Fathers and Other Strangers

He did—sort of—then whipped out a pair of sunglasses, ramming them into place as his legs ate up the space between the office and the truck. “Don’t see how I keep my own apartment is any business of yours.”

Okay, he had a point. Besides, so it was a little…messy. That didn’t mean it was actually dirty.

Did it?

“Anyway,” she said, neatly evading the issue, “I did knock. The door wasn’t closed tightly.”

They’d reached the vehicles. Hank shot a glance at her car and asked, “Where’s the kid?”

“What? Oh, she decided not to come. Anyway—”

Hank jerked open his truck door, climbed inside.

“—I guess you didn’t hear me knock over the music. So you like opera?”

Seated behind the wheel, his door still open, he glared at her for a moment, then slammed shut the door. “Yeah, I like opera. Now can we get goin’? I haven’t got all day.”

He backed out of the parking space in a cloud of dust, barely giving Jenna time to hop in her car and follow.

Blair crunched up into a sitting position on her bed and tossed A Tale of Two Cities across the room, then apologized to Meringue for making her jump. God, this was the suckiest summer of her entire life. And A Tale of Two Cities was like the suckiest book ever written. Why did they make them read this boring old stuff, anyway? Like who cared what happened two hundred years ago?

She felt all knotted up inside, like she wanted to cry, but when she screwed up her face, nothing happened. Which is the way she’d felt when Jenna’d told her about her mother, like she should’ve been sadder or missed her more or something. Mostly, she’d just been mad, even if she didn’t really know why.

Feeling weird and jittery, like when she drank a whole Coke before going to bed, she got up and walked out into the living room, Meringue trailing her. Maybe she should’ve gone back into town with Jenna. Except then she would’ve had to ride back in Mr. Logan’s truck, between him and Jenna. No way.

God. Hank Logan was like the weirdest man she’d ever met, acting like he thought he was all cool and stuff because he smoked and didn’t comb his hair or shave.

And she did not like the way he looked at Jenna.

Her arms crossed, Blair stood in the middle of the room—which still smelled funny—listening to the irritating clink-clink-clink from the pull-chain rattling against the overhead fan’s light globe. What was really sucky was having everyone tell you to stop acting like a baby but never letting you make any decisions about your own life. If she’d been older, sixteen or seventeen, Jenna wouldn’t’ve dared drag her out here like this.

Meringue mewed, snaking around her ankles; Blair picked her up, burying her face in the cat’s soft white fur, getting a head bump for her efforts. Then she sneezed and let the cat drop back onto the floor, swiping at her nose.

“God, Merry—keep your fur to yourself!”

The cat flicked her tail and stalked away; Blair plopped down at the dining table where Jenna had set up her laptop and logged online, but nobody she knew was on. So she sent a couple of e-mails to her best friends, DeAnna and Tiffany, but since they had gone to camp, she didn’t know if they could write her back.

She slumped in the chair, her arms folded across her chest. Maybe she should go for a walk or something. Not that she figured there was anything to see, but it was either that or A Tale of Two Cities. So she found a piece of paper and left Jenna a note, squirted on some sunscreen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left, heading for the far side of the lake.

Once there, she found the trail Mr. Logan had mentioned, cutting through the woods. She hesitated, then figured she wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t like she was going to get lost or anything. If she had to, she could always double back.

She hiked for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, hearing nothing but her breath coming in short, ragged pants and a bazillion birds and her thoughts buzzing around inside her head. But it was cooler in here, and kind of pretty, the light all green-gold and sort of…heavy, like being underwater, and eventually the buzzing got softer and softer until she couldn’t really hear it anymore.

The path suddenly brightened ahead of her; a minute later, she came out onto a rutted dirt road leading to a farm or something in the distance. On the other side of the road, a field planted with long, soft grassy stuff rippled in the warm breeze like the ocean’s surface; looking toward the farm buildings, she could see a small cornfield, and beyond that several rows of smallish trees. An orchard maybe.

The bleat of a bicycle horn behind her made her spin around. Blair shaded her eyes against the sun as, in a cloud of dust, three bikes screeched to a stop in front of her.

“Who the heck are you?” yelped one little boy, seven or eight years old. His blond head was shorn so close his ears seemed to jut from his head like open taxi-cab doors. And she could see his scalp, which was kind of gross. Another boy, a little younger, his dark hair just as short, his ears just as big, giggled. But the third rider—who had let out a really pissed, “Wade, for heaven’s sake!” at the blond kid’s question, was a girl. A dark-haired girl wearing a loose, bright purple T-shirt over white shorts with fringed hems. She looked like she might be about Blair’s age, but even under the floppy shirt, Blair could see she already had breasts. The boys were barefoot, their toes practically gray.

“Hey,” the girl said, her light-brown eyes sparkling. Her hair was really long, like to her waist. And she was pretty. Really pretty. Even without makeup. “I’m Libby Frazier, and these are my brothers. Two of ’em, anyway. This here’s Wade, and this is Frankie,” she said, jerking her head toward the littlest one. “He doesn’t talk much on account of he can’t hear out of one ear.”

“Oh. Hi. I’m Blair. Blair Stanton.”

The girl grinned, and Blair could see her eyeteeth were crooked. “Cool name! You new here?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m staying with my aunt at the Double Arrow.”

“Oh.” Libby scrunched up her nose. “We live up there.” She nodded toward the farm. “Where’re you from?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Really?” the blond boy said. “Where the president lives?”

In spite of herself, Blair laughed. “Yeah.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just a stupid boy—”

“Am not!”

“Are, too.”

“Am not!”

Libby gave Blair a pleading look. “You got brothers?”

“Uh-uh.”

“You’re so lucky. I’ve got five. All of ’em younger,” she said, which is when it finally dawned on Blair that this must be the girl the woman in the café was talking about. “How old are you?”

Blair stuck her thumbs in her back shorts pockets and tried to look cool. “Thirteen.”

Libby grinned so widely, her eyes practically disappeared. “Me, too. Hey—you wanna come up to the house, play some CDs or something?”

Blair hesitated. Libby seemed okay and all, but she was nothing like Blair’s friends back home. What if she wanted to talk about…farm stuff? Or what if she was still into *NSYNC? Or Britney? Ewww.

But then, she supposed it beat talking to the cat all afternoon.

“Okay, sure. Long as I can call my aunt on her cell, let her know where I am.”

Libby’s whole face lit up. “Cool,” she said.

Chapter 3

Hank pulled up in front of Darryl’s office at the garage, where madame was waiting for him, and thought, God save me from needy, moody females.

At this point, Hank wasn’t sure who was agitating him more, Jenna Stanton with those half-scared, half-defiant blue eyes of hers, or her niece, who just plain rubbed him the wrong way. Not that he didn’t understand why she acted the way she did—only too well—but…well, it was just a good thing he didn’t have to deal with teenage girls on a regular basis. He’d go plumb out of his gourd.

And he still couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off about this whole thing, about Jenna’s coming to Haven with the kid. Much as she tried to hide it, the woman was clearly nervous about something. Trouble was, Hank couldn’t tell if she was nervous about something specific, or just nervous in general, the way some women were. Nervous women made him uncomfortable. You never knew when they’d go off on you, usually for no particular reason.