From behind her, Luke extended an arm covered in brown khaki. He curled his hand around her forearm and moved it over and up. The skin beneath his fingers felt as soft as a whisper. He gauged her height at 5’7, a full head shorter than his own 6’3. Generously curved, the body in front of his brushed against him, igniting an immediate reaction. Steady, he cautioned himself.
He aimed her toward a red valve embedded in the side of the building. “Right there, Miss. See the spigot? That’s a fire hydrant.” He pointed to the curb, where white paint gave way to more red. “That paint indicates the fire hydrant zone. Your bumper clearly extends past the white and into the red.”
“By a centimeter,” Kell protested faintly. A muscled chest pressed against her back and the strong hand that clasped her arm nearly shorted her system. That, plus the fact that the centimeter was more like a foot, had her heart drumming. Adrenaline and unwelcome attraction pumped through her in combative unison. She’d be damned if this hick cop was going to be right. Even if he was.
Switching arguments, she insisted, “The hydrant isn’t clearly marked. This is obviously a trap for unsuspecting visitors to town. I intend to have a word with the sheriff about this. Unless this was his idea of helping you all make your quotas.”
“Sheriff Calder doesn’t have quotas, ma’am. And you got your warning when we painted the sidewalk bright red.” Releasing her arm with reluctance, Luke scratched information onto the pad and ripped off another sheet. He extended it to her, but she allowed it to flutter to the street.
It landed beside the first one. “Ms. Jameson, please pick up the citation.”
“I will not.” Kell folded her arms rebelliously and demanded, “What’s it for?”
“Refusing to obey an officer of the law.” With quick motions, he made out a third ticket. “You going to pick up the other two, Ms. Jameson?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Thought so.” He tore the paper off and handed it to her. “Littering a public street.”
Before Kell could let loose the curses that bubbled up, the radio on his hip beeped imperiously. He walked a couple of paces away and engaged the radio. “Luke here.”
“Yeah, Luke, it’s Curly. Jonice called in and Houston’s tractor is gonna need a new carburetor. She wants to know if the tow can wait until she gets them squared away.”
At the mention of a tow truck, Kell panicked. A greasy, dilapidated contraption dragging her brand-new car to some disreputable garage to await the mercy of some justice of the peace. Over her dead body. Thinking fast, she scuttled to the driver’s door, crushing the tickets beneath her feet.
“And, Luke? Rev. Palmer called in a vandal out at the parsonage. Somebody egged his house last night. He slept in, so he didn’t smell it until the sun got real hot. Wants you to come out and take a look personally.”
“Why doesn’t he call Chief Graves? The church is on city property.” A turf battle with the police chief ranked low on Luke’s list of priorities at the moment. “Tell the good minister to call the police.”
“He did, Luke. No one answered. Everybody except the dispatcher is on a lunch break.”
With an inward sigh, Luke replied, “Tell Jonice not to worry about the tow. And let Rev. Palmer know I’m on my way. I have to finish up here and then I’ll head out.”
As he spoke, the sound of an idling engine engaging caught his ear. Kell Jameson had slipped behind the wheel and was pulling away from the curb.
“Ms. Jameson!” He jogged to car door and barely missed being tapped by her bumper. “Fleeing the scene of a crime.”
“Write me a ticket,” Kell challenged as she streaked away.
“I think I’m in love,” Luke muttered, trying to explain to himself why he wasn’t angrier.
“What’s that, Luke?”
With a self-deprecating laugh, Luke tucked his citation pad into his back pocket and responded, “Nothing, Curly. I’ll be along soon.”
The silver sports car moved quickly, catching every green light until it faded from view. Luke scooped up the tickets he’d dropped and climbed into the F–10 that he drove through town on patrol. He rubbed at his stomach, no longer hungry for food.
But Ms. Kell Jameson had certainly whet his appetite.
CHAPTER 3
“Who are you?”
The speaker waited impatiently for his answer, scuffing a tennis shoe as he swung his foot back and forth. He’d been stuck on the wooden porch for the best part of the afternoon and would be there until he said sorry to Lara O’Connor for pushing her off the swing. Didn’t seem to matter to nobody that he’d called the tree swing first or that she’d jumped him in line when Cody showed him a booger the size of his fist. All because she was a girl and boys weren’t supposed to push. Or hit or kick or anything else to get even.
If questioned, he would have explained his justification and lodged a protest at the unfairness of a rule that discriminated based on gender, especially when the girl could punch like Lara. But pushing girls didn’t afford the offender the courtesy of explanation. Punishment came swift and fierce. Timeout on the porch—no playing allowed.
But when the cool silver car roared into the driveway, Jorden’s day started looking up. The lady driving it wore movie-star sunglasses and was real tall for a girl. She had gotten out of the car and taken the shortcut across the gravel like she knew the place. However, Jorden didn’t know her, and Mrs. F didn’t like strangers coming around too much. Especially when they looked like social workers.
To Jorden, most adults looked like social workers.
He tapped his foot on the porch, like he’d seen Sheriff Calder do when he wanted a quick answer. Pitching his voice in rough imitation, he demanded, “What do you want around here?”
Kell paused on the bottom step. She wasn’t in the mood for impertinent questions or any further delays. Adrenaline from the run-in with Dudley Do-Right bubbled in her veins, tinged with a hint of shame at her panicky flight from justice. Still, she would have given a week’s pay to see the officer’s face clearly as her tires squealed away.
Yet, the lawyer in her had to acknowledge that her ill-conceived departure possessed a major flaw. As she dashed through the second stoplight, she’d considered—belatedly—that her car, with its Law Won license plate, would not be difficult to trace. And Luke struck her as the inquisitive sort. With any luck, though, she’d be safely ensconced in her bed in East Lake in the heart of Atlanta before he tracked her out to the Center.
The little boy cleared his throat determinedly. “I asked you a question, lady. Who are you and what do you want?”
“That’s two questions and the answer to both is none of your business,” Kell retorted as she climbed the steps to the porch. Her hand curved around the white railing that ran the length of the shallow steps. She’d spent many a summer afternoon repainting the handrails in punishment for some infraction. The memory brought a fond smile. She reached the final wooden plank, only to find her way blocked by the boy, whose posture reminded her oddly of Officer Luke.
More familiar was his insistence that she do as he wanted. What was it with men in Hallden today? she wondered in exasperation. Her latest interrogator appeared to be no more than nine years old, his overalls showing signs of a recent brawl. Dust and a darkening bruise streaked below one suspicious brown eye and more dirt held tight to the ripped knees and the red T-shirt beneath the denim straps, one of which hung drunkenly from its mooring. Kell assumed the fight explained his presence on the porch rather than in the backyard with the other children she could hear whooping and yelling.
How many times had she and Fin been confined to the porch prison for breaking one of Mrs. F’s rules? Remembering the slippery mix of outrage and disgrace, she sympathized with the inmate, but not enough to remain on the steps in the direct path of the sun. She brushed past the boy with a murmured “Excuse me.”
Stopping beneath the fan that circled lazily above her head, she lifted a hand to slip her shades up and
into her hair. The boy scurried to place himself between her and the imposing oak door with its burnished brass handle that she suspected he’d polished more than once. Her eyes met the boy’s and she inclined her head in polite acknowledgement. “I’m here to see Mrs. F. Is she home?”
Jorden scowled at the lady’s easy use of the nickname. Only residents of the Center called her that. Even more suspicious now, he stopped tapping his foot and instead folded his arms and glared at the newcomer. “Where are you from?”
“Atlanta.”
At her terse response, the slender young body snapped ramrod straight, alerted by the mention of the capital city. Jorden knew that little good came from visits from there. Atlanta represented power and authority and the worst kind of trouble. Grown-ups from the city didn’t bring good news. They had lots of questions but didn’t say much worth listening to, he’d learned. Still, he forced himself to ask, “You here to take somebody?”
Kell softened as she recognized the apprehension that lay beneath the question. She resisted the urge to bend and, instead, extended her hand in greeting. When he hesitantly placed his smaller one inside, she shook it formally. “My name is Kell Jameson, and I’m not a social worker. I’m a friend of Mrs. F’s and she asked me to come and see her. What’s your name?”
“Not supposed to tell strangers who we are,” he explained apologetically, impressed by the handshake and the smooth, cool fingers that held his. “Unless Mrs. F or a teacher tells you to.”
“That’s a good rule.”
“Yeah, maybe. Mrs. F’s gotta lot of rules. It’s hard to remember them all,” came the plaintive reply. He kept his hand very still, hoping she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t let go. The touch kind of reminded him of his mother’s hand when they used to cross the street. Nice. “I’m on punishment for pushing a girl. Can’t do that, even if they cheat and skip in line and hit you in the eye.”
Kell grinned conspiratorially and bent closer. “I got in trouble for sliding down the banister in the front hall. Flew right into the china cabinet. Had to paint these railings. I also spent a lot of days on the porch for climbing Old Magnolia without permission.”
Eyes wide with disbelief, Jorden returned her smile. “You used to live here?”
Pointing up at a window on the third floor of the house, she answered, “Right up there. The yellow bedroom with the canopy beds.”
“That’s where my sister, Faith, sleeps. Cool.” Jorden considered this new information. A former resident of the Center wasn’t exactly a stranger. If Mrs. F knew her, then she wasn’t strange to them. Deciding to take a chance and break another rule, he offered, “My name’s Jorden. I’m nine and a half.”
“Nice to meet you, Jorden.” Still holding his hand, Kell moved them toward the front door. “Will you take me to see Mrs. F?”
“Sure.” He reached up and twisted the knob of the door. The heavy oak swung on its hinges, and he flew inside, pulling her along. Jorden shouted, “Mrs. F! Mrs. F! There’s a pretty lady here to see you!”
Kell remained in the hallway, buffeted by memories she rarely allowed to surface. Hardwood floors shone with the dull brilliance that spoke of dozens of children’s feet trampling their polished surfaces. The foyer spread wide, its centerpiece a majestic staircase that rose from a broad bottom step and curved up to the second level, where a landing overlooked the main floor. Six spaces carved into bedrooms for children ran the length of the second floor. A second staircase rose to the third floor, where the older children lived in five additional rooms. Two bathrooms served each floor, one for boys and another for girls.
Looking to her left, the mahogany door that guarded Mrs. F’s study and the interior entrance to the library stood ajar. A teenage girl sat cross-legged on an ottoman near a towering bookcase in the library, a book open in her lap. Red hair escaped from a baseball cap she wore low on her forehead, despite being inside.
Hungry eyes skimmed the interior, noting a new sofa in the sitting room, a different table in the dining room. Paintings adorned the walls, an indiscriminate mix of masterworks and finger paint. In the Faraday Center, Southern architecture melded seamlessly with Senegalese weavings and Indian sculpture. Kell had been one of the few in her freshman art class who’d been able to correctly identify both Mondrian and Jacob Lawrence. Of course, she could also throw a punch and a party with equal dexterity. Mrs. F believed in raising well-rounded charges who could fend for themselves.
Sometimes too well.
“Here she is, Mrs. F. The lady with the car.” Jorden skidded to a stop by Kell and grabbed her arm. Together they turned, Jorden chattering rapidly. “I told Mrs. F that I came inside cause you asked me to—even though I’m supposed to be on the porch until she tells me to come in. And that I was very polite when you arrived,” he added hopefully.
At a more graceful but no less hurried pace, Mrs. Eliza Faraday approached their position, hands clasped in front of a salmon pink suit with pearl buttons. A string of real pearls encircled her neck and smaller ones dangled from her ears. Diminutive in height, she nevertheless walked with a carriage that made a person forget she barely topped five feet.
Kell stared, taking in the gray and white hair pulled into a sleek chignon that emphasized the fair brown complexion and direct hazel eyes. A patrician nose too strong for an ordinary woman nicely balanced the determined features that dared comment. At sixty-three, Eliza Faraday wore her years elegantly, as though defying age to stake a claim. She stopped in front of Jorden and Kell.
She looks exactly the same, Kell marveled. Exactly. She took a small step forward, unsure of her welcome. Sixteen years had become a lifetime. She lifted her chin and smiled hesitantly. “Mrs. F.”
“Kell.” The older woman took another step and opened her arms. “Welcome home, honey.”
Even as she promised herself she wouldn’t, Kell found herself wrapped in a hug that wiped away the years of distance and disappointment. A sob pressed against her throat, but she refused to give in to the threat of tears. “Oh, Mrs. F, I’ve missed you. So much.”
Eliza squeezed once, then slipped her hands up to Kell’s shoulders, holding her away. “Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters. Jorden.”
Jorden watched the reunion with fascination, trying to figure out what trouble Kell had been into that nearly had her crying. When he heard his name repeated, he jolted to attention. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Go on outside and join the others. Let everyone know that evening chores start in an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He took off at a dead run for the kitchen door before she recalled that his punishment didn’t end for another fifteen minutes.
“Walk, Jorden. Walk.”
Ignoring the directive, he careened around the corner and disappeared from view. Smothering a laugh, Eliza hooked her arm in Kell’s. “Let’s go have ourselves a talk. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
Echoing Jorden, she responded, “Yes, ma’am.”
Eliza led her into the study, which contained an antique desk and matching captain’s seat, flanked by two Queen Anne chairs upholstered in sapphire. A trio of bay windows framed the side garden. Below the panes, a window seat stretched the length of the wall. A carpet of rich goldenrod gave nicely beneath her feet. Crossing to an open doorway, she poked her head into the adjoining library and motioned to the young girl on the ottoman. When she joined them, Eliza made introductions. “Nina Moore, this is Kell Jameson.”
Nina’s eyes widened in recognition. “The attorney? I’ve seen you on CourtWatch TV. You’re good most of the time.”
Amused by the summation, Kell nodded solemnly. “Thank you. You’re interested in becoming a lawyer?”
Nina bobbed her head in vigorous agreement. “All my life.” She shot her a quizzical look. “Mrs. F told me that you used to live here, but I didn’t believe her. You never mention it in your interviews. Why not?”
“I try to keep the press out of my private life,” Kell equivocated. In truth, very few
people in her life knew about the Faraday Center or Hallden, and she intended to maintain the distance between her childhood and the life she’d created. “What grade are you in?” she asked to distract.
Undeterred, Nina pressed, “But I read an article about you in Glamour and when they asked where you were from, you said Atlanta. You ashamed of being from here?”
Kell shrugged uncomfortably at the direct question. “Of course not. It’s easier to explain Atlanta to outsiders than it is to try to tell them where Hallden is located on a map.”
“I guess so,” Nina conceded doubtfully, clutching her book to her chest. “Did you really date Patrick Cogan after you defended him in that lawsuit? He’s so cute.”
Kell grimaced at the reminder, but was grateful for the new question. “Patrick and I are good friends. That’s all.” To distract her, she glanced at the title of Nina’s book. “What are you reading?”
“A biography of Barbara Jordan. I want to be a lawyer and a senator and then president.”
“Nina is very ambitious. One of my brightest children.” Eliza smiled warmly and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Kell came to visit today, and she’ll be spending the night. Will you go and prepare the guest room?”
Kell opened her mouth to protest that she’d be staying in town, but decided she didn’t intend to offer Nina anymore proof of her disloyalty. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Nodding, Nina sidled toward the door. “Did Mr. Brodie do it?” she blurted.
“The jury found him not guilty.”
Nina scoffed knowingly. “That’s not the same.” At Eliza’s warning look, she stopped. “I’ll go take care of the room.”
“Good. Don’t worry about signing your book out, I’ll remember.” Eliza glanced at the title and made a mental note. “Close the door, please, dear.”
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