Pygmalion. How typically Wisconsin sounding. Probably about a pig farm. The subject wasn’t worth pursuing, but he still hadn’t answered my question. I hesitated, not sure what to think. “So why were you writing down what I was saying?”
“What makes you think I was? Ever heard of a thing called a grocery list? But, come to think of it, maybe I could use you for a story.” He held his pencil poised. “You say you’re new here? All right, first give me the facts: name, age, where you’re from, and what you think of our little town.”
The thought of anyone wanting to read my boring life story struck me as so ludicrous I had to laugh. My tension melted as it rippled out. “I’m not telling you anything—not until you put that notebook away!”
“All right, all right.” He stuffed the notebook into his front shirt pocket and tucked the pencil behind his ear. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, I guess I won’t either. But I’m warning you—” he held up his finger, ink stained, I noticed—“you just passed up a chance to be front-page news.”
“Someone new arrives in town . . . that’s front-page news? Wow,” I said, shaking my head, “this town must really be boring.”
“Don’t let it fool you, though,” the reporter said. “Every town’s got something to make it unique. Local legends. Buried history. Something in its past that you wouldn’t expect.”
He was watching me. Were his eyes narrowed in contemplation or merely squinting against the sun? Our eyes met, and I felt again as if he were trying to ask me something . . . without words. Uncomfortable, I moved my eyes. “Like what?”
As if he hadn’t heard me—or maybe because he had—he looked across the street. An unsettling silence followed. I shifted on my feet.
“It’s getting hot standing here.” The reporter straightened. “Were you headed anywhere special?”
My heartbeat quickened. “I was maybe going to get some lunch.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me. Mind if I join you?”
I knew I should say, “Yes, I do mind.” I sensed something not quite right about this guy. Something “shady,” as my mother would say. Yet part of me was attracted to him. And part of me argued that, after all, he wasn’t a complete stranger. We’d been talking together for the past ten or fifteen minutes. I also couldn’t help being flattered that this guy, who must be at least twenty-two, was even bothering to talk to me. Could it be that he was just the tiniest bit interested? I hoped so. And I didn’t want to brush him off because I was sure I wouldn’t get another offer.
I could almost hear my mother saying, Don’t you dare go with him! But I told myself, Lighten up! I couldn’t go around being like my mother, suspicious of everyone I met. This was my decision to make, and my mother couldn’t interfere. Not anymore, because she was gone.
“All right,” I agreed, my tone subdued.
So we crossed the street together, and I hoped my uncle was looking out the window. I wanted him to understand that I intended to make my own decisions here in Lorens, and I held my head slightly higher than was necessary.
“By the way, my name’s Justin Landers.”
“I know. I mean—I heard—” I dropped into silence, feeling awkward.
“And you are?” he urged.
Stupid. I felt my ears grow warm. I don’t even have the sense to introduce myself. “Robin Finley.”
“Robin, as in Wisconsin’s state bird?”
Lighthearted as the question was, it set me thinking. My real name was Roberta, but if anyone called me that, I wouldn’t answer. As far as I was concerned, an “a” tacked onto the end of a guy’s name didn’t make a girl’s name. Robert was my father’s name, and the nickname Robin had come from him . . .
I blushed, realizing how long it was taking me to answer. “No,” was all I could say.
“Well, nice to meet you, Robin. Just call me Justin.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
Justin held open the door of a place called Mary Anne’s Diner. “I eat here a lot,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”
From the outside it didn’t look like much. Kind of like a trailer home without wheels. The windows were trimmed in gaudy purple. But I was happy to be here. Maybe because it was new to me.
No. The truth was, I was happy because I was here with Justin. I’d been waiting so long to find someone like him that I’d almost given up hoping. Here at last was my chance to relax and hang out like a normal teenager, with someone who didn’t know my mother and couldn’t be scared away by her nunnery rules.
Inside, the diner was empty except for an old couple and a large, greasy looking man sitting on a stool at the front counter. I didn’t care where we sat as long as it wasn’t next to him. An old jukebox stood in a corner, but it didn’t fool me; the music played from a boombox hidden behind the counter.
We sat in a corner booth near a window. The whole front of the diner was lined with windows. When Justin took off his brown leather jacket and draped it over the seat before sitting down, I was surprised at how tan his arms were, as tan as his face. I imagined him as an outdoors kind of person. Someone who does something outdoors, not just lies on a beach all day.
I picked up a worn menu and made myself focus on the prices, meaning I searched for the cheapest. I could get something called a Bitty Burger for seventy-five cents, but I didn’t even consider it. After all, there is such a thing as self-respect.
I’d just decided to spring two dollars for a chicken sandwich when a waitress waddled up to us. From the looks of her, I figured she’d eaten more than her share of cheese. That’s what happens if you live in Wisconsin too long, I thought disapprovingly. Nothing to do but eat.
“All right,” she said, pulling a notepad out of her coffee-stained apron, “what can I get you folks?”
Justin looked at me. “What do you think? The Diner Special sounds good, doesn’t it?” I had no idea because I hadn’t looked at it, but Justin didn’t wait for my reply. “We’ll have two Diner Specials and a pitcher of lemonade,” he said with confidence. Too much confidence.
“You don’t even know if I like lemonade,” I said as soon as the waitress ambled away.
“If you don’t, you should learn to,” Justin replied. “It’s the only drink they serve that’s any good.” He leaned closer to me. “I know, I’ve tried them all. The coffee’s like mud, the milk’s usually warm, the soda’s flat, and the water’s boring. I’m telling you—I’m surprised they actually remember to add sugar to their lemonade.”
I caught the twinkle in his eyes—brown eyes—and picked up the game. “I thought you said this was a good place to eat. If the drinks are that bad, who knows what they’ll serve us to eat?”
As we waited for our food, I couldn’t help noticing that though Justin’s nose was kind of big, it suited his face. I also noticed the pencil was gone from behind his ear, and I wondered where he’d put it. Then I realized I was staring. Glad Justin couldn’t read my thoughts, I turned away to study a picture that was hanging, slightly crooked, on the wall beside us. It was a watercolor painting of a flower. A bright, garish thing, and I almost cringed. That was not the way to use watercolors, which are a gentle, translucent medium. Of course, I was no expert, but I’d done enough watercolor painting in California to feel like I was. Drawing was my real passion though. When I could get away from my mother, which wasn’t often, I liked to head out to the dunes on the beach—just me and my pencils and sketchpad.
And I don’t mean the crowded, public beaches but the hidden, secluded ones. The ones where the gulls aren’t used to people, and they fly away when you approach. That’s the way I liked them. Wild. The way they’re meant to be. Not like the gulls on the public beaches, where the tourists turn them into greedy, snack-craving creatures.
On those dunes, it was just me and nature. My mother would have had a fit if she knew. Sometimes I’d just sit and do nothing. Only . . . it wasn’t nothing, because it was times like this that I felt I was really doing something. When th
e moment was right, I would pick up my pencil and draw. Lost in the process, I would feel free, happy. I could almost feel that sea breeze now, tousling my hair.
“That must be some picture,” Justin said, breaking into my thoughts. “Personally, I think it’s ugly.”
I smiled and turned back to him. “It is.”
After the waitress brought us our pitcher of lemonade, she returned with two plates heaped high with food. Fearing my stomach was about to growl, I dug in hungrily.
“So, Robin,” Justin began, “forgive me if I’m applying the five W’s: who, what, when, why, and where? But I am a reporter, after all.” I looked up from my meal. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.” I hesitated. It wasn’t a lie and yet it wasn’t the truth, and for some reason I felt compelled to tell those dark brown eyes the truth. Justin was no Mr. Bubble. “In two weeks,” I added.
“So you have a birthday coming up, huh?” There was a slight pause before he asked, “What do you want?”
There was only one thing I wanted and, surprisingly, I told him.
“To go home.”
“Home? I thought you live here now. With your uncle.”
“Only temporarily.” I frowned. “That doesn’t make it my home.” I felt suddenly let down, disappointed that he’d jumped to conclusions like everyone else, assuming I was going to stay wherever I was sent, like a good girl, and spend the rest of my life in a dinky little town that had dinky diners and served such a thing as a Bitty Burger. How depressing.
“I guess not…but then where is home?”
“Why?” This was beginning to sound like an interrogation. Maybe it was time someone told Justin Landers that being a newspaper reporter did not give him the right to apply the “five W’s” whenever he felt like it.
“I just thought—since your parents are dead—you’d need a relative to live with.”
I tilted my head slightly. “How do you know both my parents are dead? I only told you my mother is.”
Justin didn’t answer right away. “You’ve got me there,” he admitted. “I suppose I just assumed. Or it was a good guess. Something about you . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know . . . made me think you’re used to being pretty much on your own. And you said you lived with your mother. You never mentioned a father.”
“You’re right,” I said, feeling defeated. “He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
I managed a smile. “That’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I poked a fork at my potato salad. “I never really knew him . . . he died a long time ago.” My mother had told me about the accident, but never in detail. I didn’t want details. They wouldn’t change anything.
There was silence, until I realized something else Justin had said. “And I don’t need to live with a relative. At least not once I turn eighteen. I’m only staying here now because I don’t have a choice. But once I save enough money, I’m going back to California.” The words came out sharper than I’d intended.
“I see.” But the degree of coldness in his voice told me he didn’t.
I hurried on, trying to make him see things my way, because suddenly it mattered. “I don’t even know my uncle—my mother never told me she had a brother. Why should I stay here when I grew up in California? That’s my home!”
My face felt hot, and I took a quick gulp of lemonade, only to succeed in choking on it. When I’d finished coughing, Justin spoke as if he hadn’t noticed what a fool I’d made of myself. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful to him or not.
“So how are you going to get the money to go back?”
“I told you, I work at my uncle’s bookstore.” I shrugged. “I’ll earn enough eventually.”
“And your uncle doesn’t care if you go back?”
“Why should he?”
“He’s your uncle.”
“So?” Quietly, I continued. “I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.”
“Couldn’t you get to know each other?”
“Sure, but I’m leaving as soon as I can—probably in less than three weeks—so what’s the point?” I knew it sounded heartless, but I’d gotten by quite well for seventeen years not knowing my uncle existed. Why should I need him now?
“I guess I just don’t understand your reasons. At least here you have an uncle. Who do you have in California?”
No one. My mother had seen to that. But I didn’t need anyone. I could take care of myself. Why was that so difficult to comprehend?
“My home’s in California. That’s where I grew up, and that’s where I want to live.” Why couldn’t Justin agree with me, or at least see my point of view? I had a feeling he liked arguing.
“You were born in California?” Justin leaned back and waited—smugly, I thought—as if he already knew the answer.
“No.” I felt the heat rushing to my cheeks again. I was born in Colorado. My mother and I had moved to California after my father died. But that was none of Justin’s business. “A home is a place where you live—a place you love,” I defended myself. “It doesn’t have to be the place where you were born.”
“Well said.”
Apparently, the debate was over. I tried to relax, but there was no retrieving the comfortable atmosphere. The food no longer appetized me, and I was relieved when the waitress came to deliver the bill. I reached for it, but Justin was quicker; he snatched it from under my fingers and pulled away when I leaned over to see.
“I need to know how much I owe.”
“But it’s my treat,” Justin replied. “I’m going to pay for you.”
But the novelty of being with him had worn off. I was sick of his questions and his arguments. Why should he even want to pay for me? It wasn’t as if we’d been on a date. If I let him pay, I would feel as if I owed him, and I certainly didn’t want to be in his debt.
“I can pay for myself,” I insisted.
“You’re stubborn,” he said, smiling, “but so am I.” He pulled out his wallet. “Besides, you have to save every penny if you want to get back to California. The sooner the better. Hey, I should use you for a story; it would make a great headline: ‘Robin can’t wait to leave Wisconsin and fly back to California.’”
I didn’t smile. Now I knew why he was paying for me: I was his entertainment. A quick laugh, then good-bye. Fine, I thought, but I’m not taking the bait. I’m not going to play your game. With great effort, I bit back a reply as he laid down some bills and stood up. Let him waste his money.
Outside, I blinked against the sunlight, a blinding white reflecting off the sidewalk. I wished I had my sunglasses.
“You know,” Justin said, “this town isn’t bad. In fact, there are a lot of good things about it; but you need to see it to appreciate it. Better yet, you need to live here. I know. I’ve lived in big cities, and I’d take Lorens any day.”
“That’s your choice.” I was tired of arguing and didn’t want to pursue the issue. I squinted across the street at the bookstore.
“What would you say if I asked you to let me show you around town? If you just got here last night, you couldn’t have seen much of it.”
I turned back to Justin in surprise. He was acting as if we were on friendly terms—which we most certainly were not. And what was it I saw in his eyes? It was something normal people don’t have: a look of speculation, but more than that. Not a carefree sparkle or shine, but a hungry glint.
“I would say no.” I spoke without a hint of expression. I was too confused to know how I should sound. I began to edge away. “Look, it was great meeting you and everything and I enjoyed the lunch—” Yeah, right—“but I really have to get back to work now.”
“Good answer.” He looked normal again, almost made me wonder if I’d imagined the glint in his eyes. “Do you realize you don’t really know me? It’s not a good idea to go anywhere with a stranger. You can’t trust strangers . . . Keep that in mind.”
Even outside in the bright sunlight, his words started something
cold creeping up my spine. I couldn’t figure him out—and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. But it was like he wasn’t on his own side all the time, like he switched back and forth inside himself, almost like two people.
“Good-bye,” I said.
To my immense relief, Justin began to walk away. “See you later, Robin,” he called, lifting his hand in a wave, “and remember what I said.”
I didn’t reply. I turned quickly and crossed the street, forgetting to check for traffic. My mind was murky with his strange words; there was no danger of my forgetting them. I only wished I could.
And he had said, “See you later.”
I hoped he wasn’t serious.
Chapter Three
I slipped back into the bookstore as if nothing had happened. My uncle, still at his desk, barely looked up when I entered. “Finally ready to get back to work?” he asked.
I waited for him to say more.
When he didn’t, I returned to my box of books, confused. Whatever reaction I’d expected from him, this wasn’t it. I guess I’d been prepared for some kind of battle, and now that there was nothing to fight, the bookstore’s silence felt like an anticlimax. Obviously, my uncle hadn’t seen me with Justin.
I hung around in the back of the bookstore feeling like a shadow. I didn’t understand how my uncle could claim he needed me here; I didn’t think I was doing anything very useful. I sorted through boxes, stacked books into categorized piles, shelved some, and even dusted the bookcases. But these tasks were nothing my uncle couldn’t have managed. It wasn’t as if the store were overrun with customers.
By three o’clock, only two more people had stopped in. One was a flustered looking woman who had been cleaning her attic and wanted to get rid of an old box of books; the other was an old lady who called me “sweetie.”
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 3
