Hometown Girl

by Margaret Watson

  “I will.”

  He climbed into a black-and-white SUV and drove off, but Claire stared after him for a long time, astonishment and an unfamiliar longing tangling inside her. The people in Monroe continued to surprise her. Maybe things in Monroe really had changed. Maybe it was no longer the place that starred in her nightmares.

  Maybe living in Monroe wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  She had barely gotten started working again when the phone rang. She needed caller ID, she told herself as she reached for the phone. Right now, she couldn’t ignore any calls, knowing they could be from her office.

  Or from Nick’s school.

  Judging by the time of day, it was undoubtedly another crisis at the office, she thought wearily as she picked up the phone.

  “Claire Kendall.”

  “This is Roger Vernon.”

  Her hand froze on the telephone. Had Roger somehow found out that she’d spoken to Andrea?

  “Claire?” His voice held the same note of irritation at her inattention that she remembered so well.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?” She was proud of the steadiness of her voice, proud of her calm professional demeanor.

  “I’ve been retained by a client to represent him in a custody suit. My client is Nicholas Kendall’s natural father and he will be seeking custody of the boy.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ROGER’S WORDS SLAMMED into Claire’s gut. “What?” she managed to say.

  “I think you heard me.” There was vindictive satisfaction in Roger’s voice. “Your nephew’s father wants custody of his son.”

  Claire closed her eyes, fighting off the stunned shock threatening to swamp her. “I didn’t expect this, even from you, Roger.”

  “This isn’t personal, Claire. This is business.” A sly, gloating note of triumph underlined his words. “You never were able to tell the difference.”

  Ten years ago, the condescending superiority in Roger’s voice would have made her flinch. Now it made her angry. “I know the difference, Roger,” she said sharply. “I’ve been running my own business for several years now.”

  He paused a beat too long. “Your own business? What kind of business?”

  “I don’t think that’s relevant.” She closed her eyes, struggling to control her emotions. She’d defeated Roger ten years ago. He had no power over her. “What do you want, Roger?”

  “I told you. My client wants custody—”

  “I heard that part,” she interrupted. “What do you want? Besides humiliating me, I mean.”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. Then Roger said, “You always did exaggerate, Claire. I see that hasn’t changed.”

  “What do you want, Roger?” she repeated.

  “We need to meet,” he said. “I’ll stop by your house later this morning.”

  “No, you won’t,” she answered in a pleasant, businesslike voice. “I’ll come to your office. I can spare you some time at…” She flipped some pages, as if checking a schedule. “I can come by at eleven o’clock.”

  There was a pause. Then Roger said, “Fine,” in a sulky voice.

  “I’ll see you then,” Claire answered, hanging up the phone without waiting for a response.

  She wiped her damp hands on her shorts and took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Roger was merely trying to cause trouble, she told herself. He had no idea who Nick’s father was. No one did.

  But she knew Roger well enough to recognize that gleeful tone in his voice. He was very certain that he’d outwitted her.

  Was it possible he’d discovered who Nick’s father was?

  There was only one way to find out.

  AT ONE MINUTE before eleven, Claire adjusted the jacket of her best black business suit and opened the door to Roger’s office. An older woman sat at the reception desk, looking at a magazine. When Claire walked in, she tilted her head.

  “May I help you?”

  The receptionist’s gaze was cool and assessing, but there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. Claire gave her an impersonal smile. “I’m here to see Roger. I have an appointment at eleven.”

  The woman gazed down at her appointment book and frowned. “I don’t see anyone down for eleven o’clock.”

  “Roger must have forgotten to tell you,” Claire said, sitting down and reaching for a magazine. She began reading without having any idea of what the words meant.

  “I’ll check,” the woman said after a moment.

  She disappeared into Roger’s office and reappeared a few minutes later. “He’ll be right with you.”

  “Fine,” Claire murmured, knowing Roger would make her wait at least fifteen minutes. “I can spare five minutes.”

  When six minutes had passed, Claire stood up and smoothed her skirt. The receptionist looked up, startled.

  “Tell Roger to call me for another appointment. I had to squeeze this one in, and I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Wait a minute.” The receptionist jumped to her feet. “Let me check with him before you leave.”

  Moments later Roger appeared in his office door, a brittle smile on his face. “Come on in, Claire,” he said. “I’m glad you could come by.”

  “You’re lucky I had an opening in my schedule.”

  Roger stood at the door, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. She smiled inside at the shock in his eyes. She’d dressed very carefully for this meeting.

  The blue shirt beneath the black silk Armani suit she wore fit her like a glove, and her shoes cost more than she used to make in a week. Her employees called the outfit her close-the-deal suit.

  Roger scowled and closed the door behind her a little too hard. “Have a seat,” he muttered.

  She sat and watched him, a polite smile on her face.

  He met her eyes once, looking away quickly when she didn’t blink or back down.

  “What is this about, Roger?” she asked.

  “I told you on the phone. Your nephew’s father wants custody of him.”

  “And how do you know this man is Nick’s father?”

  He flashed a superior smile. “I assure you, he is.”

  “I’m sure you don’t expect me to take your word for it. He has proof, I assume?” She crossed her legs and raised her eyebrows.

  His smile faltered. “We’ll be requesting DNA tests.”

  “So he has no proof. Who is he?”

  “I’m not authorized to reveal his name at this time.”

  “Really?” She held Roger’s gaze with her own. “He’s claiming to be Nick’s father but he won’t tell us his name?”

  “He’s waiting for proof before he comes forward.”

  “So he’s not sure he’s Nick’s father, either.”

  Roger glanced down at the papers on his desk. “He thinks there’s a strong possibility.”

  “There’s a strong possibility that a lot of men could be Nick’s father,” she said. Her voice was blunt. “And I’m sure he knows that.”

  His grip tightened on his pen. “I’m surprised you’d talk about your sister that way. But you never did have any loyalty, did you, Claire?”

  “That depends on how you define loyalty,” she said. She leaned forward, locking her gaze on his. “I define it this way. I’m not going to allow you to hurt my nephew. Or use my nephew to punish me. I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent that.”

  “Are you threatening me, Claire?”

  “No, I’m just telling you the way it is.” She raised her eyebrows. “Why would I threaten you? Have you done something you shouldn’t have done?”

  “You’ve changed,” he said, staring at her.

  “You mean because I won’t let you bully me?” She gave him a thin smile. “I grew up a long time ago. You can’t hurt me, Roger. Think very carefully before you try to get at me by hurting Nick. I won’t allow it.”

  While Roger stared at her, she reached into her purse. “I’ll contact my attorney and have him get in touch with you.” She
laid a business card on the desk, watched Roger’s eyes widen when he read the name on the card. Even in Monroe, Roger would have heard of Paul J. Caputo. He was one of the most powerful attorneys in Chicago.

  “I’ll expect to receive all the information you have, including this man’s name and the basis of his claim to be Nick’s father. Have it ready when Paul calls you.”

  She swept out of the office and didn’t pause until she was on the sidewalk. Her hand shook as she reached in her purse for her sunglasses.

  “You won,” she said as she drove away from the office. “You didn’t let him bully you. You didn’t back down.”

  But she was still shaking when she walked into her house a few minutes later.

  CLAIRE GLANCED OVER at Nick as they cleaned up after dinner that night. Their lives had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. During dinner, she’d ask Nick about his day. He still didn’t say much, but he’d begun to tell her bits and pieces. Mostly about football practice, she admitted, but that was better than the strained silence that had accompanied their first meals together.

  The angry, sullen boy was still there, but he didn’t appear quite as often. There were times when Nick seemed almost happy, enjoying the football team, making friends with his teammates. The phone had begun to ring for Nick, and judging by the blush that flooded his face once in a while, some of the callers were girls.

  Nick was regaining some of his balance. Staying in Monroe had been the right thing to do, she admitted. And the therapist Nick visited once a week had helped, too.

  What would happen if she told him about the man claiming to be his father?

  She had no idea. But it wasn’t hard to imagine the emotional storm it would cause. She needed to talk to someone, needed some advice. Someone who would have more insights into a fifteen-year-old boy.

  Tucker. She wanted to talk to Tucker.

  Warning signs flashed madly in her brain, but she ignored them. Tucker had been a fifteen-year-old boy once. And he dealt with them every day. He was the perfect person to ask, she told herself. Much more logical than Judy Johnson, a woman she barely knew. Much more logical than Nick’s therapist, a man she didn’t know at all. Much more logical than anyone she could think of.

  A part of her said she just wanted to see him again. She ignored that mocking voice and tried to focus on what was best for Nick. She had no idea, she realized. No idea what would be the best thing for him.

  “I’m going to do my homework,” Nick said as he hung the dish towel on the rack. “If I get it finished in time, can I watch The Simpsons?”

  “Yes, you can,” she said, giving him a quick smile. “Anything you need help with on your homework?”

  “Nah. I have to write a stupid essay.”

  “About what?”

  “About the guys who wrote the Constitution. We have to write about why they did it and if it was smart or not.”

  “That’s for Coach Hall’s class, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Nick scowled.

  “I thought you liked Coach Hall.”

  Nick kicked at the table leg. “I said he was a good coach. I didn’t say anything about his class.”

  “It sounds like an interesting topic,” she said, suppressing a smile. She remembered all too well how much she’d disliked writing essays in high school. She also knew that the information in those essays was what she remembered most vividly.

  Nick snorted as he headed up the stairs. After he’d disappeared into his room, she wandered out into the backyard and sat on the porch steps, wishing Tucker were sitting next to her. And it wasn’t just because she was attracted to him, she realized.

  Beneath the teasing, lighthearted exterior was an intensely caring man. A man who noticed everything. A man who’d struggled with his own demons, if the shadows she’d seen in his eyes were any indication.

  A man she trusted. She could ask his advice about Nick’s father, and he would give her a thoughtful, honest answer.

  Before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed her cell phone and punched in his number. He’d given it to all the players on his team, as well as their parents, and she’d programmed it into her phone.

  For emergencies, she’d told herself.

  His phone rang three times before he picked it up. “Hall,” he said. His voice was abrupt.

  “Hi, Tucker. This is Claire. Claire Kendall. Am I disturbing you?”

  “Hello, Claire.” His voice lowered. “Hell, yes, you’re disturbing me. I’ve been…disturbed since I left your house on Saturday night.”

  Her heart jolted in her chest and she almost said, “Me, too.” Instead she cleared her throat. “Um, I meant are you busy right now?”

  “Not at all.” His voice sharpened. “Are you all right? Is Nick okay?”

  “We’re both fine, but I need…I need to talk to someone. About Nick. And I thought of you.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Before she could answer, he hung up. She snapped her phone closed, rubbing her damp palms on her shorts. She’d called him on impulse, and uneasiness congealed into a hard ball in her stomach. What had happened to the woman who didn’t take chances, the woman who thought everything out logically before she acted?

  That woman didn’t call men on an impulse.

  But Tucker Hall was on his way over to her house, and she’d have to face him in just a few minutes.

  In far too short a time, she heard the crunch of his tires turning into her driveway. She hurried to the front of the house before he could ring the doorbell and alert Nick to his presence.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. She was breathless from hurrying, she told herself.

  He took her hand. “I’m glad you called. What’s going on?”

  “Let’s go around back.” She glanced up at Nick’s bedroom window. “I don’t want Nick to know you’re here.”

  He nodded and walked around the side of the house, but he didn’t let go of her hand. When they reached the back porch, he drew her down on the step next to him.

  “What’s up?” he asked, studying her face.

  She took a deep, trembling breath and closed her eyes, trying to figure out the best way to tell him. “I got a phone call today,” she began, opening her eyes to watch his face. “From Roger Vernon.”

  “What did he want?” Tucker asked with a frown.

  “He told me…” She swallowed a hard lump of fear. “He told me he was representing a man who claims to be Nick’s father. He wants custody of Nick.”

  “What? Doesn’t Nick know who his father is?”

  “No, no one does. Janice never told anyone, as far as I know.”

  “Including her family?”

  “Especially her family.” She glanced down at their clasped hands and drew hers away. “Janice ran off after she got pregnant.”

  “Do you think she told Nick’s father?”

  Claire shrugged. “I have no idea. But I’d guess not. Janice was pretty wild. And very stubborn.”

  Tucker slipped a strand of hair behind her ear, let his fingers linger on her cheek. Then he reached for her hands again. “Do you believe Vernon?” he asked.

  She bit her lip. Why didn’t she see this coming? She had to tell Tucker. She’d asked for his advice, and her history with Roger was relevant.

  She didn’t want to expose herself that way. She didn’t want Tucker to know about her past.

  This was what happened when you gave into impulse, she told herself grimly.

  “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “He acted as though he was certain, but he didn’t have any proof. And he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, give me the man’s name.”

  “Based on the way you look, I’m wondering if Vernon has another agenda,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” she said. “He does.”

  He didn’t say a thing. Instead he shifted closer to her.

  She stared down at the porch, focusing on a nail in one of the boards that had loosened. “He’s doing it to strike at me. To punis
h me.”

  She felt him tense next to her. “Why would he want to punish you?”

  Here it was. The part of her past she wanted to hide from Tucker. The part of her past that still shamed her. “I was married to him ten years ago.”

  “What?”

  She heard the shock in his voice and fisted her hands in the material of her shirt. “We were married for two years. I divorced him before I left Monroe.”

  “You were married to Vernon? That pimple on the backside of humanity?”

  “I was young,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “There were problems with my family. I thought Roger could give me what was missing from my life.”

  “So he wants to punish you because you divorced him?”

  She nodded. “Roger doesn’t take losing well.”

  “I know.”

  She looked at him, hearing the bitterness that reverberated through his voice. “What did he do to you?”

  “I got onto the wrong foot with him even before I moved here. Apparently he considers himself the most important citizen of Monroe. He didn’t like the fact that an outsider wanted to buy my house. Especially an outsider with a little bit of celebrity.” Derision filled his eyes. “My house had been vacant for years, but when he heard I’d put in a bid for it, he went to the Realtor and told her that the house was part of Monroe’s history and should be sold to someone who was a part of the town. When she told him that my bid had already been accepted, he got angry.” His mouth thinned. “He found some information about me and spread it to anyone in Monroe who would listen.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “That sounds exactly like Roger. He always wants the best toy and gets angry and vindictive if he doesn’t get it.”

  “Now he wants to use Nick to punish you.” Tucker picked up her hand, massaged her fingers.

  “Yes.” She swallowed, trying to concentrate on her dilemma with Nick instead of the feel of Tucker’s hand rubbing hers. “But what if he’s right? What if he somehow found out who Nick’s father is? Nick has a right to know. But he’s so fragile right now. I don’t know how to tell him, or even if I should tell him.”

  “Hell,” Tucker muttered, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing her palm. “You don’t ask easy questions, do you?” He gave her a wry smile, kissed her palm again. “And here I was hoping you wanted advice on a lingerie problem.”