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Irritated with herself for overreacting, she shook off his grip, making him drop his hands to his side. In the fading light of day, she could see that he’d shaved, was wearing cargo pants, a loud Hawaiian shirt and brown sandals. He was dressed for the heat of July in upstate New York. Heck, he could have been wearing a prison uniform and he still would have looked mouthwateringly splendid.
She wished she’d thought to wash her face, brush back her hair or put on some lipstick. She felt dreary and unkempt, a kind of bone-weariness that sat on her shoulders like an anvil. She rotated her neck, which was way too tight; her nerves were really on edge. Before she turned her attention back to Will, she darted a quick look at her surroundings.
Nope. No one ducking suddenly into an alleyway, no strange cars containing men in dark suits and shades staring at her from behind tinted windows.
Was she slowly going nuts? Having some sort of posttraumatic reaction to her mother’s passing?
She shook her head, hoping it would unscramble her brains back to where they belonged, then returned her gaze to Will. “So here you are again. That’s two times in one day. Coincidence?”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve come to buy you dinner.”
Despite herself, Lou chuckled. “You weren’t kidding when you said you didn’t like the word no, were you?”
“Hey, you have to eat, right? So do I. Come on, Lou. Give it up.” He had an I-dare-you twinkle in his eye, and she felt her defenses evaporating under the onslaught of so much charisma.
And why did she have the defenses up, anyway? What was the matter with her? She’d been thinking about the man all day, hadn’t she? Why was she holding on so tightly to keeping him at arm’s length? Even so, she gave it one last shot. “I’m not at my best, Will. I look awful. I’m tired. I was planning on picking up a salad and just going home.”
“You look fine. I have an urge for Lady Jamaica’s barbecue and a whole side of pork ribs. I don’t like to eat alone. It’s two blocks away. Come with me,” he coaxed.
He grinned, that sensational crooked grin of his, and just like that, she was a goner. Just as she’d been fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years ago. Caught up in the spell of Will Jamison’s smile.
He offered her his arm, an endearingly courtly gesture, and she indulged in one more moment of indecision. Then muttering, “Oh, what the hell,” she took his arm and allowed herself to be led off down the street.
As usual, Lady Jamaica’s Place was packed and overly loud with conversation and island music. Mouthwatering smells of garlic and exotic spices filled the air of the high-ceilinged, barnlike restaurant. Once she and Will were seated, Lou gazed around the room and noticed people noticing them. Despite herself, a tiny thrill coursed through her—oh, how her youthful self had yearned for this, to be seen with Will, to be thought of as special enough to be seen with Will.
Back then, as now, she’d been friends with his sister Nancy, and when she was at the Jamison house, she would watch him surreptitiously, waiting for him to talk to her, to say hello at least. But he and his friends, all the other cool school jocks, steamrolled their way through the house, sweatshirts damp from shooting hoops in the backyard, horsing around, telling dumb jokes, raiding the refrigerator, creating mile-high sandwiches.
And never, never, ever noticing her, no matter what he’d said earlier. She’d been a nothing. A short, chubby, red-haired, freckled nobody. Not anymore.
Lou had been raised by a hardworking single mother, had learned to make do with very little money and had an affinity for animals. She got decent enough grades to get into vet school, but had never been a real brain. She did have a sharp sense of humor, but not around Will, never around Will. No, whenever she’d been in the vicinity of her secret crush, she’d been dry-mouthed and tongue-tied. The witty, smart little remarks she’d come up with in her head would always manage to get lost, strangled to a premature death in the back of her throat before they could escape. And she would blush.
And now here she was, out to dinner with Will Jamison. In public. Because he had insisted. Despite her setting all kinds of barriers in place, he’d pushed through and insisted.
And again she had to wonder why, even as she cursed her suspicious mind. But really, Will Jamison, attracted to her? It was the word he had used—attracted. But she was so definitely not his type, which tended toward tall, blond and sophisticated; Nancy occasionally ran pictures in the Courier of Will at various D.C. functions, and that was the type of woman always on his arm. Lou was none of those adjectives.
Oh, sure, she knew she wasn’t unappealing and had a somewhat offbeat charm. She was reputed to be “fun.” And yes, there had been men attracted to her over the years—she’d even married one. But she was under no illusions about herself. Lou was ordinary. And she simply did not belong in the same equation with Will Jamison.
Then why had he insisted on taking her out? Was she some kind of charity case? Oh, no. Had Nancy told her brother how sad Lou had been since Mom had died, and had he decided to give the little lady a thrill? Or maybe he was doing a piece on animal rescuers or female veterinarians and wanted her to help him?
Or maybe he really was attracted to her, and she was allowing painful ghosts to infect her mind and run her life for her. Wow, what a concept.
When the waiter, one of Lady Jamaica’s several tall, ebony-skinned sons, appeared at their table, Lou ordered a vodka martini. After Will had ordered a beer, he said, “A martini, huh? Pretty fancy for a ribs-and-corn dinner.”
“It’s a tradition,” she told him. “One a night, and never more than one. It started with Mom about ten years ago. Our own little cocktail hour, a kind of letting-down time after a stressful day. And I’ve kept it up.”
“Traditions are good things,” he said, nodding.
“Unless they’re stupid things.”
“Agreed. Like fraternity hazings.”
“And shooting guns in the air on the Fourth of July.”
“Although fireworks on the same day are good things.”
“Agreed.”
As they grinned at each other, Lou felt herself relaxing, just a bit, and was grateful for the respite. When the drinks arrived, Will raised his glass. “Let’s make a toast.”
“To what?”
“Good traditions and old friends.”
She clinked his glass with hers, but her brief feeling of lightheartedness lessened. He was still playing that “old friends” tune. She could curse her suspicious mind all she wanted, but something in his attitude felt off somehow.
She took a sip of her drink and let it warm her blood. Okay, enough. She was a grown-up now, she told herself, not a foolish schoolgirl, and could handle all kinds of situations, including dinner with Will Jamison. And so they fell into chatting about Nancy’s upcoming marriage to her childhood sweetheart, Bob Weiss. How the town had changed, what had happened to people they both knew. Will was easy to be with, Lou thought. He listened, seemed to be deeply interested in whatever she said.
And, of course, there was that mesmerizing face of his. Eyes that were jade green under heavyish brows and lids, and eyelashes thicker than was fair; a long, thin nose, generous mouth, and just the slightest indentation in the middle of a square, rugged chin. She watched his expression change with each new topic—surprise, amusement, a hint of sadness when he learned of the high school principal’s death, all of it registered on his striking features…and made her stupid heart thump just a little harder.
When their meals came—two huge plates of ribs, corn, coleslaw, beans and garlic bread, hot and spicy and mouthwateringly delicious—Lou was grateful to have something else to concentrate on other than Will Jamison. While he dug in eagerly, she took a bite of one of the ribs and chewed slowly, hoping she’d be able to eat a decent amount tonight.
After Will had inhaled about half his dinner, he put down his fork. A time-out was called for, he decided. He wiped his mouth, finished off his beer and was wondering how to introduce the topic of Lincoln DeWitt when Lou took care of it.
“Tell me about your life as a reporter.” Resting her elbow on the table, she cupped her chin in her hand and gazed at him. “Working on anything special lately?”
“Well, yeah. I’m planning a series for the New York Times about the black sheep of prominent families.”
“Ooh, lots of scandals. Sounds like fun.”
“It is. I’m doing the first one on Lincoln DeWitt.” He tossed the name off casually and watched her face for a reaction.
She shrugged. “Never heard of him, sorry.”
“Really?” When she shook her head no, Will said, “He’s Jackson DeWitt’s brother. The senator from Florida?”
“Now that name rings a bell.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, I don’t much follow politics. I find it too depressing.”
“It is that, but the backroom maneuvering is pretty fascinating.”
She picked up a French fry, dipped it in ketchup and bit into it. That was when Will noticed that Lou’s plate was nearly full. Before he could comment on it, she said, “So, tell me, what’s this Lincoln DeWitt like?”
“He’s got the morals of an alley cat,” he said with a smile. “The man has a huge ego, drinks way too much and, to tell you the truth, I kind of like him. You can’t help it. He’s so up front about what a bad boy he is.”
“Does he know you’re writing the article?”
“Are you kidding? He’s cooperating, one hundred percent. The man loves the limelight.”
Lou offered a mirthless laugh. “Everyone wants to be famous. Not me, thanks. Give me a small, settled life, and I’m a happy camper.”
“Good for you. Better that way.”
So, she really didn’t know, Will realized. Had not an inkling, he was sure of it.
When she took a small bite of her corn and then set it down, again his attention was brought back to the fact that she’d hardly eaten a thing, and he felt concern for her, more concern than was his business.
Not for the first time, he wished he didn’t have two agendas for being here with Lou tonight, the personal and the professional. As a reporter, the two were often linked, and tonight was no exception.
And although he didn’t believe in coincidence, that was exactly what had happened back in D.C. this past Tuesday night that had led to this meeting….
The DuPont Circle neighborhood bar hadn’t been very crowded as, somewhat early for his appointment with Lincoln DeWitt, Will had been catching up on a back issue of the Susanville Courier. His little sister, the paper’s managing editor, always faithfully sent them to him.
He was glancing at the obituaries when a slap on the back told him the man himself had arrived. Lincoln slid onto the stool next to him, saying, “Hey, Will, heard this one? Old geezer is having bed trouble with his old lady. You know, no staying power? Goes to his doc for some hot new meds. Doc tells him there are possible side effects: dizziness, high blood pressure, nausea, even death. Guy shrugs and says, ‘Hey, she dies, she dies.’” Lincoln followed the punch line with one of his big, hearty laughs.
As always, his mirth was contagious, and Will chuckled. “And good evening to you, too, Lincoln.”
DeWitt was a handsome man in his early sixties, with a straight nose, high forehead and a full head of silver hair. But his gut protruded over his belt and there were lines of dissipation around the eyes, a reddened nose, sunken cheeks. Hard living had taken its toll.
After Lincoln ordered his usual double scotch on the rocks, his gaze drifted to the newspaper Will had spread out in front of him. A deep frown creased his patrician forehead as he stared at the Courier’s back page.
Will noticed his reaction. “What is it, Linc?”
The older man grabbed the paper and brought the page that had captured his attention closer. From his vest pocket, he removed reading glasses, put them on and studied the picture. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s my hometown newspaper. Susanville, New York.”
“Janice McAndrews,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“This woman, this Janice McAndrews,” he said, pointing to the page, still frowning. “This is her obituary. Did you know her?”
“Janice McAndrews,” Will said, thinking. “Let me see.”
He peered over Linc’s shoulder and read. There were two pictures, one of a much younger woman—say, twenty years earlier or so—and another more recent one, taken at the age, reported to be fifty-three, when the woman had died of cancer. One survivor, Louise McAndrews, DVM.
“Oh, yes,” he said, remembering now why the name was familiar. “I knew her daughter. Well, kind of knew her. She was one of my sister’s friends.”
“Hmm.” And with that, Linc handed the paper back to him, grinning once again. “So, what’s up? Did you interview Gretchen? And does she still disapprove of me?”
Will wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. “How do you know Janice McAndrews? What is she to you?”
Linc gave an offhand shrug, that good-time twinkle was back in his eye. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Then why the reaction?”
“She reminded me of someone, that’s all,” he answered easily. “But I was wrong.”
“Linc. You’re BSing me.”
After a momentary pause, during which the older man probably realized he wasn’t going to win this one, he said, “Yeah, I am.” He offered another smirk. “Okay, I think, well—” he winked “—I may have been, shall we say, intimate with the lady? Only that wasn’t her name…I think. I really don’t remember for sure. There were a few years back there in the seventies when I was experimenting with all kinds of potions and mixtures. The whole thing’s kind of fuzzy.”
“And that’s it? You sure?”
He splayed his hands. “Hey, I’ve come clean about all the ladies I’ve been with, at least all the ones I remember, haven’t I, Will?” That he had, and the list was long and possibly libelous—the Times’s lawyers would be sharpening their pencils, Will had no doubt.
“Okay, yeah.”
So, he’d let it lie. For the moment.
But Linc’s reaction had been too big for his explanation. Will had a sixth sense for what his interview subjects wanted to hide, and Lincoln DeWitt was hiding something. So later that night, back at his home office, Will had turned on his computer and used Google to search the Internet for Janice McAndrews. He got some references to a classics scholar living in Madrid, several more to a financial adviser based in Chicago. A few single hits referred to school reunions, recipe queries and even more mundane things, but nothing about a Janice McAndrews of Susanville, New York. He might have picked up the phone right then and called Lou, but he knew he would be going home for his sister’s wedding.
Now, here he was, three days later, sitting at Lady Jamaica’s, across the table from the woman he’d hoped might shed some light on what Lincoln DeWitt was hiding.
Light had been shed, but Lou herself was completely in the dark.
“All of us here in Susanville are pretty impressed at how well you’ve done, career-wise,” she said.
He shrugged, tossed it off. “I’ve been lucky.”
“Lucky and talented.” She smiled. “Fifteen years climbing the reporter’s career ladder, and now the New York Times. Everyone always thought you’d be the one to take over the Courier. But I guess the wider world outside of Susanville called to you.”
“That it did.”
“And how was it?”
“The world?”
“Yes.”
There was a flippant answer Will could have given, but instead he found himself taking the time to actually think about it. A series of images flashed in his mind like slides on a screen: bodies being blown up in Iraq; more blood-soaked corpses strewn over the wreckage of a train crash in Spain; large-eyed, hollow-cheeked, diseased children in Sudan. “It’s pretty rough out there,” he said somberly. “I got burned-out. There’s a lot of pain in the world, and way too much violence.”
“So I hear.” Compassion shone from her eyes, followed by a soft smile. “And burnout happens to us all.”
He shifted his attention to her full plate. “Hey,” he said. “Come on, you have to eat something.”
Lou was surprised by the change of subject, then she too looked down. Will was nearly done with his dinner and she’d hardly touched hers. She took a bite of her garlic bread, but could barely chew it. For weeks, her appetite simply hadn’t been there. It was as though her taste buds had calluses on them. Yes, sir, that new weight-loss gimmick—grief.
“I’m not very hungry.”
When their waiter asked if they wanted coffee or dessert, Will looked at Lou and she shook her head. He pointed to her plate. “Wrap that to go and I’ll take the check.”
When they left the restaurant, night had descended fully, lit faintly by a quarter moon that hung to one side of the church steeple like a dangling earring. Lou took in a deep breath of cool evening air and felt her nausea abating.
As though echoing her thoughts, Will murmured, “I always forget how much I love the nights here in Susanville. Clean air. No glaring lights to interfere with the stars. Not much traffic or noise. Quiet.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s stroll a bit before I take you home.” He carried her packed-up dinner in one hand, so he bent his other arm and, as before, offered it to Lou. “Okay?”
