, given the chance, he’d change his mind.

  Yep, he thought with wry admiration. She was definitely a smart kid.

  Chapter 5

  Kenzie slid deeper into the vanilla-scented froth of bubbles, a sigh escaping her as heat seeped through her aching body. Oh, she needed this! Drew had just popped a movie into the DVD player, and Leslie was upstairs with a book. Was it possible Kenzie was about to enjoy an almost unheard of half hour of peace?

  “Mom, Mom!”

  You had to ask. She squeezed her eyes shut in denial, but called through the door, “What is it, Les?”

  “I have to ask you something!”

  “Can it wait, honey?”

  Was it Kenzie’s imagination, or did she hear the rumble of a lower voice out in the hallway? Her eyes opened. “Leslie, is Mr. Carlyle with you?”

  “No. Mr. Trelauney.”

  Kenzie couldn’t have grabbed for a towel any faster if her daughter had informed her that JT had X-ray vision. “Offer him a soda. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Sparing only a cursory wistful glance at the bathtub behind her, Kenzie hurriedly put on undergarments, followed by a faded polo shirt and a pair of denim shorts that got stuck on her damp thighs before obediently sliding into place. She looked disheveled, her hair curling in moist, frizzy ringlets about her shoulders, but at least she was dressed.

  What was JT doing here? She doubted it was to bring them a neighborly casserole. Joining her daughter and neighbor in the kitchen, Kenzie was struck by how much smaller the room seemed when filled with JT’s presence.

  She swallowed. “Mr. Trelauney. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Leslie bounced on the balls of her feet. “JT’s gonna take us to a museum! Where he’s a celebrity!”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, kid.” The large artist looked comically uneasy next to her daughter—like a German shepherd afraid of a Chihuahua. He turned to Kenzie. “Celebrity is putting it too strongly, but I did some work for a museum that lets me bring guests. I told Leslie that we could ask about going some weekend…if you didn’t mind.”

  “Please, Mom!” Leslie begged, looking more animated than she had since they’d first arrived in Atlanta. “I’ve read books about cool museums like the Louvre but I’ve never been to one. You said the good part about living here was all the stuff Raindrop didn’t have. What do you think, Drew?”

  He’d trailed his sister and their unexpected guest to the edge of the kitchen and stood against the wall, straightening just long enough to shrug his shoulders. “I’d rather go to a baseball game, but I guess a museum’s okay.”

  “So can we, Mom?”

  “Go watch the movie with Drew and let me discuss it with Mr. Trelauney.”

  “Okay. But he wants to take us. He invited us. You don’t want to be rude to our new neighbor!”

  Kenzie narrowed her eyes. “Out.”

  No sooner had Leslie gone than Kenzie wished she hadn’t been so hasty. Now she was alone with JT, who looked just as good in a worn cotton T-shirt that lovingly molded his torso as he had without a shirt. Really, Kenzie. You’re a practical adult, not a hormone-stricken teen.

  “Can I get you that soft drink?” she offered.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to impose.”

  “It seems my daughter was imposing on you. She didn’t knock on your door, did she?” Maybe Kenzie should have paid more attention to whatever Les had been saying about the book with the reclusive man. If her daughter was bugging real people because of a fictional mystery, Kenzie needed to have a long talk with her.

  “I was sketching up on the roof.” He nodded toward a pad sitting on her kitchen counter. “She came up to read and started a conversation.”

  Figured. When Kenzie needed Leslie to do something, she couldn’t draw the kid’s attention out of a story. But when JT needed peace and quiet to do his work, her erstwhile bookworm turned into Chatty Cathy. “I’m sorry if she was bothering you.”

  He shuffled slightly, shifting his weight. “Our conversation didn’t go very well.”

  “Define not very well.”

  “Adolescent-weeping unwell.”

  She frowned. “You made Leslie cry?”

  “I was trying to work and suggested she read her book instead of bugging me. I didn’t put it that bluntly,” he added quickly, “but she started crying. Said something about bothering her dad when he was working.”

  “I see.” She truly did. JT wasn’t the one who’d hurt Leslie. That had been Mick.

  Kenzie could hear her ex-husband in her head, snapping that if the kids weren’t so distracting, he would have written a hit song by now. Of course, he’d apologized later. Mick always said he was sorry; that was his
standard MO. What had changed was Kenzie’s ability to accept the apologies.

  “I’ll talk to her,” she said tiredly. “You don’t have to take us on a field trip because you feel guilty.”

  “You’ll probably be doing me the favor,” he said, surprising her by not seizing the easy out. “Sean, my business partner, says I need to get out more. Maybe someone else’s enthusiasm for art will help me reclaim my own.”

  “Artist’s block?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  Beneath his dry tone, there was a…vulnerability. She felt oddly drawn to him, this big man who seemed to shoulder even bigger problems. For a second she thought she might reach out, try to smooth his troubles away with a soft caress. Stupid. Jonathan Trelauney was not a little boy who needed nurturing. He was like Mick, a man at the whim of his “muse” or whatever. While other people toiled nine to five, JT moved restlessly through his days—or napped through them—seeking inspiration. If he’d snapped at Leslie upstairs, had it been out of frustration with Kenzie’s daughter or simply frustration with himself and his artistic gift?

  Déjà vu all over again.

  “Mr. Trelauney, thank you for the invitation, but I really think it would be better if the kids and I don’t join you.” It was the same pleasant but inarguable tone she might have used when telling a bank customer that their loan had been declined. A touch apologetic but firm. JT would have to be obtuse not to get the message.

  He moved toward her almost imperceptibly, not actually taking a step but leaning as if to study her better. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “And you don’t want to.” Strangely, he sounded almost amused.

  Kenzie sighed. “Look, my kids and I are only going to be in the building for a brief time. We’re waiting for our new house to be ready. So I probably won’t get the chance to know anyone all that well. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Go to the museum with me.”