Twyla’s observation landed in the middle of James’s mood with the jarring solidity of a rock lurking beneath the leaves. Yes, the weekend was supposed to be for fun. Crossword puzzles were not fun. Visiting Inskip’s heifers was not fun.
“You could do the exercises with your mom.”
“No. I can’t. They’re too hard, and they aren’t fun.”
“Then you have to negotiate,” James said, feeling a little wicked. “You have to figure out what you each want, then find a way so you can both get it.”
“I want a dog. If I had a dog, then those old bears wouldn’t eat me. We could watch movies together and do homework together and everything. I’d name him Ralph.”
“That’s a fine name for a dog. Did you ever call my nieces?”
Twyla stopped in midstride and peered up at him. “I forgot. I still have the paper you gave me with their phone number on it, but I forgot to call them.”
James boosted her over an enormous fallen oak, then climbed over himself. Inskip would turn the deadfall to firewood next year, and James would enjoy helping him. Not a hobby, not fun, but something to look forward to.
“If you want to call my nieces, I’m sure they’re awake by now.”
“I’ll call them. You’re going to tell Mom I went for a hike, aren’t you?”
James wanted to, for the sake of Twyla’s safety, but also because it was an excuse to call Vera and hear her voice. He’d probably succeeded in scaring the girl out of the woods for a couple of years though. His brothers had pulled the same routine on him when he’d been six.
“I won’t bring it up, Twy, but if she asks me if I saw you out here half lost and bellowing ‘Alice the Camel’ to scare away the snakes and bears and mountain lions and coyotes and rabid raccoons, then I will tell her the truth.”
“Coyotes aren’t so bad,” Twyla said, darting a glance in all directions.
Stubborn. She was Vera’s daughter, after all.
“It’s the dead of winter,” James said, “and you aren’t wearing gloves or mittens. What if you fell and twisted your ankle and were stuck out here for a week while we got out the bloodhounds to find you? You’d freeze, if a bear didn’t eat you first.”
“You aren’t wearing gloves. You’d make a much bigger snack for a bear than I would.”
He gave her credit for trying to lawyer the lawyer. “I know how to scare a bear off.”
“You want to sing ‘Alice the Camel’ with me? My mom sings harmony to it, and it’s a lot more fun than when I sing alone.”
“We’re at the tree line, Twy. I’ll stand here and watch you walk right up to the house. Be sure you lock the door behind you when you go inside, and in my experience, the sooner you confess a sin, the easier it is to live with the penance.”
“It isn’t against the Commandments. I memorized them, and there’s nothing in there about thou shalt not take a walk.”
“Honor thy father and mother, or thy mother will be mighty disappointed in thee.”
She scowled, dropped his hand, and trooped off toward the house.
* * *
Ambling around in subfreezing weather was no way to work out the stiffness James was developing from yesterday’s racquetball session.
Getting old was hell.
He had the rest of Sunday to kill, and no idea how to kill it. He could go into the office—he could always go into the office. He’d gone into the office yesterday after he’d left the gym, and look what that had gotten him.
A sore ass and a draft subcontract that wasn’t due until mid-week.
He could call somebody and get himself invited over for a relaxed afternoon of lovemaking, followed by dinner out, possibly finishing with a movie.
But which somebody? No particular somebody came to mind, and James didn’t typically do the calling. In fact, he never did the calling anymore. Moreover, the whole idea of admitting he was that incapable of filling a day off with something worth doing was a blow he would not inflict on his pride.
Maybe he should lease a horse, a trail horse good for the occasional weekend waddle down the lane.
Except waddling down the lane had never appealed to James—hard to keep a horse fit when nobody broke a sweat—and the reasonable place to keep a horse was Adelia’s therapeutic riding barn.
Adelia, whose number James had tossed. He had a hard copy of that phone-directory file somewhere, but he lacked the motivation to hunt it up. Instead, he got out the local paper and started on the crossword puzzle out of sheer boredom.
As he was trying to think of the British word for grain—four letters—he spotted an advertisement in the next column:
“Piano instruction. Serious students only. Reasonable rates.” The phone number looked to be a cell from the exchange.
He needed a hobby that wouldn’t kill him or freeze his parts off, and he’d always enjoyed music. He’d taken years of piano lessons—his mom had loved music almost as much as she’d enjoyed painting—and he still fiddled around from time to time.
He dialed the number, got one of those android messages, and left his cell number in response.
Piano lessons were a stupid idea, an impulse, and James almost hoped the lady didn’t return his call—assuming it was a lady. He wandered over to his piano, opened the lid, and sat down. Two hours later, he was still fiddling and fussing with a Beethoven slow movement, one he’d never really been serious about but had always wanted to learn someday. It involved crossing the left hand over the right, weaving melodies in and around each other, and James had a recording of the piece that mesmerized him with its lyricism.
He was interrupted when his phone rang, and he very nearly didn’t stop playing. Probably Trent, wanting to compare aches and pains. Well, Trent had Hannah to poor-baby him—
The phone would apparently ring all afternoon. “Knightley.”
“I am calling to thank you, first, for seeing Twyla safely home. This is Vera Waltham.”
An adolescent pang of pleasure hit James at the sound of her voice even if she was in mama-mode.
“You’re welcome, Vera. What’s second? You said you were calling first to thank me.”
A pause, and James envisioned another dinner in that big spotless-but-cozy kitchen. Maybe play some Go Fish afterward and see if the Waltham ladies were inclined to cheat at cards. A little thank-you dinner to the man who single-handedly fended off hungry bears and rabid snakes—or he would if there were such things—to rescue fair damsels lost in the Great North Woods.
This lovely meal would be served with a small but artfully presented serving of crow for the hostess who’d told him they shouldn’t socialize.
Hah. Hah. And Hah.
“Were you spying on us?” Vera asked.
“What?”
“I asked if you were spying on us, or…something.”
The woman was batty—and then James’s mind had to present him with images of the same woman with a dark purple shiner, a busted lip, and a swollen jaw.
“You mean was I standing guard to see if I spotted anybody lurking in your bushes?”
“I don’t have bushes,” Vera said. “I’ve been meaning to landscape. I want to do it myself, but I haven’t gotten around to it. I’m being an idiot, but, James, were you spying on us?”
She needed hugs, and endearments, and a good neighbor. Also the plain truth.
“No, Vera Waltham, I was not spying. I’ve been walking Hiram Inskip’s woods since I moved in here years ago. I also walk his fence lines and stop and visit with his cows. They, however, do not call me up to accuse me of deviant behavior, though they are as pretty a batch of heifers as I’ve ever seen.”
Though the most placid heifers would spook given enough provocation and barrel right through any obstacle in their race to find safety.
“I wasn’t accusing.” Vera’s tone was tense, t
inged with self-consciousness. “I was asking.”
While James had been making a try for humor—an unsuccessful try. “Vera, do you expect a man to admit he’s stalking you? That’s criminal behavior, which is bad enough, but it’s also damned pathetic.”
“I know.”
Two words, and yet they conveyed a world of misery. James hiked himself up to sit on the kitchen counter and wished he had some cookies to munch on.
“Vera, what’s wrong?”
“Somebody has been here. My stepson is visiting for the afternoon, and when I opened the garage door so he could park inside, I noticed the service door had been damaged.”
James did not allow himself to swear. Part of him was relieved that she’d called him—the other part was pissed that she’d needed to.
“What does that mean?” he asked. “Damaged how?”
It meant something bad, because James could hear the tremor in Vera’s voice. A tremor of fear, of nerves held together by indignation and self-discipline.
“They must have tried to get in, then been frustrated when they found the dead bolt had been installed. And, James? This could have happened while Twyla was out wandering around alone in the woods this morning.”
Nobody could awful-ize like a mom could awful-ize.
“It could have happened earlier this week, while you were closeted with my brother, and Twy was safely bored at school. Sit tight, and I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
“Not now,” Vera said. “Darren will leave shortly. Wait an hour, then come. Darren has Twy upstairs, playing some video game, so I stole a minute to call.”
Vera wanted James to come over. That was good. James wanted to go to her. That was…what a neighbor did.
“You sure you want me to wait, Vera?”
“I don’t want to upset Darren, particularly if Donal is behind this. I tore a strip off Twyla this morning, and she’s still not talking to me.”
Thank God for moms who knew how to mom. “She needed to get the message, Vera. I wasn’t going to rat her out, but neither would I cover for her.”
“She probably wasn’t going to rat herself out, but I spied her coming across the yard and was screeching before she was in the kitchen.”
“Good. She probably doesn’t see you screeching very often, and I’m sure it made a suitable impression. I’ll see you in an hour or so, and I’ll expect some fresh brownies when I get there.”
And possibly even a hug.
James hung up, Beethoven forgotten, and debated whether he should call Mac. Breaking and entering was a crime, and Mac was the criminal expert. Except there’d been no entering—this time—but there was trouble. There was definitely trouble.
And there was good news too, because if nothing else, the morning’s developments proved that this time, Vera Waltham hadn’t thrown James’s number away.
Chapter 6
Vera hung up, feeling marginally better. Now instead of stewing over who had tried to break into her garage, she could stew over that and why she’d asked James Knightley to inspect the damage.
Anger gradually calmed her down—anger and the routine of whipping up a fresh batch of brownies. Common sense tried to assure her James Knightley didn’t need to stalk anybody. If anything, he needed to beat the women away with a stick.
Women prettier, younger, and more interesting than a washed-up musician coming off a failed farce of a marriage.
So what was the real reason she’d called James?
Rather than honestly answer that question, Vera cleaned up the kitchen and considered waving James off. What was he supposed to do, anyway? Stand around and confirm her garage door had been hacked at with something sharp?
She brought that unhappy thought to an abrupt cadence and bellowed up the stairs.
“Brownies are out of the oven!” A steady cacophony of explosions stopped, and the patter of not-so-little feet commenced.
“I could smell them all the way up in Twyla’s room,” Darren said. His feet—in loosely laced Timberlines—appeared first, clunking down the stairs. Black jeans came next, complete with rips and holes, followed by swinging chains, a studded belt, and an incongruously soft and comfy red-plaid flannel shirt.
His chin sported bristles, not quite a beard—seventeen could be an awkward age. Vera almost felt sorry for Donal, having created a son whose need to differentiate himself from his staid, stern father had resulted in such displays.
“Who wants ice cream?” Vera asked.
Though Twyla wasn’t speaking to her mother, she communicated to the room at large that she’d like some vanilla ice cream on her brownie.
Darren looked up a few minutes later, spoon poised for the first bite. “You’re not having any, Vera?”
“Not at the moment. What were you two playing?”
“Death and Destruction II,” Twyla said, then shot a guilty glance at her former stepbrother. “It’s not really that violent.”
“Right,” Vera said evenly. “Darren will take it home with him when he finishes his brownie.”
Darren tousled Twyla’s hair. “Good move, brat. For that, I might have to swipe a bite of your brownie.”
That odd, awkward affection he showed a much younger child was part of what motivated Vera to stay in touch with both Darren and his sister Katie. They took after their mother in coloring—tall, slender, pale, and auburn-haired—but they were a stubborn pair too, and Vera suspected half the reason they maintained a relationship with her and Twyla was to thwart their father.
Or maybe brownies had something to do with it.
“Darren can have seconds, can’t he, Mom? He doesn’t have to steal from mine.”
Twyla moved her bowl a few inches farther from Darren as he dodged his spoon in the air over her ice cream.
“He’s a growing boy. They have hollow legs, and his dinner will probably be a couple of hot dogs wolfed down at midnight.”
“It’s a school night,” Darren said, his mouth curving in a sullen line. “I’ll be home by ten or get locked out again.”
“In which case,” Vera said, cutting herself a sliver of brownie, “you know you can come here if you run out of other options.” Donal wouldn’t think to look for his son here, would he?
“Thanks, but my friends put me up when Dad’s a jerk.”
Which, Vera knew, was much of the time, though Darren never missed an opportunity to try his father’s patience, either.
“How’s your mom doing?” Vera asked.
“She’s great,” Darren said, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “I’m taking Katie over there for dinner tonight.”
“Please tell Tina I said hello.”
Darren nodded, but the request likely made him feel awkward. Donal had proposed to Vera before his divorce from Tina MacKay had been final, though Tina apparently bore no grudge. If anything, Vera’s few interactions with Tina suggested she’d earned Tina’s pity.
Which in hindsight made perfect sense.
“Before you take off, Darren, I want to give you a house key. One for you and one for Katie.”
His spoon clattered to his empty bowl. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Your father and I are divorced, but you and Katie are still family to me and Twyla. I don’t expect you to use it except in emergencies, and your dad might be upset to know I’ve done this. I can’t tolerate the thought of you wandering the streets of Damson Valley at midnight in the dead of winter because your watch was five minutes slow.”
Though nobody wore a watch anymore, and cell phones kept accurate time—if they didn’t run out of juice.
“I can always sleep in the car,” Darren said, scraping his spoon against the sides of the bowl. “I’ve done it before.”
“I know, but it isn’t safe.” Vera brushed her hand over the top of his head, as much affection as his teenage pride would to
lerate, and collected his empty bowl. She wanted him on his way before James showed up. If Darren casually mentioned her visitor to his father, all manner of grief might ensue for the boy.
Or for her.
“Someone’s at the door!” Twyla shot off her stool and bolted up the hallway. Darren casually appropriated the last bite of her brownie.
“Finders, keepers,” he said, grinning around a bite ice cream. “They’re good brownies.”
“I made a double batch. Take a couple for the road.” Vera was putting them in a baggie when Twyla came steaming into the kitchen with James in tow.
“Mom, it’s James! James, this is my brother, Darren. He’s allowed to have seconds of the brownies too.”
The kitchen grew smaller with James Knightley in it, but somehow calmer too. James was in jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater that did great things for a long torso and broad shoulders. His cheeks were rosy, suggesting he might have walked over.
“Darren, pleased to meet you. I’m James Knightley.” James extended a hand, and for an instant, Darren merely stared at it. He recovered, wiping his palm on his jeans then shaking briefly.
Good Lord, was Donal unable to teach the kid even basic manners?
“Did you leave me any brownies?” James asked. “I was lured over here by the scent wafting on the breeze.”
“James is our neighbor,” Twyla said, still clinging to James’s left hand. “He lives on the other side of the woods, and he can fix cars.”
Something crossed Darren’s features, respect maybe, for a guy who knew engines.
“Your brownies, Darren.” Vera added a fourth and passed him the sealed baggie. “Please give Katie my love.”
“Right,” he said, taking the brownies. “See you, squirt.” He stuck his tongue out at Twyla, who returned the gesture.
“Get him his video game, Twyla. And, Darren, you know she’s not supposed to play anything I haven’t vetted.”
He colored obviously, as redheads will do. “There’s no blood, Vera, honest.”
The First Kiss Page 9