Fathers and Other Strangers

She and Blair exchanged glances. “There’s more than one?”

“Three, as a matter of fact. Brothers. Although one’s a doctor, not a mister. Which one you want breakfast for?”

“Uh…Hank.” Shouldn’t the P.I. have told her there were brothers? “The one who runs the Double Arrow.”

That was worth a frown and a pair of crossed arms underneath a prodigious bosom. “You stayin’ out there?”

“We’re renting one of the cottages for the month, yes.”

“Where you from, honey? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“D.C. Why?”

“And you came all the way out here to stay in one of Hank Logan’s cottages?”

Jenna tried to staunch the uneasiness beginning to fester in her stomach. If her and Blair’s staying there looked odd to this Ruby person, who else might find it suspicious?

Then Blair chimed in with, “My aunt’s a writer. She’s here doing research for her next book.”

Ruby’s gaze drifted back to Jenna. “Is that a fact? You written anything I might have read?”

Feeling the familiar panic rising in her throat as several heads in the vicinity turned in her direction, Jenna mumbled her pen name. Ruby’s face lit up.

“You’re kidding? You’re Jennifer Phillips? Who writes those Stella Moon books? Land, honey, I’ve read all of those so many times, they’re like to fall apart. Hey, Jordy,” she yelled back toward the counter, where a big, bald black man in a sparkling white T-shirt and apron was manning the griddle, “guess who’s sitting right here in our diner? Jennifer Phillips, that writer I’ve been telling you about!”

“No fooling?” Jordy glanced over his shoulder, never missing a beat as he flipped what looked like dozens of pancakes onto several plates, garnishing them with bacon or sausage before setting them out on the counter and hollering to the two waitresses. Then, wiping his hands on a towel, he came out from behind the counter and over to Jenna’s table, his wide grin showing off a gold tooth that coordinated quite nicely with his earring.

“You sure do write some good books, Ms. Phillips. I never can figure out whodunnit until the end, and I almost always do with other mystery writers.”

After a minute’s conversation, Ruby and Jordy went back to the kitchen, but not before five or six other patrons left their seats and came over, all apparently tickled to death to meet her, asking if she’d mind autographing their copies of her books for them while she was there and what her next book was going to be about and if she needed any ideas, you know, in case she got that writer’s block.

To Jenna’s surprise, the panic that invariably made her palms sweat and her stomach knot up so badly she’d stopped doing book signings altogether never really developed. Why, she didn’t know, other than maybe, even though it didn’t make any sense, these people didn’t really feel like strangers.

Ruby brought their breakfast over to them herself, shooing everyone away “so these people can eat their breakfast in peace.” Then Ruby asked Blair how old she was, and when Blair said thirteen, Ruby said Sam Frazier had a girl the same age, he had a farm just out behind the Double Arrow, and wouldn’t it be nice if Blair and Libby Frazier could get together, since Ruby imagined that Libby, who apparently had five younger brothers, might appreciate having another girl to talk to?

Not until a young woman came in, her arms loaded with what looked like pie boxes—“Six apples, three peaches and three cherries, right?” she called out to Ruby, who went to relieve her of her burden—did peace finally descend. About halfway through her grapefruit—which was plump and sweet—Jenna looked over to see Blair looking at her with a funny expression on her face.

“What now?”

“Nothing. It’s just that it must be so cool, to have all those people saying how much they like your books and stuff.” She crammed a huge bite of pancake into her mouth and said around it, “I mean, I would think it was, anyway.”

“Well, yes. It is.” A wry smile tilted her lips. “It’s certainly a nice change from rotten reviews.”

“Then why don’t you do book signings anymore?”

Jenna’s fingers tightened around the serrated spoon. “You know why, honey.”

Her brows dipped. “How come it’s okay for you to be scared of something, but if I say I am, you tell me I have to face it anyway?”

Jenna took a deep breath, then dared to meet her niece’s gaze, deciding the din of chatter and clanking silverware on stoneware was sufficient to mask their own conversation. She’d never really understood the debilitating shyness that had made her childhood a living hell, or why it had pretty much faded away for so many years only to make a cruel and equally puzzling comeback after Phil’s death. The only thing she did understand about it was that she never knew when it was going to strike. And that she’d gotten tired of fighting it, unless she had to.

Like now.

“It’s not okay for me to be afraid, Blair. And as far as facing things that frighten me…” She stopped, thinking about why they were here, about how whatever decisions she made could change her world. Then the memory of Hank Logan’s unapologetically harsh features crashed into her thoughts, speeding up her heart rate, making her skin go clammy, her stomach lurch. Speaking of facing things that scared her.

“I don’t mean to come across as sounding callous, sweetie,” Jenna said. “Or as if I don’t think your fears are valid. I do understand, I swear.” She shook her head, frowning at her grapefruit as she dug out a segment. “I also know what it’s like to let them cripple you.”

“But you were fine just then—”

“Blair, please.” Jenna lowered her voice. “I know I was. But I don’t know why I was. So can we please just drop the subject—”

“I am so sorry,” Ruby said, reappearing at their table. “With all the excitement, I completely forgot to take Hank’s order so I can have it ready for you when you get ready to go. Although I can probably guess—bacon and egg sandwich, side of hash browns and a chocolate shake, right?”

In spite of her quaking stomach, Jenna smiled. “I take it he comes in regularly?”

“Baby, men are so predictable, it’s pitiful. Even though, no, actually, he hardly comes in anymore, not since he moved back. But when he was a kid, he’d come in here just about every day, order the same thing each time. I’d be real surprised to hear he’d changed his stripes.”

“He hasn’t,” Jenna said, and Ruby laughed. After calling out the order to Jordy, she turned back to Jenna.

“And how about you? Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I think that will do,” Jenna said, reaching for her purse. On the other side of the restaurant, she heard the whirrr of the old-fashioned milk-shake machine. She looked up in time to see Jordy dump in enough thick, rich, gooey chocolate syrup to coat the entire state. She felt her lips part, her eyes glaze over, as lust swept through her.

She looked up into Ruby’s knowing, dark eyes, connecting on a level as basic as life itself. “On second thought…”

“Jordy?” Ruby called over.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Need another chocolate shake over here—”

Blair raised her hand.

“Make that three.”

Jenna and Blair looked at each other and started to giggle.

After he’d fixed the john, Hank had a moment’s tussle with himself over whether to go on back to the office or stay put and wait for his breakfast right there. Either way, he’d have to talk to Jenna. Of course, if he hadn’t asked her to bring back his breakfast, it wouldn’t even be an issue, now would it?

He decided to stay. What the hell, he’d already left a note on the office door, in case anyone needed to find him. Well, you never knew.

The metal toolbox clattered mightily when he set it on the porch, right behind the railing. Plunking his butt on the steps, he lit up, then leaned back on his elbows, scratching his chest through the “This Old House” T-shirt Ryan’s new wife Maddie had given him as a joke last Christmas. He’d taken a fast shower after Jenna’s wake-up call, so at least he smelled okay. Still hadn’t bothered to shave, though. Seemed a waste of time.

A mountain jay squawked overhead, setting off a twittering chorus from sparrows and finches. It was going to be hot as hell later, but right now the breeze messing with his still-damp hair was just the right temperature, gliding like a woman’s fingertips over his skin. Except for his growling stomach, he might almost believe he was at peace. Except he knew he wasn’t. And probably never would be. Some things, you just don’t make peace with.

The force shrink had suggested he find something to keep him too busy and too tired to brood. A six-month leave had been the plan. Except then this place had come on the market, dirt-cheap, and he’d snapped it up, even though he’d had no idea what he thought he was going to do with a guest lodge. Still didn’t. But damned if the shrink hadn’t been right—if it was mind-numbing you were after, nothing beat day after eighteen-hour day of grueling manual labor. Still, it was like learning to live without a limb; you adjusted, and you got by, but you never knew when the phantom pain would strike. And that alone was enough to make him vow to never set himself up for that kind of pain again.

Hank stared at the cigarette in his hand, frowning for a second or two, then lifted his gaze toward the lake, sparkling in the distance. Maybe he’d take a dip later, after he finished redoing those gutters on Number 6….