A Family Kind of Gal

by Lisa Jackson

  Now, if she could just lease the other unit in the basement, she could probably make ends meet. Probably.

  Rubbing the kinks from her neck, she walked downstairs and hit the landing just as the front door burst open. Stephen, his face red with exertion, his eyebrows drawn into a single harsh line, his young jaw set, strode into the house.

  “Hi.”

  He nearly jumped out of his skin. “Mom. Gosh, I didn’t see you.”

  She hurried down the last few steps and started for the kitchen. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “Christina and Ellie made cookies. You want some?”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Ellie said you were with Miles.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. “So?” He snagged a couple of cookies from the cooling rack.

  “Where’d you go?”

  Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he shrugged. “We just hung out at the river.”

  “But you didn’t swim.” His hair and clothes were bone-dry and there was a hint of smoke tinging the air surrounding him.

  “Nope.”

  She knew prodding him any further would get her nowhere, so she changed tactics. “How’s summer school?”

  “Bo-ring.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of milk.

  “You doing all right?”

  “Yeah. Why?” Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, he averted his eyes and paid attention to pouring the milk.

  “Just checking,” she said. She reached for a cookie and took a bite. “It’s a mother’s job, you know.”

  “Crummy job, if ya ask me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it.” She smiled and tousled his hair.

  Rolling his eyes, he said, “It sucks.”

  “Let’s not talk like that.”

  “Fine. I’m going to a movie tonight.” There was only one theater in Bittersweet, and the movies it showed could sometimes be rented at the video store.

  “Are you?” she asked. “You were grounded, remember?”

  “Until today.”

  She couldn’t argue the point. He’d done his time for his disappearing act. “Okay, but first clean your room.”

  He seemed about to argue, but wisely held his tongue and washed down whatever words he was about to utter with a big gulp of milk.

  “Who’re you going with?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t made plans with Miles Dean.

  “Sam.”

  She didn’t bother hiding her relief. “Okay. So who’s driving?”

  “Sam’s older brother, Seth. Is that okay?”

  She decided to trust him. Seth was almost twenty and worked at one of the mills around town. He seemed to be a straight arrow. “Just come home right after the movie, okay?”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  She only hoped so. It hadn’t been that long ago that the police had been questioning him about Isaac Wells’s disappearance, though she hadn’t heard a word since the interrogation at the police station. She had tried to convince herself that the police had found other leads, other suspects, but she still shuddered every time the phone rang, fearing that the long arm of the law was about to reach out and grab her son.

  But that was crazy. She believed Stephen. Surely if he knew more about the old man’s disappearance, he would confide in her. Or would he?

  Trust him, Tiffany. He’s your son.

  * * *

  Jarrod Smith looked as frustrated as a barking dog who’d treed a raccoon and couldn’t get anyone’s attention. He paced back and forth in his office and gave J.D. a quick update on the Isaac Wells case. “The police have had several leads, none of which amounted to anything. Originally, they thought some of Isaac’s relatives or friends were involved. They were convinced the old man had been the victim of foul play—murder, kidnapping, you name it. But nothing seems to fit.” He offered J.D. a sheepish look. “I hate to say it, but it beats me what happened to Isaac. It almost looks as if he just got up and walked away.”

  “Why would he do that?” J.D. asked.

  “That’s the question that keeps everyone coming back to square one—that he must’ve been forced to leave or lost his marbles. Every day in this business, you hear about old men and women snapping and just wandering off.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to clear his head. “But I’ve talked to a lot of people who knew Isaac better than I did. A lot. None of them think he was suffering from some kind of dementia or paranoia or schizophrenia, or anything else. Supposedly the old guy was sharp as a tack. Spent his time running that ranch and babying the classic cars in his barn. Other than that, he kept to himself.” Jarrod settled on the corner of his desk, one leg swinging in agitation. “I even thought that he might have staged the whole thing in hopes of somehow getting the life-insurance money. I thought whoever was the beneficiary of his policies might be in on the con, but nope. All he had in life insurance was enough to bury him. So if he left, he walked away from a ranch worth about a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred thousand dollars—though it was mortgaged for quite a bit—and his old cars, which he supposedly loved more than his half-breed bloodhound that died a month or so before he disappeared.”

  Jarrod picked up his coffee mug, saw that it was empty and scowled. With a thump, he set the mug on to the desk. “How about a beer?” he asked. “I’ll buy.”

  J.D. nodded. “Sounds good.” He liked Smith, who seemed to be a straight shooter. Everyone he’d met in this small town was starting to appeal to him—which was odd. He’d never thought he would like anything to do with a tiny burg and the small minds he always assumed would occupy it. He’d been wrong. Not that he would ever live here. No way. He was making tracks as soon as possible.

  Once they were outside the office building, Jarrod showed him a shortcut through a couple of back alleys that he’d used for years. “An escape route when I was a kid,” he explained. “Believe me, I had my own share of trouble back then, but not half as much as my brothers. Trevor and Nathan gave my mother more gray hairs than she’d ever like to admit.” The late-afternoon sun was still warm, but a cool breeze shot between the buildings.

  They walked through a back door to the Wooden Nickel Saloon and slid into a booth. The interior of the restaurant/bar was decorated with Western memorabilia—everything from two-handled saws, wagon wheels and saddles, to lanterns, mining picks and the heads of stuffed animals, their glassy eyes surveying the premises from high above the bar. Embedded in the thick, clear plastic of each tabletop were genuine plug nickels surrounded by glitter that, J.D. assumed, was supposed to represent fool’s gold.

  They ordered a pitcher of beer distributed by a Portland microbrewery that J.D., as a VP of Santini Brothers Vineyards and Winery, had personally inspected.

  The bar was nearly empty, with only a few stools occupied and one pool table in use. Above the barkeep, mounted on its own angled platform, was a television tuned in to an all-sports network where the scores of the previous day’s baseball games were being flashed. Over the click of billiard balls, the clink of glasses and the whisper of conversation, country-and-western music drifted from hidden speakers. J.D. didn’t recognize the song or the singer and really didn’t give a damn. The music just added to the backwoods, rural America atmosphere that was beginning to appeal to him.

  A buxom blonde waitress clad in tight jeans, boots, checkered shirt and a cowboy hat deposited a frosty pitcher of beer and a bowl of some kind of party mix, then poured two glasses. “Anything else?” Her smile was genuine; her green eyes actually held a spark of interest.

  “Naw, Nora. This is fine. Thanks.”

  “Just let me know if you want something.” She winked at Jarrod, then sauntered back to the bar.

  Jarrod took a long swallow, let out a deep breath and set his glass on the table as Nora swung over to another table, deftly scooping up her tip as she swiped away rings made by the half-full glasses. “Went to school with her older sister, April,” he explained, glancing at Nora’s backside as she
leaned over the table. “I dated April for a few months, took her to my senior prom. Nora was just a little kid at the time.”

  “All grown up now,” J.D. observed as Nora, smiling at several customers, hurried back to the bar.

  “Yep.” Jarrod glanced over his shoulder and watched as she wiped the bar with a thick white towel, then cleared his throat and turned back to J.D. “If you’re asking what Stephen knows about Wells’s disappearance, I really can’t tell you. You’d be better off getting the facts from him, but I doubt that he’s involved. He might have some ideas—kids are always telling tales—and he probably swiped the old man’s keys as a prank that nearly blew up in his face, but no one—not me or the police—really suspects that he did anything. They’re just interested in what he’s heard. The strong-arm tactics down at the station were just to scare him into telling them what he knows.”

  J.D. should have felt relieved, but he didn’t. He still suspected that Stephen was holding back, hiding something important, though what, he couldn’t imagine.

  As he and Jarrod finished the beer, they talked about the baseball season, the past NBA draft and everything and nothing. J.D. learned that Smith had been with the police before breaking out on his own and becoming a private investigator.

  When Jarrod asked about him, J.D. mentioned that he was a lawyer, who, until recently, had been involved in personal-injury cases.

  “So when Philip was killed, the old man pressed me into service,” he continued. “I didn’t jump on it at first, but after an accident on my motorcycle, when I had a few weeks to think about things, I decided to join the family business, at least temporarily.” He drained his glass. “Philip’s death made it clear that life’s too short not to try some new experiences.”

  Jarrod studied the two inches of beer in his glass. “I heard you were making an offer on the Zalinski place.”

  J.D. tensed. “Just this morning.”

  “You know what they say about gossip traveling faster than the speed of light in a small town.”

  “One of the reasons I like the city.”

  Jarrod shrugged. “It’s not so bad here. Sure, there’re a lot of people sticking their noses in everyone else’s business, but it works both ways. If you’re ever in trouble, everyone in town’s willing to pitch in and help you.”

  “Except in Isaac Wells’s case.”

  Jarrod sighed. “Have to admit,” he agreed, “that one’s got me stumped.” He leaned back in the booth. “So how’re you and your sister-in-law getting along?”

  The muscles of J.D.’s shoulders immediately tightened. His jaw clamped, and he braced himself as if he were expecting a physical blow. “Well enough.” Where had this come from and where was it going? J.D. wondered. Smith didn’t seem the kind to pry into another man’s personal life.

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  J.D. nodded.

  “Had a few tough breaks, what with her old man skipping out on her mother and then losing a husband at her age.”

  “She’s holding up.” J.D.’s fingers gripped his glass as if his life depended upon it.

  “She’s strong. Well, all of John Cawthorne’s daughters are. Must be in their genes. Take my sister, Katie. Tough as nails. Growing up with three brothers, she had to be.” His gaze clouded for a minute. “She’s had her share of troubles, too, and managed to get by. Nothing that happened broke her.” He said it almost in wonder. “She’s an amazing woman. In fact, Katie’s one of the most upbeat people you’ll ever want to meet. But she’s pushy as all get-out. When she wants something, watch out, she’ll just steamroll her way through.” Jarrod chuckled, then sobered as he poured a half glass of beer from the pitcher.

  “As for Tiffany, she’s different from Katie. Quieter. More thoughtful.” He rubbed the edge of his jaw. “It can’t be easy trying to raise two kids so far apart in age, especially when the older one seems hell-bent on rebelling. Yep, Tiffany Santini is a helluva woman.”

  J.D. narrowed his gaze on Jarrod. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”

  “Just reminding you what a lucky guy you are to be related to her.”

  “Seems as if you’re related, as well.”

  Smith grinned. “I know. When John married my mother, I ended up with two stepsisters. I guess I’m lucky, too.”

  “So it would seem,” J.D. said, finishing his drink.

  Jarrod reached into his wallet and dropped some bills on to the table. “This one’s mine,” he added when J.D. pulled out his money clip.

  Rather than argue, J.D. tucked the clip back into his pocket “Fair enough, Smith, but the next time, it’s on me.”

  Jarrod didn’t argue.

  * * *

  “So I thought, if you’re not too busy, we—you and Bliss and I—could meet for lunch tomorrow,” Katie suggested from the other end of the telephone line.

  A cold sweat had collected between Tiffany’s shoulder blades. “I guess that would be all right,” she heard herself saying. Katie was trying so hard to get the three of them together. Too hard. But it was inevitable they would meet at some point in time, and Stephen had already let her know that he wanted to belong to a larger family. “How about one-thirty? Doris will be back by then.”

  “Great! I’ll set it up with Bliss, and we’ll meet you at the Blue Moon Café. They’ve got outdoor tables.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Tiffany promised and hung up. Great. She was going to have to deal with her sisters whether she wanted to or not.

  She heard the front door open.

  “Tiffany?” J.D.’s voice rang through the house. Tiffany braced herself. The tension between them had been so thick, she was certain it could have been sliced with a butcher knife.

  “In here.” She was in the hallway when he met her.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Out for a couple of hours or so. Christina’s with Mrs. Ellingsworth, and Stephen’s with some friends at the movies—”

  “Great.”

  Great? Why didn’t she think so?

  “It’s time we took a little time off and celebrated.”

  Something in his voice gave it away. She felt a cold, dark emptiness as she said, “A celebration. Why? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s because you’re leaving.”

  He paused, his gray eyes holding hers for an intimate second. “It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment I walked in your front door.”

  Oh, dear God. No. The thought of the house without him caused a new dread to fill her heart. “But—but your lease is for six months.”

  “I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the knots of tension in his muscles. “But I’ll keep the apartment because I’ll be back.”

  Her stupid heart soared at the thought. “When?”

  “Off and on, probably a couple of days a month.”

  “That’s all?”

  A smile slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me.”

  She managed a cold smile. “In your dreams, Santini.”

  “Always.”

  She froze, and something in his eyes beckoned her, touched that part of her soul she’d tried to keep hidden. “Come on, Tiff,” he said, his voice low. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  “What?”

  His flinty eyes sparked as if with a very private secret. “The reason I can leave sooner than expected.”

  “Oh,” she whispered and felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut. “Sure.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes. No.” Confusion tore at her. She’d told herself a million times over that if only J.D. would go back to Portland, or LA or Timbuktu, for that matter, her life would be better, but now, faced with the fact that he would be gone, she felt none of the elation she’d hoped for. “I, uh, don’t know.”

  His eyes searched her face, as if hunting for a hidden message, a silent clue to her feelings. For a second she thought he would kiss her.
Instead he pulled on her hand. “Come on, Tiff.”

  She couldn’t resist.

  Before she could come up with one bit of argument, she was inside his Jeep, sitting close to him and staring out the windshield as the main streets of town faded behind and they were on a winding country road, slowing for a tractor pulling a mower, whipping around a truck towing a horse trailer, and avoiding squirrels that dashed frantically across the strip of asphalt that carved through the hills.

  “Ever heard of the Zalinski place?” J.D. asked. The windows of the Jeep were open, and the hot breeze that filtered in ruffled his hair and tugged at her ponytail.

  “I’ve met Myra Zalinski at the agency. They moved.”

  “But they hadn’t sold their farm. Until today.”

  “You bought it?”

  “Actually, Santini Brothers did.” He drove past Isaac Wells’s property, and Tiffany felt a chill as cold as death when she wondered what had happened to the old man. Where was he? And what, if anything, did Stephen know about his disappearance? Nothing. He knows nothing! Remember that, Tiffany. Trust your son.

  A little farther up the road J.D. turned into a winding drive that was little more than two graveled ruts. Tall weeds grew along the sides of the lane and between the tire tracks, scraping the bottom of the Jeep. A few cattle stood in the surrounding fields, and a creek, little more than a trickling stream in the late summer, wound its way into a tiny valley where the house sat, its windows shut tight, the curtains drawn.

  “What made you choose this place?”

  “Size, price, proximity to the freeway, the general appearance of the land and a gut feeling.” He slid her a knowing glance as he parked the Jeep near an ancient oak tree with spreading branches. “It’s not a done deal yet,” he said, “but it looks like it should fly.” His mouth drew tight at the corners, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just what Dad was looking for.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to tell him adios so that she could get back to living her life the way she wanted, without Santini eyes watching her every move and judging her. Another part had decided that she liked having him around, that he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as his father, that he really did care about his niece and nephew. Yet another part—one she didn’t scrutinize too closely—wanted him to stay because she was fool enough to love him. An ache had already begun to settle around her heart, and she tried desperately to ignore it.