Love, Marriage And Family 101

Faced with his barely leashed fury, Pamela blanched. “W-well,” she stammered before gathering herself together with a flare of indignation. “I thought she had your permission.”

“Did she say she did?”

“Not in so many words, no.” Pam tossed her glossy mane with obvious pique. “But she certainly had, the money.”

“Money?” Just that morning Corinne had demanded her allowance—fifteen dollars—because she was broke. Mike had told her she’d get it as soon as she did her chores.

“How much money?” Mike asked, sickness gathering in the pit of his stomach.

“She had a fifty-dollar bill.”

She had a fifty-dollar bill. Letting himself into the house, Mike was still reeling from that statement and its implications. His daughter was no longer just a rebel at odds with herself, her father and her circumstances, she was a thief. A thief!

Thunderstruck, Mike had abandoned his grocery cart and walked out of the store without another word to the visibly shaken Pamela.

Dropping onto a chair at the kitchen table where a cereal box and two milky bowls bespoke this morning’s hasty departure, he felt as if he had taken a beating—defeated and sore right down to his bones. He felt so deeply and utterly betrayed that he would have wept had he had the tears.

Putting his elbows on the table, he dug his fingers into his scalp and despaired of ever being able to reach his daughter after this.

What had the teacher said after he’d spelled out to her how things were between Corinne and him?

“Time, patience and love, Mr. Parker. That’s what your daughter needs from you right now. Except for the basics such as pulling her weight around the house, leave the rules and the discipline to me here at school for the time being….”

So how do you propose I handle this, Ms. McKenzie?

Mike raised his head. He looked around the cozy kitchen, his eyes flicking over each familiar item they’d brought with them from Idaho as if he’d never seen any of it before. His gaze stopped at the white porcelain cat with its slightly chipped, raised black paw.

It was Becky’s cookie jar, which now served as the bank for the emergency cash he liked to keep around the house. A couple of hundred dollars, for those unexpected incidentals. It was a carry-over from his parental home, and probably no longer even necessary in this day of credit cards and ATMs.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving the silly cat, Mike rose from his chair and walked over to the shelf on which it sat. He stood in front of it for a long time, staring at it and debating with himself whether he really wanted to do this or not. He leaned heavily toward not. There really was a certain comfort in not knowing the truth.

Coward? No.

Jaw set, Mike grabbed the jar. Putting one hand on one of the cat’s ears, he raised the lid. He set lid and jar down on the counter and reached inside. Irrationally, his heart lifted a little as his fingers latched onto several bills. As if having Cory steal from strangers was better than having her steal from him. He pulled the bills out There were four of them. He fanned them a little. Three twenties and a ten.

His chin dropping to his chest, Mike closed his fist around the bills, crumpling them. A sound very much like a dry sob rose into his throat and refused to be swallowed. It burst from him with terrible force as he blindly stared at the crumpled bills in his hand and raggedly exhaled.

In all, the bank was short one hundred and thirty dollars.

Chapter Two (#ulink_0369e0b6-cd51-5e9d-b5a3-f50691f57c0d)

It was well past six o’clock when Hally pulled her classic, buttercup yellow convertible VW Bug into the drive on her side of the duplex she co-owned with her mother. The house was a white stucco affair, pre-World War II, and each half had its own sweep of wide steps leading up to its own pillared veranda and its own front door. A lawn hardly bigger than a place mat separated the two sets of steps that were each flanked by flowering shrubs.

A one-car garage sat back from each side of the house at the end of the respective driveways, but neither Hally nor her mother used the squat little building for its designated purpose. For Hally it served as a catch-all storage place while Edith Halloran McKenzie had converted the garage into a studio in which she created her fabulous stained-glass art.

Hally could hear the telephone through her screened open windows as she unlocked her front door. Hurrying inside, she tripped over Chaucer who, as usual, appeared out of nowhere and was trying to beat her into the house.

The cat yowled his indignant protest, drowning out Hally’s muttered epithet. In the kitchen, she lunged for the phone just as its ring abruptly stopped.

Garnet Bloomfield, she thought with a baleful glare at the instrument. With a sigh of vexation, she plunked her bulging tote on the nearest chair and her keys on the kitchen table. Probably called to read me the riot act for not showing up for aerobics.

As if I had a choice.

Out of sorts, Hally bent and absently stroked Chaucer who was winding himself around and between her legs in a bid for apology and attention. She fretted. The meeting with Michael J. Parker had been necessary but, darn it—this new school year was supposed to be the beginning of a whole new chapter in her life. Her horoscope had said as much. Her bank account agreed—come June it was time to cut loose and make a change.

Which meant that come June she would pack her bags, lease out the house and hit the road to Florence, Italy, for the year-long sabbatical that had always been her dream. Or, if not always, at least since a certain medical student had cured her of romance back in college.

Before the trip began, however, she planned to be a whole different person. For one thing, she intended to have a leaner body. And long, smooth tresses that could be swept back into a simple and classic hairstyle. She also meant to acquire the kind of simple and classic wardrobe in basic black, taupe and cream that never went out of style. Especially in Europe.

“I’m gonna have to get tougher with my time, Chauce,” she muttered, and puffed out another long breath of vexation as she straightened. Today’s aerobics class was to have been step one on the road to Fiorenze. Tomorrow night’s Italian language class would be step two.

“And nothing’s darn well going to interfere with that,” Hally emphatically informed the cat. Living alone, conversations with Chaucer were a normal occurrence. “I’ve waited too long for this to let myself get sidetracked by other people’s problems.

“Oh, all right.” Giving in to the cat’s insistent pleas, Hally grabbed a can of cat food out of the cupboard, opened it and dumped it into a bowl. “If you aren’t going to listen, you might as well eat.” She set the food on the floor. “Here. Stop complaining.”

As Chaucer fell on his meal as if he hadn’t had nourishment in years, Hally filled another dish with water, set it on the floor, as well, and flicked on the radio.

“Police used tear gas and water hoses to subdue hundreds of rioting teenagers at Milton Stadium where the Leapin’ Lizards, a popular rock group, unexpectedly canceled their scheduled appearance….”

Horrified by what she was hearing, Hally stood frozen at the sink. Teakettle in hand, she stared at the radio. Almost certainly some of the kids involved or affected by the mob scene would be students of hers.

“One death and scores of injuries are reported. Details in—”

Hally didn’t wait to hear more. Her resolution of nonextracurricular involvement forgotten, she had already scooped up her keys and was out the door.

It was not very far from her house to the stadium, a couple of dozen blocks. Hally broke several traffic laws on her way over, ignoring stop signs and speed limits alike. A sense of urgency spurred her on; she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was needed at the site.

Pandemonium reigned on the street in front of the stadium. Hally got out of her car several blocks away and ran the rest of the way on foot. Patrol cars, lights flashing like psychedelic beacons, formed a four-direction barrier around the milling crowd that was surrounded by officers in riot gear. Several ambulances with rotating lights like glaring strobes were inside the parameter. The air smelled of sulfur and hovered like rancid fog over the nightmare scene. The noise was incredible—shrill, desperate and angry human voices trying to make themselves heard over sobs, screams and curses punctuated by sirens, and the thud of nightsticks connecting with the backs of those who still dared rebel.

Hally pushed and elbowed her way through the volatile crowd of spectators, parents and freaked-out kids who surged against—and were barely held back by—the human bulwark of the riot police. She didn’t know whom she was looking for. No one in particular she would have said, if asked. She only knew she had to be here, to be available to help in case—

When she suddenly saw Mike Parker, grim-faced and ashen, at the far edge of the crowd, the realization that she’d come here looking for him smacked her in the face like a stinging slap. Oh, no-oo…

Appalled, she tried to spin on her heel and run the other way. Hemmed in by the crowd, however, this was impossible. She did the next best thing and sharply averted her face, though not before noting with a pang that the man seemed to have aged ten years since leaving her office less than two hours ago. And that his formerly immaculate hair was a mess of rumpled waves, his suit jacket hung open, and his loosened tie was askew. He looked like he’d been through the wringer.

Because all of her nobler instincts urged her to rush to him and offer assistance, Hally fought desperately to stay where she was. Face contorted from battling herself as much as from the jabs, shoves and pushes the milling crowd was inflicting, she sternly reminded herself that what Michael Parker and his daughter needed was more than she was willing to give. She had her own agenda, her own plans and goals, and they didn’t include a troublesome widower with an even more troublesome daughter. She had given him the best professional advice she could.

Oh, damn! She gasped as a sharp elbow stabbed into her ribs and heels ground down on her instep. She swiveled around and once again caught sight of Mike Parker. He looked lost and terribly alone as he scanned the crowd for a glimpse of his daughter.

“Michael!” Hally yelled, the name erupting from her without conscious will. Realizing that there was no way he could hear her, she shoved and strong-armed her way toward him. “Mr. Parker!” It was like fighting an incoming tide. Worse, it was like one continuous series of headon collisions that soon left her battered and breathless.

And yet she fought on, drawn by something from this man she barely knew, and resenting it every step of the way. Still, she continued to yell his name, continued to wave one arm above her head while pushing forward with the other.

And all the while calling herself every kind of a fool.

When Mike finally became aware of her struggle toward him, for one brief instant the terrible strain and anguish that marred his face eased into something like gladness and relief.

Hally felt an answering gladness inside of herself, which she instantly squelched with a stern, You’ll help him find his daughter and that’s all. She watched him move in her direction, using his superior height and visible determination to meet her halfway.