To kiss.
Between bites of blueberry and cinnamon roll, her mind wrapped around that kiss from last night yet again. She tested her conscience, but nope, there wasn’t a lick of guilt. He’d been a brick. There was nothing wrong with expressing thanks and affection. It’s not as if she laid up against him in some way he could have construed as a come-on.
Even if she’d thought about doing just that.
Still. She readily recognized that he rang her chimes—and that was the whole scale of chimes. But it was the wrong time in her life to finally find a diamond. She just couldn’t be thinking about a man right now, couldn’t be curious about one, couldn’t allow hormones to color anything about her judgment, either.
She couldn’t let anything matter right now but Charlene.
So far she’d carefully refrained from saying anything about how the child was dressed, but it was just too hard not to express a teensy hint of honest worry.
“You’ll feel okay going to school in those clothes, right?” she asked casually. “There isn’t a dress code in your school?”
“Yeah, there’s a code. Girls have to cover their stomachs. And you can’t have bra straps showing. Like I’d be worried about that.” A noisy snort effectively expressed Charlene’s opinion about budding breasts. “Oh. No dirty words on T-shirts. And no face jewelry.”
Merry had to translate what face jewelry meant. Nose and lips rings, she assumed. “Those rules don’t sound too bad.”
“Yeah, well, nobody’s gonna tell me what to wear.” It was the first time Charlene had met her eyes—not just with some life but a full splash of belligerence.
Merry was delighted to see some normal kid rebellion, and warned herself not to blow it. “Hey, if you’re waiting for me to criticize your choice of clothes, it’ll never happen. If you’re okay with your choice, then so am I.” Well, she was almost okay. Or trying to be okay. Well, maybe she thought the military thing was over the top—and worrisome besides—but she was a ton more concerned about creating some trust than superficial nonsense like clothes. “Charlie…you haven’t said anything about the classes you’re taking. Are there any subjects you have a hard time with? Or any teachers you really like?”
“Burkowitz.”
Not an answer exactly, but Merry had something. “Yeah?”
“He teaches math. And computers. He’s definitely frantic.”
“Frantic?”
“Frantic. Like, he rocks. He’s cool. Frantic,” she repeated, as if the meaning should be obvious.
“Got it. Frantic.”
The kid, unlike her, tidily rinsed her bowl and put it in the dishwasher, then pulled on a jacket and stood at the door. Merry scrambled after her, searching for shoes and her own jacket, which seemed to have thrown itself on a chair in the living room.
“While I’m at school, you’re not going in my dad’s room, right?” Charlene reminded her as they walked outside.
“Right.”
“And you’re not gonna touch my dad’s stuff. Any of it. Nothing in his study either, right?”
“Stop worrying, Charlie. I told you I wouldn’t.” They’d been through this last night, when Charlene had brought up the issue, her fingers twisting themselves into anxious knots and her mouth all but trembling. She seemed to be a little obsessed about any of her father’s things being moved or disappearing. Either way, Merry couldn’t think of a reason on the planet not to cater to her. Sooner or later the raw edge of grief had to wear off. And then there’d be plenty of time to figure out what to do with Charlie’s stuff.
It took less than ten minutes to be parked at the school. Merry didn’t walk in with her—how mortifying would that be? It’s not as if she’d forgotten how ghastly it was to be a sixth-grader—the lowest rung on the middle school social ladder. Besides which, girls in that preteen age were meaner than bobcats.
Once Charlene disappeared inside and the school bell rang, though, Merry figured it was safe to go inside. She took a quick look around before aiming for the office. The principal turned out to be a woman, Mrs. Apple, a name that was distractingly appropriate because of the dark red color on her cheeks. Merry couldn’t fathom why the woman would have chosen such a wildly bright blusher, when it didn’t remotely go with her olive skin.
“I just wanted to meet you.” Merry extended a hand, explaining how she’d become Charlene’s guardian, how Charlene had just lost her father. The principal swiftly interrupted her.
“We know. Very sad situation.”
The whole school was kind of a sad situation, Merry personally thought. Maybe she’d only walked down one long hall, but that single hall had been telling. There was no graffiti, no banged-up lockers, no noise. The bell had only rung a few minutes before, yet the kids were all sitting in their seats like model children. Not only was it a prep school with a capital P, but the classrooms were carpeted—besides which, half the girls she saw were already wearing cashmere sweaters. This was just middle school, for Pete’s sake.
“Well, I just wanted you to know I’m here, that you can call me. Charlene and I are just getting to know each other, so I’m afraid that right now I’m just another big change in her life. If there’s anything I can do, as far as the school or any activities she’s involved in—”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Apple abruptly perked up. “We’re always in need of a field mother. Someone to go with the children on bus trips. Field or sports trips.” And then there was the PTO. And the bake sales. And the sports equipment fund-raisers. And Brownies. “We have a middle school dance coming up on Valentine’s Day—the first one for the sixth-graders. We’ll need parents to chaperone that.”
“I’d be happy to,” Merry said, but on the inside, she was gulping to beat the band. In principle, she was willing to do anything that would help Charlene, but reality was that it was pretty full-scale transition to somehow immediately turn herself into a suburban soccer mom. “I was hoping you would let Charlene’s teachers know what she’s been going through. I know she missed more than a week of school, for one thing—”
“We’re not concerned. Charlene, as you know, is an unusually gifted student. We know she’ll catch up quickly.”
Well, that had been a little hair-raising but it had basically gone okay, Merry thought as she drove back to the house. Her next priority was conquering the coffee machine. And—after calling her dad to check in—her second priority of the day was finding a place to sleep.
The two obvious choices were the master bedroom or Charlie’s study—both of which were nice, big rooms. But the first night, she’d camped on the couch because she’d fallen asleep there from exhaustion, and then last night, she’d just glanced in the master bedroom when Charlene saw her and went into that anxiety attack about her dad’s stuff. So those rooms were out, and normally Merry wouldn’t mind camping out indefinitely. Half the time she felt as if she were camping out in her own life, always ready to move on and move out…but this situation was different.
This time she had to try to settle down. To stay.
There was no reason she couldn’t change. Her life and job hopping had never been about character. It had been about her mother. Which would seem to suggest that this was an ideal time for her to come to grips with that old tediously upsetting history, but right now, she just had too much to do.
Because the coffee machine won the technology battle with her—again—she hauled around a mug of instant. She’d looked around and cleaned the place that first night, but now, she conducted a major search—not just to pin down a place to sleep, but to get a stronger feeling for Charlie and the kind of man and dad he’d been.
The living room, at least, had flashes of the whimsically fun man she’d once known in Charlie. The couch was shaped like a dog bone—a huge, gray dog bone in a swelty-soft suede. And in the entranceway, he’d hung a dartboard—the kind that used felt darts, not the sharp kinds, and it showed signs of wear, so it was obviously something dad and daughter played together. A heap of pillows
on the floor indicated they both tended to watch the tube sprawled out.
But the strange modern art all through the house continued to spook her.
A life-sized painting took up one entire wall in the living room. The artist had signed it “Red Dominance,” and it looked as if an extremely crabby person had swathed on big, violent slashes of red and black and yellow, let it dry and put it in a frame. Turn the corner toward the kitchen, and there was an oil of a long, surreal naked body. It wasn’t a sexy nude, or remotely pornographic, nothing inappropriate for Charlene to see. The figure was all huddled up, showing mostly knees and elbows, its head bent at a crooked angle, leaving Merry the impression of a living skeleton—one that jumped out at her every time she turned the corner.
Another new-age-y nude took up wall space in Charlie’s den, but that one happened to be green. The green woman appeared to be screaming, although the only identifiable body part for sure was her mouth. Every time Merry passed by it, she wanted to tiptoe.
Okay, so maybe Merry wasn’t precisely a connoisseur of valuable art. Her taste ran more toward big yellow smiley faces. But she couldn’t seem to reconcile the Charlie she knew with the one who’d picked out these scary, ugly pictures.
She kept thinking that there had to be an important clue here. Something she needed to know. Something that would help her understand Charlene and her relationship with her dad and their lives together—if she could just grasp it.
Eventually she gave up trying to analyze the impossible and settled down to the plain old chore of picking a room for herself. The upstairs was pretty much a huge, cavernous space that had potential in the long run, but for now, Merry didn’t want to be that far removed from Charlene. So she picked the spare room past the master bedroom. It had clearly been used to stash stuff no one knew what to do with, from out-of-season sports equipment to luggage to spare coats. But it had a lumpy couch bed already there. The walls were an ugly muddy taupe, but whatever. There was a bathroom across from Charlie’s and a view of Jack’s backyard.
Her thoughts strayed back to Jack and the kiss last night, but she ruthlessly reined them in. After she did the fresh-sheet thing, organized her makeup in the back bathroom, and carted the seasonal debris upstairs to an out-of-sight closet, it was already late morning. She still had the long, three-page list of things to tackle—only abruptly, the phone rang.
It was the school calling. The vice principal. The man sounded decent, had one of those patient, gentle voices that made Merry think he was a kid lover, but he sure had nothing but trouble to deliver.
He claimed that Charlene had slugged another kid. Because Charlie was a girl and the boy she’d punched was a foot taller than her—and because she’d never been in trouble before—the school had decided not to punish her with the usual automatic suspension. They’d also taken into account her father’s death and how much school she’d already missed. But she was being sent home for the day—Merry had to pick her up immediately—and she’d have detention every afternoon for the next two weeks.
So much for calling all the carpool mothers and looking into grief counseling and figuring out the washing machine and checking out what clothes Charlie did and didn’t have in her closet and calling the guardian ad litem woman to see what she was like and trying to figure out where the house finances stood…the finances especially had her worry beads jiggling, because she didn’t have the first clue what it cost to maintain the place, much less how the bills were supposed to work with the estate and all.
But all that was just life crap. Nothing that mattered.
She made it to the school in less than three minutes, charged in the front door, and immediately came to a dead stop. The woebegone figure sitting alone in the hall, head bent, dejection painted in her rounded shoulders and sunk-in posture was unquestionably Charlie. It was all Merry could do not to sweep her into her arms. But then Charlie looked up, and faster than spit, her face took on a cold, defensive expression.
“I suppose you’re going to yell.”
“Actually, what I’m going to do is tell the principal I’m here, so that we can go home.”
“Yeah, right.”
The VP was about what Merry had expected from the phone call—a tall reed with a quiet voice, who had a lot of things to say about violence never being an answer, and certain rules and controls being important, and about Charlene needing to rethink her actions and how they affected others.
He was ponderous and wordy, not mean, yet from the way Charlie slammed out of the school and slammed the car door and slammed into the house, you’d think somebody’d whipped her kitten.
Merry said nothing, just aimed for the kitchen, rolled up her sleeves, and faced off with the coffeemaker again. It was such a gorgeous machine. Obviously the crème de la crème. Probably cost more than she had in her savings account. But there had to be some doohickey to make the thingamabob come out so you could put the grounds in? And she couldn’t find it.
Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Than Charlene said from the doorway, in a voice so disgusted it was amazing she could survive it, “What are you trying to do?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Is there any chance you know how to make this work?”
“Of course.” The kid came over, touched something, and the thingamabob opened like magic.
“Thanks,” Merry said, and immediately started pouring in fresh grind. It was possible she could survive an hour longer without real coffee, but she wasn’t dead sure.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Ms. Attitude had gone back to the doorway to park, clearly leaving herself an easy exit.
“Say anything about what?”
“Gimme a break. You know about what.”
Merry glanced up—once she was positive the machine was going to come through and percolate for her. “Naturally, I want to know what happened. But I figured you’re probably still feeling really upset, so you’d tell me about the fight when you felt you could.”
Mentally holding her breath, she turned around, dug out the bag of Oreos from the new stash of groceries. When she turned back, Charlene had moved one foot farther into the room, but no more. More carefully than she’d treat a python, Merry cracked open the package and set it in the middle of the breakfast counter. Then she went searching for a mug. Not that she wasn’t willing to guzzle the coffee straight from the machine, lapping it up like a dog if she had to, but a standard mug type container would be nice.
“He’s in eighth grade. His name’s Dougall. Dougall Whitmore. He asked me what was with the hair.”
Aha. Words. Merry was careful not to do any kind of victory dance—but man, it was sure tempting. “And you said…”
“I said nothing.”
“Right,” Merry murmured, believing that like she believed in the tooth fairy. Which, come to think of it, she had believed in until she was past puberty.
“But then he said I looked queer. Then I said if looking queer meant being like my dad, then I was happy to look like this. Then he said, well, maybe I was just a lesbo and trying to be honest about it.”
“And then?”
“Then I punched him.” It took a moment, but Charlene finally risked putting half of her skinny hip on the stool, getting close enough to reach the Oreos.
“Is your hand okay?” Merry asked.
“Are you kidding? No. It hurts really, really bad. I’m never hitting anybody again. It’s not worth it. I thought it was broken. My whole fist.”
“Let’s see…Eek! We’d better get some ice on that.” As she scrounged for a plastic bag and ice, she said, “Now, Charlie, you realize the guy’s gonna be humiliated because a girl hit him. So you might want to strategize about how you want to handle that before going back to school tomorrow.”
“Huh? That’s all?”
“What do you mean?” Merry gently put the ice bag on her hand, letting Charlie determine how hard or light she wanted to press it. The brush cut was starting to flop, she noted. It was the fi
rst time she’d been close enough to see that under all that wax stuff was a headful of wispy, baby-fine, to-die-for blond hair.
“You’re not going to yell at me? Hand out some punishment?”
Merry sucked in a breath. This was a serious test, she knew. Maybe even a make it or break it test. She opened her mouth to respond—but just then, the phone rang.
Could one thing go smoothly today? Even the smallest thing? Was that really asking too much?
JACK PUSHED OPEN the back door, buzzed to beat the band. What a great day. He plucked a beer from the fridge, a fork from the drawer and promptly carted two white containers of Chinese to the red leather chair in the living room.
He was starving—seeing as it was past nine. And he’d groused with his colleagues about the mighty long work day, but he didn’t mean it.
It always seemed crazy to be paid so much to do something he loved. Back in college, he’d aimed for a degree in Geography because he’d wanted to be a cryptographer. Some idealistic cause had led him into the navy, then Special Ops, but even then the military got the idea that he should get a master’s in math. No hardship. Special Ops was for the physically fit youngsters. The master’s enabled him to get out and end up working for the government, getting paid lots and lots of money to do puzzles.
Codes. He loved breaking them. Some said he was the most brilliant code breaker around—and that was mighty ironic, considering he’d never decoded the mystery of his own marriage. Sometimes he went to work with two different colored socks on. Sometimes—even though he had plenty of money—he bounced a check because he forgot to add up his checkbook.
But give him a puzzle, and he was over-the-moon happy.
That he was doing something for his country gave him pride, too, but people’d think he was corny if he said that. So he tried to complain about his long hours and the tediousness of his desk job. It was better than his friends thinking he was a dork—even though he was.
Heaving a loud, lazy sigh, he scooped up the remote, cocked his feet on the coffee table and gobbled the first forkful of War Sui Gui. He’d TiVo’d a good old Steven Seagal the night before. It was a perfect end to a perfect day, Chinese takeout and a relaxing couple hours of blood and guts.
Blame it on Cupid Page 6
