“What’s your name?” asked Stan in his disinterested voice.
“Qu— John. John.” OK, so John was his middle name. Hopefully that didn’t count as a lie, but he couldn’t risk giving out his first name.
“OK, John.” Stan didn’t sound convinced of the name. “There are a couple of callers ahead of you. Stay on the line and when Dr. Wendy comes on, ask your question as clearly as possible. She’ll want to know how old you are, how old your daughter is, if you’re married, that sort of thing. Oh, and make sure your radio is turned off.”
Stan placed Quentin on hold, though instead of dead air he could hear the radio through the phone. He reached over and switched his radio off, sat on the bed, and wondered exactly what he was doing.
The guys at work would sure make this rough on him if they had any inkling. He quickly dismissed the thought. What were the chances of them listening to the good doctor anyway? Most likely they were camped in front of the tube with a pizza, all set to watch nightly reruns.
He listened as Dr. Wendy raked some poor caller over the coals. She’d gone from sympathetic to self-righteous in the space of two seconds. Not a good sign.
“John, are you there?” Stan’s voice came across the line. “You’re next. Remember, no need to be nervous. State your statistics followed by the question. Dr. Wendy will be right with you.”
Before he could answer, he heard the irritating nasal voice of Dr. Wendy say, “Our next caller is John. Welcome John. How may I help you tonight?”
“Uh, ye— It’s my daughter. She’s fourteen—”
“How old are you John?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Married or single?”
“Single. Widowed.” Was all of this necessary? Just let me get some help for Shayna, Lord. I need to know what to do for her.
“So, John. What exactly is the problem with your daughter?”
“She likes this boy. I found this note—”
“You found a note? What do you mean you found a note? Were you snooping through her things?”
“No, it was on the table with her notebook and—”
“You looked through your daughter’s notebook? John, haven’t you ever heard of a little thing called privacy?”
“It was on the—”
“Privacy John. Privacy.”
Oh great. Just exactly what he needed. A lecture instead of advice. What had he been thinking?
Quentin clenched the receiver, torn between defending himself to this wacko and hanging up on her. Everyone he knew was probably listening, and by tomorrow morning it would be all over town.
****
Amy sipped a cup of tea and flipped through her class papers while she listened to Dr. Wendy Wakefield. The radio psychologist didn’t always say things Amy agreed with, but the show was fun to listen to while she finished grading school papers.
She knew the poor guy Dr. Wendy was giving a hard time to was Quentin. There was no mistaking his husky voice. It certainly had deepened with age, and caused shivers of awareness to trip up her spine. She couldn’t help but laugh at the name he’d chosen.
At first she’d been shocked to hear his voice come over the radio. What possessed him to call a radio psychologist? And since when did he take advice anyway? A lot must have changed in the last seventeen years.
“Now you’ve got your daughter’s teacher in on it, too?” Dr. Wendy sounded incensed. “John, John, John.” She tsked. “You’ve taken the entire trust issue and turned it upside down. Your poor daughter. I cannot believe....”
Growing more and more outraged as Dr. Wendy went off on her usual diatribe, Amy hung on her every word. Quentin was a good father looking out for his daughter’s welfare. It was entirely possible his personality had changed over the years, but she really didn’t think he was the overbearing and controlling type. And even though he’d asked her to keep an eye on Shayna, Amy knew it wasn’t because he wanted to snoop for the purpose of invading her privacy. He wanted to keep his daughter safe. Was there anything wrong with that? Breath held, Amy waited for his response. When none came she pictured him on the end of the line, eyes closed, head bent, in agony over this dilemma with his daughter and the way this woman twisted it around to belittle him. He must be humiliated. Either that or he was livid.
Amy straightened the stack of homework papers from her fourth period English class and set them in her briefcase. The phone rang as she reached for another stack of assignments. Distracted, waiting for Quentin to answer Dr. Wendy, she mumbled into the phone without thinking.
“Hello?”
“Amy?”
She recognized the voice immediately.
“Quentin.” She paused. “I mean, John.”
He met her teasing with dead silence.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“So you were listening.”
“Yeah, still am as a matter of fact. I guess you hung up on her.”
“I did.” He sounded proud of the fact.
“Well, it might interest you to know she’s still lecturing you on the values of privacy and trust. None of your business, John, none of your business.”
“I should have known better than to call Dr. Wacko.”
Amy laughed. “Actually, I’m not surprised at the way she treated you. I listen to her a lot, and there are a lot of people who are probably sorry they ever called her.”
“Listen, Amy.” His voice lost the teasing edge, and Amy’s heartbeat sped up. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you.”
“No, not at all.” She was annoyed at how happy hearing his voice made her feel.
“I wanted to talk to you about Shayna.”
Why did that not surprise her? She struggled to keep the disappointment from her tone. “Look, Quentin, I—”
“No, Amy. Hear me out. I’m not trying to talk you into separating her from Baxter again. I just want some help. You seem to know more about girls this age than I do. What should I do?”
“I don’t really know all that much, Quentin, other than the fact that I was once her age.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
At the husky intimacy of his voice, her stomach plunged and her pulse quickened. Good thing they were on the phone rather than face-to-face. She’d hate for him to see how he affected her.
“So, you want to know whether or not you should lock her in her room until she’s forty-five?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I honestly don’t know, Quentin.” She sighed heavily. “I think to tell her she can’t see Bradley would be a huge mistake. I mean, think about when you were her age. If your parents told you that you couldn’t see someone, wouldn’t it make you want it all that much more?”
“Yeah,” he said. “If I remember right, that’s exactly what happened.”
Her stomach took a dip again. She swallowed hard. “Bad...or good...example. Depending on how you want to look at it. What about her friends? If you tell her she can’t go to the slumber party, what do you think will happen?”
“She’ll be angry at me. Sulk. Stick her bottom lip out and wrap me around her finger.”
Amy couldn’t help smiling to herself. “Yes, Quentin, but kids get angry at their parents all the time. I mean, she’ll want to know why. I’m not saying you have to give her an answer. You could be like other parents and say ‘because I say so.’ But she’s in high school now. Much as you may not like it, it’s a fact. And she’s smart. There won’t be much you can say in your defense to keep her home. It won’t take long before she knows the reason. And you know what you’ll do?”
“Push her right into his slimy grip,” Quentin finished.
Amy blinked and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but yes. You will.”
“So do I just ignore her plans to sneak off to the drive-in and meet this little drool machine?”
Amy laughed. “No, you don’t ignore it. We just need to think this through some more.”
�
�I always loved that about you, Amy. Thinking everything through before you make a decision. Some things never change.”
Loved? It was a figure of speech, nothing more. He probably didn’t even realize he’d said it.
“I— I need to go now, Quentin.”
“May I call you tomorrow then? For advice, I mean?”
Advice? Again, a prick of disappointment. She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes. School’s out at two.”
“Great. I usually take my break then. I’ll pick you up at the school, and we can go get a burger.”
He was moving way too fast for comfort. “Quentin—”
“And we’ll talk,” he said quickly. “Nothing more. About Shayna. I talk better with a cheeseburger in front of me.”
Amy sighed when she finally hung up. A burger with Quentin to talk about his daughter? It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She’d seen him, talked to him. She should be able to forget about him now. Go on her way. Think about starting a deeper relationship with Jared. Jared, in Issaquah, patiently waiting for an answer to his proposal. Jared who understood she needed to think things through before she could commit.
Guilt pricked her at the thought of Jared. Before she left Issaquah, they talked on the phone daily. Other than letting him know she’d arrived in Goose Bay, she hadn’t called him. She really needed to, but she just couldn’t make herself do it tonight. Amy sighed. Texting would be so much easier, but it wasn’t something they usually did, and to start now would most likely give him the indication she didn’t want to talk to him. The thought struck her right in the middle of her conscience. Could that be the truth?
In spite of Jared, and knowing what she should do, Amy couldn’t help her feelings of anticipation at seeing Quentin tomorrow.
And part of her was panic-stricken.
The last time Quentin said he’d meet her someplace, he hadn’t showed. She couldn’t bear it if he stood her up again.
****
“You’re certainly in a good mood this morning, Dad.”
Quentin came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs he’d taken two at a time, and stared at his daughter. His good mood faded faster than a ten o’clock sunset. She stood smiling at him, her head tilted to one side. Her new shorter curls brushed artfully against one cheek.
Guilt assailed him. He’d been thinking about Amy, looking forward to their lunch together, not concentrating on what brought them together in the first place—his daughter and her plans for tonight.
His daughter should have been the one dominating his thoughts, along with a plan to keep her away from Baxter. Instead he’d been thinking of Amy. She’d been back in his life one day and already his priorities were quickly spinning out of whack.
“Good morning, sugar.” He planted a kiss on top of her head and then forced himself to smile even though his guts felt all twisted. “If I seem happy, it’s because I’ve got the most beautiful, grown-up looking daughter in the world.” He mussed her bangs and said, “This new haircut sure does suit you.”
Shayna gave him a sparkling smile, and he knew that even if he didn’t want his daughter looking too grown-up, his words of praise made her feel wonderful.
“I made your favorite breakfast.”
“Let me guess. Cinnamon-brown-sugar toaster pastries?”
Her smile grew wider, and she turned toward the kitchen.
Wondering how best to approach her, he followed. Directly? Subtly? Forcefully?
“Shayna.” He reached for one of the warm pastries piled on the plate she placed in front of him and broke it in half. “About your plans for tonight...”
It might have been his imagination, but he was almost positive Shayna’s hand trembled as she reached for her juice. Guilt over lying to him? Or excitement over her plans?
“Oh yeah,” Shayna said brightly—too brightly, in his estimation. “Ashley’s mom is renting some really great DVDs for us to watch. Pride and Prejudice and Emma. I know we’ve seen them lots of times, but they’re both so awesome. And she’s going to make us some popcorn. Real stuff, not the microwave kind, with lots of salt and butter, and...”
As Shayna rattled off her plans, Quentin was struck by a painful observation. His daughter was an accomplished liar. It slammed him like a fist to his solar plexus then squeezed his heart. When had it happened? It hurt that his daughter, with whom he’d always had a relationship of honesty and respect, could and would lie so smoothly.
He fought the urge to jump up and shout, “You’re lying, and I forbid you to ever see Bradley Baxter again.” Instead, he bit off a hunk of pastry that was decidedly lacking in brown sugar and cinnamon. It stuck in his mouth like a dried-up blob of flour.
He could say nothing about Shayna’s lying, or her plans. Nothing at all. Not yet. Amy said it would be best not to forbid her to go. It would only make matters worse. He needed a strategy, and Amy would help him figure one out this afternoon. So there, he told himself. He didn’t need to feel guilty about Amy dominating his thoughts. She was there for a purpose. To help keep Shayna safe from Baxter.
Feeling better after coming to this conclusion, Quentin reached for his juice, took a long swallow and changed the subject.
“Is Rufus safely locked in his pen?”
Shayna nodded. “Safe and sound, and hopefully he’ll remain that way.”
“Good. Because the last thing I want to do when I come home tonight is chase down a transient duck.” Or deal with Mrs. P. He’d have to remember to make a few calls today to check into her claims.
“It’ll be fine, Dad. I’m more worried about dinner. Should I come home before I go to Ashley’s and make you something to eat?”
She was too young to be worrying about such things. He really had to try and find a housekeeper he could afford. Maybe someone who could be a sort of mother figure. This really wasn’t fair to Shayna.
Quentin leaned over and kissed the worried look off his daughter’s face. “You worry too much, sweetheart. I’ll miss eating with you, but I’m a grown man and perfectly capable of taking care of myself for one night. You have a good time, and don’t worry about me.”
He nearly choked on those last words. Hopefully, though, he and Amy would come up with something to keep her plans from ever happening, to prevent her from having the kind of good time he knew the Baxter kid wanted.
4
As soon as Quentin pulled up in front of his office building, his stomach knotted. Shayna and Amy had successfully swept work problems from his mind. But now he had to face them again.
His business was in trouble. Every time he bid on a construction project, he was outbid. And by the same company, too. He had a feeling it was an inside job. It certainly appeared as though someone was feeding bid information to the competition.
The thought of one of his employees—most of them friends—stabbing him in the back… Quentin shook his head. He couldn’t comprehend it. And yet, for the last few weeks he’d looked at each one of them with suspicion. He didn’t like the way it churned his guts.
Trying not to think of the problems awaiting him, Quentin locked his truck and headed across the graveled parking lot.
“Well, look who’s here. If it isn’t John.” Bobby Farrell, one of the finish-carpenters, greeted him as he stepped through the entryway.
Great. Just great. The laughter and snickers that followed Bobby’s greeting could only mean one thing. One, or all, of them had heard the radio show. It was the last thing he’d have expected from a bunch of construction workers. His secretary maybe, but not the rest of the crew. Of course, he’d learned long ago not to second-guess any of them. He took a deep breath and blew it out hard before looking at his employees. Each one of them wore a grin that needed to be knocked right off their faces.
All except Russell Miller, his project manager and good friend. Russ stood a little apart from the others. His eyes were lined with tension, and his grin seemed to be forced. Something was very wrong in Russ’s life. This wasn’t the first
time Quentin sensed it. He needed to make some time for the two of them to talk.
Quentin first noticed the change in his friend a few weeks ago, and it seemed to only grow worse. He felt a pang of guilt. He’d been so busy thinking of Amy, he’d all but ignored one of his closest friends.
“Hello-o. Quentin?” Louise, his secretary, waved a hand in front of his face.
Everyone stared at him. Waiting for an explanation, no doubt. Yeah, right. Like that would happen.
“Don’t you guys have work to do?” Quentin scowled at them, quelling the urge to slap them all upside the head. Then he glanced through the glass window of his tiny office. Puzzled, he frowned and leaned closer, studying the room. His desk was missing.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“You’re in a particularly lousy mood this morning,” Russ commented. In spite of the teasing tone is his friend’s voice, Quentin heard the underlying tension. Yes, they definitely needed to talk. But now wasn’t the time. He couldn’t spare any sympathy toward Russ in front of the other guys, or Russ would never live it down.
“Yeah, I am. And I’d like to stay that way. Now where’s my desk?”
As if he didn’t have enough on his mind already. Amy, Shayna, the wandering duck, the humiliating radio show, Russ, and now this. And he had work to do—a business to try to save. Sick and tired of their practical jokes, he did a quick scan of the outer office and glared at each employee.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
Bobby, the apparent ringleader, shrugged nonchalantly and walked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Quentin looked at Louise who refused to make eye contact, though he did detect a smirk playing around her pencil-lined lips. They thought they were all so funny. He didn’t see the humor in it, but he didn’t have time to argue either. He’d save the arguing for later.
“I don’t have time to play games. Get out of here, all of you.” He had to finish the supply list for the cabinets at the bakery and then work on his bid for the new bank. He grumbled under his breath and walked through the open door of his office.
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