Jordan shook his head as Lou Ellen broke up. “Since exhaustion has robbed me of the ability not to sound like an idiot, I’m going to bid you goodnight. Is it okay if I leave this here? Maybe you could sit it on Ava’s doorstep, or whatever?”
“Darlin’, I’d be happy to give Ava your ass.”
“Saved by the bell,” Jordan said as Finn started to howl. “I’m not even going to attempt a response. Thanks, Lou Ellen.”
“Oh, child. It’s my pleasure.”
BECAUSE guilt and anxiety had tangled to form a nasty ball in his stomach, Jordan found himself driving toward his parents’ house. And wondered that no matter how old a person got to be, when they were sick, were hurting, there was an almost primal yearning for home.
Turning Finn loose in the backyard, where he immediately streaked toward a squirrel that muttered irritably from a loblolly pine, Jordan let himself in through the back door. The heady scent of something baking – brownies. Hot damn. – made him doubly glad he’d stopped by. The smell, the sound of his mother humming in the kitchen brought childhood back in a flash of sensory memory. Here was continuity, and comfort.
The tangle in his stomach eased.
“Something sure smells good.”
His mother, her blonde hair tied back in a red ribbon, beamed a smile as he dropped a kiss on her head. “Baby boy. What a nice surprise.” And in an echo of Lou Ellen’s gesture, Addison patted his cheek. But when he reached for one of the brownies arranged neatly on the plate, she deftly swatted his hand.
“Oh no, you don’t. These are for a party tomorrow at Grace’s preschool.”
Jordan eyed the plate with avarice. Chocolate and caramel and fat. Oral gratification in a three-inch square. “There have to be two dozen brownies on that plate. Surely they won’t miss just one.”
Addison bumped him with her hip when he edged closer to the plate. “There are two and a half dozen, precisely, which is one for every child. And just in case you have any notion about cutting a couple in half so that I won’t know one’s missing, I’ll just warn you that your father has already tried that particular trick. He paid for that by watching me eat the last of the Thin Mints he’d hidden. Imagine my surprise and delight to discover them in a package of whole wheat Triscuits.” She blinked her big blue eyes.
Jordan leaned against the counter with a mock frown. “You’re a cruel-hearted woman, Addison Wellington.”
She licked chocolate from her finger, secured plastic wrap over the flute-edged plate. “Flattery isn’t going to score you a brownie. And if you’re looking for your father, he’s in the study crying in his coffee while he does Justin’s taxes. The boy’s so overworked in that ER he didn’t even realize it was April until we reminded him to come home for Easter. So your father’s trying to make sense of Justin’s dubious record keeping and illegible scrawl. I guess that’s one physician stereotype he managed to succumb to.”
“Well, he’s not quite thirty. Give him a little time and I’m sure he’ll develop an enormous ego and an eighteen handicap. Peddle some prescription drugs on the side. Probably find himself in a shaky marriage, start knocking down nurses like bowling pins.”
His mother’s fingers stilled on the plastic.
“Need I remind you, Jordan Nathaniel, you might be past thirty yourself, but you’re never too old for a good swat.”
“You wouldn’t let me have a brownie,” he grumbled. But when her eyes flashed, he pulled away from the counter. “Okay, okay. I’ll just go see Dad, since I’m not feeling the love in here.”
He was almost to the door when his mother called him.
“Guilt won’t get you a brownie, either. But you’re my baby, and there’s something more than fatigue in your eyes tonight.” She pulled a single brownie from behind the toaster. “Here. I have my secret stashes, too.”
“You’re the best mom ever,” Jordan smiled as he bit in, then strolled over to pull her into a hug. “Seriously, Mama. You set the standard.”
“I lied.” And she sniffled. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Go on now. And be sure to leave a few crumbs to torment your father.”
Jordan found his father, bleary-eyed behind his glasses, holed up at his massive walnut desk.
And like coming upon his mother baking in the kitchen, found comfort in the familiar scene. How many times as a kid had he come in here, whether in excitement or shame, to talk things over with his father? To be praised, or scolded, in turn? To simply shoot the breeze?
Too many to remember.
Jordan stood in the hall and studied the room, in so many ways the typical southern gentleman’s office. Richly paneled wood, window and floor coverings in shades of navy and green. Masculine paintings of shrimp boats adorning the walls. Heavy leather furniture.
And there, mixed in with the law books that had helped steer both he and Jack into their father’s profession, a child’s unskilled drawing, dozens of family photos. The baseball that Jordan had caught at his first Braves game. A clay pot – James’ work, if he wasn’t mistaken – that would leak like a sieve if it ever held water. Five bronzed pairs of baby shoes.
A faded photograph of Addison, on the day his parents met.
And there, on his father’s desk, the razor sharp teeth of a four foot shark.
Tom told everyone who inquired that he caught the vicious beast off the coast of Key Largo.
What he kept to himself was the fact that it was Jesse – an avid fisherman – who had to reel it into the boat when their father realized what he’d caught.
“Well, hello Jordan.” Tom looked up, noticed Jordan at the threshold. He gestured toward one of the chairs which flanked his desk. “Have a seat.”
Jordan did, stretching his legs until his feet came to rest near his father’s. They touched on all the usual topics. Sports, the weather, the pain of income tax season. The trials of training a dog.
The unimportant. The mundane.
“Something troubling you, son?”
Jordan crossed his arms over his stomach and looked out the double window. It was full dark now, but the landscape lighting showed small swarms of insects dancing about the azaleas lining the drive.
The tangle came back, and knotted.
“I think I may have been responsible for a woman’s death.”
“Well now.” Tom pulled his glasses off and leaned across the desk. “That’s a hell of a thing to say. You care to explain?”
Not really. What he wanted was to hit rewind. To speak pleasantly with Leslie. To agree he was a bastard, agree to another date, another chance. Agree to anything that would keep her from following him into that garage.
But because he couldn’t, he looked at his father. And told him everything Coleman had learned.
“Jordan.” His father sighed. Compassion and exasperation. “You can no more shoulder the blame for what may or may not have happened to that woman – you need to remember that there’s no proof of foul play at this point – than someone who survives a plane crash can for the fates of the other passengers. You were a victim that night, too. And just because you survived and she – maybe – didn’t, it in no way indicates that you did anything wrong.”
“I realize that.” In his head. His heart was another matter. “But I just feel… sick. Guilty, and tangled up.”
“I think that’s called ‘survivor guilt.’ And as much as I’m pleased that you came to my door – and you know it’s always open – you know you could talk to Clay. He probably has experience with this kind of thing.”
“I’m sure he does,” Jordan agreed. “And maybe I will, when it’s not so… immediate. But right now, I just… it feels like someone kicked me in the gut. Leslie was – and you don’t need to remind me that I don’t know for sure she’s dead – she was a decent person. A little grasping, maybe, and certainly it ended badly between us. But I can’t put it out of my mind that the last thing I felt that night was relief. Relief to be rid of her.”
“People have a tendency, once some
one is gone, to… paint a rosier picture of them. When you do that, it makes your own actions – at least the ones that put you at odds – seem questionable. Now, maybe in the heat of it you said something regrettable. But I know you Jordan. You’re not the type of man to treat a woman callously.”
“No.” He hadn’t been callous. Just annoyed. But how was that any better, if Leslie was still dead? “The whole thing just seems so random. Maybe if I knew where to point the finger in blame… violent crime is never easy, but it helps if we can fit it into at least some parameter of logic. The bank robber shoots the security guard because the guard draws his weapon. It’s awful, it’s a tragedy, but at least it makes sense. And the way this is turning out? There’s just no logic that I can see.”
TOM watched his son struggle, and considered how far he should wade into murky waters. “You know, Jordan, I’ve been thinking about that night myself.” Kind of hard not to, when your son spends the night in the ER with a concussion. The thought of which still turned his blood cold. “What strikes me is the fact that the car you remember being abducted in, or that you at least remember waking up in, is not the car that dropped you at the hospital. I’m wondering if whoever dropped you there – I believe you said it was a woman that you recall pulling you out of the trunk– may not have been a party to the original assault.”
Jordan angled his head. “So… what, like a bystander? She wasn’t supposed to drop me off at the hospital? If she was a Good Samaritan who just happened along, why not call the police?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she knew what they were up to, was part of it, and got cold feet at the last minute. Just a suggestion,” he said at his son’s baffled stare.
“You know what, Dad? That makes a sort of sense. I remember … I guess the best way to put it is a sense of urgency. From her. I can’t recall what she said, really, but she kept digging into me with her nails. Physically trying to pull me toward her car. She seemed, uh, nervous almost.”
“Well there you go,” Tom said. “Maybe she wanted to get you out of there before the other, or others, knew what she was up to.”
Tom could see Jordan’s mind race as he looked at the situation from a new angle. “I’d considered the possibility that this was some sort of payback. Or even a kind of warning, though against what, I have no idea. But if you’re right, maybe it wasn’t intended to end like it did. Maybe it was an aborted murder attempt.” With those words, the color leached from his son’s face.
“Um…” Jordan boosted his hip and pulled out his cell phone. “There was this car. Last night. Could you excuse me a moment, Dad? I have to make a quick call.”
Tom blatantly eavesdropped as Jordan stepped out into the hall.
After a brief pause, a muttered curse, his son ended his first call and made another.
“Hello, Lou Ellen? It’s Jordan Wellington. That’s right. Um, ha. Thank you. It’s a relief to know you’re watching my ass. But that’s not why I called. Ava’s cell phone seems to be set on ignore whenever my number pops up, so I thought I should pass this along to you. I want you to keep an eye out for this car.” He described a dark blue domestic, Florida plates. “No, no, nothing like that, but I saw it parked out front the other night, and there’s a chance the driver could be dangerous. If you see it near the house, I want you to call the police. Yes, you could ask for Detective Coleman. And if you wouldn’t mind giving me a buzz, I’d appreciate it. Yeah. Here are my numbers.” Jordan rattled them off. “And Lou Ellen? Thanks.”
Tom tapped his fingers on the desk. He and Addison had heard rumblings about a dark-haired veterinarian from Caitlin, who’d apparently gotten the story from her friend who worked at the veterinary clinic. Jordan hadn’t said boo so far, but Tom wondered at what he’d just heard in his son’s voice.
“Sorry,” Jordan said, as he walked back into the room. “All this talk of murder and mayhem made me nervous. I just needed to take steps to make sure the mother of your future grandchildren stays safe.”
Tom blinked, and then the grin simply spread. And he marveled at the trick of genetics that allowed a younger version of himself to look back at him out of his wife’s stunning eyes. “Sometimes I forget, Jordan, how very much alike we are.”
“Two peas. First time I looked at her, it was like a lightning strike. Just… boom. All but blew me out of my sneakers. But she’s not easy, Dad. She’s got some baggage, and doesn’t seem inclined to let me carry it for her.”
“You’ll bring her around.”
“You’re right.” Jordan nodded. “I will.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AVA eyed the animal with despair.
Gray fur covered a chunky body stuck on disproportionately short legs. Black fuzz stuck up between long ears. And the big, toothy grin on his cartoon character face made her feel like a reclusive ogre.
She’d managed to avoid Jordan for three days.
Jack sprang onto the bed, eyed the stuffed donkey with disdain, and flicked his tail before jumping to the windowsill.
“I know.” Ava slid him a frown. “It’s ridiculous. Adorable and ridiculous, and I just can’t seem to get rid of it.”
And the giver was much like the gift.
He’d seen the goon’s car, was all she could think. Seen it, noted it. Had some reason to believe it might be dangerous. Did Jordan remember what happened that night?
Her stomach clutched at the thought.
She’d been waiting, half sick, for the police to show up at the clinic. Three days of jumping like a rabbit every time someone came through the door. And she’d spent three nights in a motel. The first night because she’d gone to see her father, and couldn’t make the trip to Atlanta and back that fast. But then, she’d spoken with Lou Ellen.
And had hidden from Jordan ever since.
It was cowardly, and she hated to be cowardly, but she’d needed some time to consider her options.
At the sound of Jack’s growl, her eyes jerked toward the bedroom window. Dusk had fallen, the first hint of dark a velvet shimmer on the air, and the curtains fluttered at the open window. Though they were drawn, the lace panels did little more than distort the view for anyone who cared to look in. Not that she’d worried about it overly, considering the huge live oak squatting outside the window. But she knew better than to think either it or the curtains would deter a determined peeper.
Casually as she could, Ava reached over and switched off her bedroom lamp.
And jerked as a shadow, deeper than the rest, shifted against the tree.
Maybe Spanish moss, she told herself reasonably. There was a good breeze kicking up outside, and Lord knew the stuff dripped and danced and generally made her feel like she was trapped in some gothic horror novel. But despite the reason, and despite – or maybe because of – the talk she’d had with her father, Ava pushed the window down and flipped the lock.
The goon wouldn’t scare her again.
Stripping off her shirt, she tossed it aside, prepared to climb into her own bathtub for the first time in nearly a week. Lavender scented oil, she mused, pouring some in as she ran the water hot. That was supposed to be relaxing. Probably should have bought a bottle of wine, done it up right, but she settled for turning her music on low. And because Heartbreak Hotel seemed all too appropriate, resigned herself to thinking about Jordan.
The way she’d worked it out over the past few days, she figured she had three choices.
1.) She could continue to say nothing at all, ask him to run away with her to Tahiti and leave all her problems behind.
Ava bundled her hair on top of her head, and slipped into the steaming water. And thought, from the way Jordan talked about his close-knit family, that possibility highly unlikely.
She ran down her mental list, watched her skin pink up like a ripe berry.
2.) She could tell him a half-truth. Admit that she was related to the primary players in a major criminal cartel. Then conveniently leave out the part about his mistaken abduction by said cartel an
d – more importantly – how she’d pulled his ass out of that trunk.
Of course, clever as he was he’d probably figure it out on his own.
3.) She could tell him everything, and let the chips fall where they may.
Given the fact that those chips might involve charges of obstruction of justice, failure to report a crime, grounds for interrogation regarding her uncle’s business, and either a quick, vicious death at the hands of her uncle’s goons or a promising future in the cornfields of Nebraska as part of the witness protection program, she figured option three was pretty much out.
“Shit.” Ava let her head fall back against the tub. Why, why, why did her life have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t she have met a normal man, with no law enforcement proclivities whatsoever? Maybe settle down. Her cat, his dog. A house with a nice piece of land, so the animals would have room to roam.
Probably have a couple of kids.
Because she could see it, and see it clearly, shimmering like a mirage through the rising steam, Ava slapped her hand at the scented water. “Dammit, Papa. You never should have let Carlos drag you into that life.” Now they were all paying for it.
And paying dearly.
When Elvis faded into Patsy Cline, Ava heard the noise. A scrape. A sort of groan. The creak that sounded like rusty hinges. Oh, God, she’d locked the front door, hadn’t she? She’d been so distracted when she came in…
Hell. She might have left it open.
Heart banging like a drum, Ava thought about the shadow. Maybe it hadn’t been moss, after all. Maybe her visit with her father had well and truly pissed her uncle off, and –
“Finn, no! Leave One-Eyed Jack alone!”
The sounds of a very playful dog meeting up with a very temperamental cat filled the apartment. First the barking, then a feral hiss. A thud, a shatter. A tightly voiced reprimand followed by a low canine whimper. The sound of the door again and then heavy footsteps on her wood floor.
The Southern Comfort Series Box Set Page 18
