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Blair’s hands smacked to her knees and her mouth fell open, but before she could say anything, Jenna put in, “I just remembered…the car’s air conditioner is on the fritz. Is there a mechanic around here who can fix a Toyota?”
Hank and Blair glared at each other for a moment, then Hank seemed to force his gaze back to Jenna. “Yeah. Darryl Andrews at the Chevron in town. He’s good, he’s fair and he’s honest. You might have to leave the car, though. He’s always pretty backed up.”
“Oh.” She frowned. Haven wasn’t exactly rife with public transportation options. Except, she thought on a sigh, it wasn’t as if she was in a split to go anywhere. She didn’t, however, relish the idea of trekking back out here on foot. She jogged, yes, but not in ninety-degree heat, and not five unfamiliar miles. But, since she didn’t know another soul, that meant…
Another opportunity. Oh, joy.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into following us into town, then bringing us back if I have to leave the car?”
The flimsy fork hovered over the hashbrowns.
Blair popped to her feet and stormed back inside.
“I don’t know,” Hank said, stabbing at the potatoes. Not looking at her. “I’m kinda busy this morning.”
Ah. “Blair doesn’t have to come. She’s old enough to stay by herself for an hour or so.”
“And do what?”
Jenna caught herself toying with her wedding rings, tucked her arms against her ribs. “Actually, she’s got plenty to do, including getting started on her required summer reading. Or she can go for a walk, like you suggested.”
Hank glanced up, then back down at his breakfast. “So how come you didn’t remind her of that a while ago?”
“Because sometimes I feel all I ever do is nag. It gets old.”
Silence dragged on between them for several seconds before he said, “She’s not exactly the easiest kid to get along with, is she?”
Jenna’s brows knotted. “At the moment, maybe not. But she’s been through a lot in the past three years. Which you acknowledged yourself.”
“I know I did. But that’s no excuse for her acting like a snot.”
“Oh? And what’s yours?”
Again, his movements stilled. Then he abruptly stuffed his stuff back into the plastic bag and rocketed to his feet, and Jenna thought, Whoa, welcome to Arrested Male Development Central. Talk about getting your boxers in a bunch. If he wore any, that is. Which, considering her earlier encounter, was definitely not a given.
Could she trust a man who didn’t wear underwear?
And while she was musing about all this, Hank reached behind the railing and retrieved the largest toolbox she’d ever seen, the veins on his hand popping out in stark relief as he tromped down the porch steps. Then he turned, his expression kicking up her pulse. Even from here, she could tell every muscle in his body had gone taut, alert and unyielding underneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, his worn jeans.
“If you’re so damn intent on mollycoddling the gal, why’d you bring her out here to begin with?”
Now her heart jumped into her throat, even as her brain scrambled to make sense of his vacillation. He’d certainly seemed sympathetic earlier—why the sudden switch? “I hardly think trying to be sensitive to the emotional needs of a child who’s just lost her mother is mollycoddling her.”
“Thought you said you raised her?”
“I did.” She lowered her voice, resisting the urge to dodge that intense, assessing gaze. “But Blair still knew her mother. On top of my husband’s death, her mother’s came as a blow. And I told you. I’m here on a research trip. I obviously couldn’t leave Blair by herself back in D.C., could I?”
His eyes narrowed. “And she couldn’t stay with anybody back home?”
“No.” Jenna folded her arms over her quaking stomach. But there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about her heated cheeks. “She couldn’t.”
For an excruciatingly long two or three seconds, their eyes remained locked, suspicion rolling off him in suffocating waves. Her potentially fatal mistake, Jenna realized, was forgetting that Hank Logan had been a cop. A good one, too, from what she’d been able to glean. Anything out of the ordinary was liable to set off his alarms. Her being here with Blair, not to mention her deliberate evasion of her sister’s name, definitely qualified.
Why the hell had she thought she’d be able to pull this off?
Then he looked away. The frown was still in place, his jaw still set, but his breaking eye contact felt like being released from a stranglehold. Jenna hauled in a deep, shuddering breath, only to feel it catch when his eyes met hers again.
“Okay, look—I’d planned on goin’ into town tomorrow anyway, to pick up some supplies. Don’t suppose it matters a whole lot if I push it up a day. Just tell your niece, if she goes with us, I won’t get up her nose if she doesn’t get up mine, okay?”
Jenna stood, hugging herself. Even though she stood a step up from the bottom, Hank still towered over her, solid and strong.
And alive. Very, very alive.
She swallowed back bitter, out-of-nowhere tears. “Sounds fair to me.”
He cocked his head, his brows dipped, and Jenna willed the tears back, thinking, Oh, please God, don’t let him ask me if I’m all right.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Got some things to do first, though, before I can leave.” He twisted away, heading down the driveway. “Give me an hour,” he said, his words nearly swept away on the breeze swooshing through the trees, “then come on down to the office.”
A moment or two passed before Jenna collected herself enough to shout, “Okay! Thanks!” at Hank’s rapidly retreating back. Without turning around, he lifted a hand in acknowledgement.
As Jenna watched him stride down the driveway, she realized just how much of a hellish position she was in. While there was no way she was going to tell Hank the truth until she determined whether or not he was worthy of being entrusted with that knowledge, if and when she did decide to tell him, she suffered no illusions about what was going to hit the fan. And yes, she knew she was being judgmental. But she had sole responsibility for the welfare of a child she loved with all her heart, a responsibility she was more than willing to put her butt on the line for…even if it meant royally pissing off the man who was, in all likelihood, that child’s father.
Exactly one hour later, Jenna pulled the Corolla up alongside Hank’s truck, parked outside the office, and honked. And waited. When, after several minutes had passed and no scary, scruffy man emerged, Jenna left the car and went inside, leaving the engine running. An on-its-last-legs air conditioner rattled and wheezed from a small window on her left; the door to his apartment was cracked open.
“Mr. Logan?” She batted the bell a few times. “I’m here!”
No answer.
She drummed her nails on the counter for a second, then walked around the counter and called again. Nothing. So she knocked on the door. Which, not being completely closed, swung open.
She didn’t mean to look, honestly. Nobody was bigger on privacy issues than she was. But the door fell away and the room was just…there.
In all its A-bomb glory. In fact, she was so stunned by the state of Hank’s apartment—she’d seen more orderly dumps—the music, only half-audible over the air conditioner’s groaning, barely registered. Then it did.
Hold the phone—the man listened to opera? To Wagner, no less? She would have expected country. Hard rock, heavy metal, maybe. Opera…uh, no.
Hank’s scowling face was suddenly inches from hers. Jenna yipped and jumped back.
“I said I’d be ready in an hour,” he said.
“Which was up fifteen minutes ago.”
The scowl deepened. He glanced at his watch, some gigundo number that probably did everything but launch the space shuttle. He swore, mumbled “Sorry,” then grabbed his wallet, slid through the door and shut it firmly behind him.
“Anybody ever teach you to knock?” he asked, loping through the office and on outside, making Jenna scurry behind him.
“Anybody ever teach you how to pick up your clothes? And slow down, for heaven’s sake! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”
He did—sort of—then whipped out a pair of sunglasses, ramming them into place as his legs ate up the space between the office and the truck. “Don’t see how I keep my own apartment is any business of yours.”
Okay, he had a point. Besides, so it was a little…messy. That didn’t mean it was actually dirty.
Did it?
“Anyway,” she said, neatly evading the issue, “I did knock. The door wasn’t closed tightly.”
They’d reached the vehicles. Hank shot a glance at her car and asked, “Where’s the kid?”
“What? Oh, she decided not to come. Anyway—”
Hank jerked open his truck door, climbed inside.
“—I guess you didn’t hear me knock over the music. So you like opera?”
Seated behind the wheel, his door still open, he glared at her for a moment, then slammed shut the door. “Yeah, I like opera. Now can we get goin’? I haven’t got all day.”
He backed out of the parking space in a cloud of dust, barely giving Jenna time to hop in her car and follow.
Blair crunched up into a sitting position on her bed and tossed A Tale of Two Cities across the room, then apologized to Meringue for making her jump. God, this was the suckiest summer of her entire life. And A Tale of Two Cities was like the suckiest book ever written. Why did they make them read this boring old stuff, anyway? Like who cared what happened two hundred years ago?
She felt all knotted up inside, like she wanted to cry, but when she screwed up her face, nothing happened. Which is the way she’d felt when Jenna’d told her about her mother, like she should’ve been sadder or missed her more or something. Mostly, she’d just been mad, even if she didn’t really know why.
Feeling weird and jittery, like when she drank a whole Coke before going to bed, she got up and walked out into the living room, Meringue trailing her. Maybe she should’ve gone back into town with Jenna. Except then she would’ve had to ride back in Mr. Logan’s truck, between him and Jenna. No way.
God. Hank Logan was like the weirdest man she’d ever met, acting like he thought he was all cool and stuff because he smoked and didn’t comb his hair or shave.
And she did not like the way he looked at Jenna.
Her arms crossed, Blair stood in the middle of the room—which still smelled funny—listening to the irritating clink-clink-clink from the pull-chain rattling against the overhead fan’s light globe. What was really sucky was having everyone tell you to stop acting like a baby but never letting you make any decisions about your own life. If she’d been older, sixteen or seventeen, Jenna wouldn’t’ve dared drag her out here like this.
Meringue mewed, snaking around her ankles; Blair picked her up, burying her face in the cat’s soft white fur, getting a head bump for her efforts. Then she sneezed and let the cat drop back onto the floor, swiping at her nose.
“God, Merry—keep your fur to yourself!”
The cat flicked her tail and stalked away; Blair plopped down at the dining table where Jenna had set up her laptop and logged online, but nobody she knew was on. So she sent a couple of e-mails to her best friends, DeAnna and Tiffany, but since they had gone to camp, she didn’t know if they could write her back.
She slumped in the chair, her arms folded across her chest. Maybe she should go for a walk or something. Not that she figured there was anything to see, but it was either that or A Tale of Two Cities. So she found a piece of paper and left Jenna a note, squirted on some sunscreen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left, heading for the far side of the lake.
Once there, she found the trail Mr. Logan had mentioned, cutting through the woods. She hesitated, then figured she wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t like she was going to get lost or anything. If she had to, she could always double back.
She hiked for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, hearing nothing but her breath coming in short, ragged pants and a bazillion birds and her thoughts buzzing around inside her head. But it was cooler in here, and kind of pretty, the light all green-gold and sort of…heavy, like being underwater, and eventually the buzzing got softer and softer until she couldn’t really hear it anymore.
The path suddenly brightened ahead of her; a minute later, she came out onto a rutted dirt road leading to a farm or something in the distance. On the other side of the road, a field planted with long, soft grassy stuff rippled in the warm breeze like the ocean’s surface; looking toward the farm buildings, she could see a small cornfield, and beyond that several rows of smallish trees. An orchard maybe.
The bleat of a bicycle horn behind her made her spin around. Blair shaded her eyes against the sun as, in a cloud of dust, three bikes screeched to a stop in front of her.
“Who the heck are you?” yelped one little boy, seven or eight years old. His blond head was shorn so close his ears seemed to jut from his head like open taxi-cab doors. And she could see his scalp, which was kind of gross. Another boy, a little younger, his dark hair just as short, his ears just as big, giggled. But the third rider—who had let out a really pissed, “Wade, for heaven’s sake!” at the blond kid’s question, was a girl. A dark-haired girl wearing a loose, bright purple T-shirt over white shorts with fringed hems. She looked like she might be about Blair’s age, but even under the floppy shirt, Blair could see she already had breasts. The boys were barefoot, their toes practically gray.
“Hey,” the girl said, her light-brown eyes sparkling. Her hair was really long, like to her waist. And she was pretty. Really pretty. Even without makeup. “I’m Libby Frazier, and these are my brothers. Two of ’em, anyway. This here’s Wade, and this is Frankie,” she said, jerking her head toward the littlest one. “He doesn’t talk much on account of he can’t hear out of one ear.”
“Oh. Hi. I’m Blair. Blair Stanton.”
The girl grinned, and Blair could see her eyeteeth were crooked. “Cool name! You new here?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I’m staying with my aunt at the Double Arrow.”
“Oh.” Libby scrunched up her nose. “We live up there.” She nodded toward the farm. “Where’re you from?”
“Washington, D.C.”
“Really?” the blond boy said. “Where the president lives?”
In spite of herself, Blair laughed. “Yeah.”
“Don’t mind him. He’s just a stupid boy—”
“Am not!”
“Are, too.”
“Am not!”
Libby gave Blair a pleading look. “You got brothers?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You’re so lucky. I’ve got five. All of ’em younger,” she said, which is when it finally dawned on Blair that this must be the girl the woman in the café was talking about. “How old are you?”
Blair stuck her thumbs in her back shorts pockets and tried to look cool. “Thirteen.”
Libby grinned so widely, her eyes practically disappeared. “Me, too. Hey—you wanna come up to the house, play some CDs or something?”
Blair hesitated. Libby seemed okay and all, but she was nothing like Blair’s friends back home. What if she wanted to talk about…farm stuff? Or what if she was still into *NSYNC? Or Britney? Ewww.
But then, she supposed it beat talking to the cat all afternoon.
“Okay, sure. Long as I can call my aunt on her cell, let her know where I am.”
Libby’s whole face lit up. “Cool,” she said.
Chapter 3
Hank pulled up in front of Darryl’s office at the garage, where madame was waiting for him, and thought, God save me from needy, moody females.
At this point, Hank wasn’t sure who was agitating him more, Jenna Stanton with those half-scared, half-defiant blue eyes of hers, or her niece, who just plain rubbed him the wrong way. Not that he didn’t understand why she acted the way she did—only too well—but…well, it was just a good thing he didn’t have to deal with teenage girls on a regular basis. He’d go plumb out of his gourd.
And he still couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off about this whole thing, about Jenna’s coming to Haven with the kid. Much as she tried to hide it, the woman was clearly nervous about something. Trouble was, Hank couldn’t tell if she was nervous about something specific, or just nervous in general, the way some women were. Nervous women made him uncomfortable. You never knew when they’d go off on you, usually for no particular reason.
