The House On The Creek Page 8

  She laughed in spite of herself. He let her, opening the door and escorting her onto the front stoop. While she snorted, he retrieved her work boots and set them at her feet.

  “Dinner.” He prompted. “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “I’ll have to check with my sitter,” she protested through fits of mirth and the nagging of her conscious.

  “Then do it. And Abby, book the sitter until morning.”

  That stopped her laughter. “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  He was all arrogance once again, but Abby thought she could glimpse a speck of awkwardness beneath the mask.

  She couldn’t refuse him, not when he watched her so carefully and, she realized, hopefully. So she chickened out, grabbed her boots, and ran down the front steps. Barefoot all the way to her car.

  She wouldn’t let herself look back at him as she cranked the Mercedes to life. But she knew he watched her until the woods closed around her mother’s car.

  Chapter Seven

  “SHIT!”

  “Christopher!” Horrified, Abby shoved breakfast dishes into the kitchen sink, and turned to stare at her son.

  Unrepentant, Chris glared into the backpack he’d dropped on the counter. “I forgot to make lunch last night. Now it’s too late and I’ll have to go without.”

  “That’s no excuse for a filthy mouth.” Abby dried soapy hands on the front of a dish rag, and tried her very best to look stern.

  ‘Stern’ was something she’d only had to learn in the last few weeks, as Chris’s tantrums grew more frequent, and she hadn’t quite got the hang of it. ‘Stern’ made her feel like she was sucking on a lemon.

  “Grandma Juliet used to say you had the filthiest mouth of them all, when you were a kid.”

  “Grandma Juliet was right. I did have a dirty mouth. Until she got tired of my sassing and rinsed my tongue with detergent. You know better. Elven year old boys don’t use cuss words.”

  “I’m almost twelve,” Chris pointed out. He scraped a thumbnail across the kitchen counter, tracing pits and tracks in the worn tile.

  “Twelve year old boys shouldn’t cuss, either.”

  “Roddy Green does. He says ‘hell’ and ‘shit’, all the time. Just last week he called Mrs. Johnson a b-”

  “Chris!” Abby barked, and found that when push came to shove she could do ‘stern’ just fine.

  Her son stuck his hands in his back pockets, and rolled his eyes. Abby took a firm grip on her temper, and silently reminded herself that although she’d never win Mother of the Year, she’d done a tolerable job so far and could learn to handle this new stage.

  “If Roddy uses nasty words like that his mother ought to tan his sorry hide. And if I hear another cuss coming from your direction, Christopher, I’m going for the detergent.”

  Chris didn’t look impressed. “You wouldn’t, not really.”

  Abby smothered a sigh, and rubbed at the back of her neck. She could feel the prickling of sensitive flesh that meant a headache coming on, and the day was barely begun.

  It had started out badly.

  After dallying too long in the shower, Chris had complained loudly when the hot water ran out and he’d been forced to finish rinsing his hair beneath an ice cold stream. He’d sulked through breakfast because they were out of blueberry syrup, and then he’d moved so slowly to clear away dishes that Abby had twice had to suppress the urge to nag.

  As usual, they were running late. She had an important client already waiting at the office on her arrival, and her newly delinquent son appeared rooted to the kitchen floor.

  Pressing fingers again along the nape of her neck, she silently studied her blue eyed boy, and wondered how exactly he’d turned from a sweet heart into a tyrant between one month and the next.

  “You’re right,” she said at last, when the silence stretched into uncomfortable. Chris lifted his gaze from the linoleum to her face. “I wouldn’t really wash your mouth out. I’d probably just ground you until Christmas. And I’d hate to do that, because then you’d miss debate finals.”

  The threat must have hit a mark because Chris winced and opened his mouth. Abby held onto her courage with both hands, and plunged ahead before he could interrupt.

  “And then you’d be miserable. But you’re already making me miserable, Chris, and that’s not fair either.”

  She expected one of the sarcastic replies he’d become so adept at throwing her way, or even another curse word. She steeled herself against exasperation or hurt.

  Instead, Chris’s mouth began to tremble and the glitter of tears wet his lashes.

  Abby felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. She wrapped her arm around bony, rigid shoulders, and tried to ignore pangs of guilt that made her own eyes sting.

  “What is it, hon? Can you tell me?”

  “I did tell you!” Chris wiped his nose with one fist, and shrugged off her arm. “I forgot to make lunch and now I’ll starve all day!”

  Abby didn’t know whether to laugh or shout. Several of Roddy Green’s filthy words came to mind. She regarded her son with resignation, and tried to ignore the growing sense of worry that made her temples throb.

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nope.” Defiant again, he zippered up the back pack and slung one strap across his back.

  “School’s fine?” Abby tried. “Grades are good?”

  “Mom.” He made the word into one long groan. “I’ve got straight As in every class, okay?”

  “Sometimes grades aren’t everything.” She surprised herself by the admission.

  “Mom.” Chris rolled his eyes again. “We’re already way late. I’ll probably miss PE. Shouldn’t we be going?” As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours trying to delay departure.

  Abby shook her head, and wondered if her already topsy-turvy world had just spun off its axis. “What about lunch?”

  “I’ll just go without. It won’t be so bad.”

  Abby tried very, very hard not to give in. She’d been a backyard con artist in her own day, the snottiest of the little snots. She knew the game, she knew the rules, and she could see that her intelligent son was learning how to walk the walk.

  But the slump of those thin shoulders and the way he dragged the soles of his shoes across the kitchen floor made her break out in a sweat. She promised herself she wouldn’t give in. She knew better.

  She reached for her tote anyway.

  “Here.” She dug through clutter until she found the five dollar bill she’d set aside for lunch. “Take this. Get something in the cafeteria.”

  It was their long standing rule: no cafeteria lunches. Brown bagging saved money and was far healthier. For five years Chris had packed his own lunch and been happy. Now, he accepted her offering as thought it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Fine.” He sighed. “Can we go, now?”

  Abby shut her eyes and counted to ten. To twenty. To fifty. And then, when she thought she could possibly face the rest of the world without breaking anything, she grabbed keys from the counter and followed her scowling son out into the morning.

  She was in the middle of a much needed break, half dozing in the heavy sunlight, pop can teetering on her knee, when she heard Everett’s tread on the creaky steps that lead up from Chesapeake Renovation’s rented space to the empty attic space above.

  Nobody else would take that rickety staircase with such easy, single minded purpose and confident disregard for life and limb.

  Jackson tended to climb the steps on the balls of his feet, complaining loudly about broken bones. And her troupe of messenger boys never risked the climb. They claimed she didn’t pay enough to cover disability or dismemberment.

  And even though she hated to admit it to herself, she still remembered the keyless tune Everett Anderson whistled under his breath when he was in an especially tricky mood.

  She frowned, and clutched her pop can until the aluminum crackled.

  They
keyless tune wound to a halt as he reached the landing. Picked up again as he found his way through dust and shadows to her balcony. Cut off abruptly when he discovered exactly what the balcony entailed.

  Little more than a concrete ledge and an iron railing, the balcony looked out kitty corner over peaked roof and treetop and asphalt lane to Duke of Gloucester Street. Only two feet wide, the space had hardly enough room for one clay pot of geraniums and one leather and steel barstool.

  The barstool had been abandoned by a client. It was ugly as sin and steady as a rock. It was also taller than the balcony rail by a good three inches, leaving any occupant brave enough to take the perch feeling disconnected among the clouds, as though he or she were floating on nothing but leather and Southern breezes.

  Knowing he would need time to adjust to the height and lack of solid ground, Abby let Everett stand in silence while those sparse Southern breezes tickled the crown of her head and tossed tendrils of hair into her face.

  Then she brushed the tussled hair behind one ear, and opened her eyes.

  “You’re about seven hours early,” she pointed out. She fixed him with her best prickly stare. “And I’m busy.”

  “I can see that,” Everett drawled.

  Ignoring her glare, he dragged his own green gaze from the tip of her mussed head, down across the thin silk shirt and short wrap around skirt she’d worn to beat the heat, and over bare legs and bare feet to the sandals she’d abandoned beneath her stool

  “I have been busy. Very busy.” Abby snapped, furious with herself because the casual study drew her body taut. As though she were fourteen again and not a grown women who knew exactly what she wanted.

  Or what she didn’t want.

  “The phones haven’t stopped ringing all morning, and I’ve got a client furious because I had to reschedule this morning’s meeting.”

  Trying to wet the rasp from her throat, she took a swallow of root beer and scowled across the crooked branches to DOG Street. She watched the flock of lunch time tourists, and tried not remember the feel of his mouth on her own.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Your clerk told me you were up here having lunch. What’s on the menu today, air and sunlight?”

  “He’s my partner, not a clerk. And today we’re having sugar water in a can.” Abby’s empty stomach made her think of Chris. She’d spent most of her lunch break fretting uselessly, and as a result she was tired and grumpy and ready for a good spat.

  Because she remembered precisely how to push his buttons, Abby turned from the Historic District, took another sip of her drink, and smiled sweetly at the man in the doorway. “Why don’t you come out. The view’s incredible.”

  “I can see that from here.” Everett cocked one brow and refused to rise to her bait. He remained exactly in place, on the threshold between balcony and attic, lounging against the door jam.

  He looked entirely too relaxed and comfortable in slacks and a crisp cotton shirt. Abby noticed that the wilting heat didn’t appear to touch him, and her sour mood grew.

  “You’re taking me to dinner, not lunch. I told you I had to work. What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d check in.” He turned his attention to the tourists. “You can almost read their lips from here.”

  “I’m not going to chicken out, if that’s what you’re thinking. You said seven o’clock. I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” Everett replied, mild. And then, “Look at that. Kid’s got a bazillion guns.”

  In spite of herself, Abby turned back to the Royal Mile and located the boy in question. Loaded up with toy rifles and pistols, the cheerful toddler staggered in his tennies. Abby could almost hear the boy’s gurgle of mirth when he dropped a tiny musket.

  “UK,” Abby said, watching as a man in a baseball cap hoisted the boy onto his shoulders.

  “What?”

  “I’ll bet that family’s from the UK. The British kids always go for the guns. The Canucks like the pan whistles and Paul Revere hats. And kids from the good ole US of A prefer candy and ice cream.”

  Everett’s mouth creased a little in amusement, and Abby felt her heart flop. She’d forgotten how, even on the worse days, he’d always been willing to share a joke.

  “You know this how?”

  “I watch.” Abby balanced the empty pop can on the balcony railing, and stretched bare toes in the sunlight. “You pick up things if you pay attention to details. During the early summer months most of the tourists are local. After July, they’re generally from overseas.

  “Even before I rented this place,” she waved a hand at the building behind her, “I used to take walks through CW in the afternoons and just watch. Listen. Wonder what it’s like to come from so far away. To just pick up and travel wherever and whenever you want.”

  She slid from her perch, and walked across the tiny balcony to run restless fingers through brilliant geranium buds. “But I suppose you know all about that. Heard you’ve done your own share of traveling.”

  If he heard her bitterness, he didn’t react. “I’ve done some.”

  “Go wherever you want. And then whisk right away again when things get hairy. But you’ve always been great at that, haven’t you, Ev?”

  She felt the weight of his gaze, and refused to look up from the flowers.

  “You looking for a fight, Abigail?” He sounded more amused than irritated.

  Abby shot upright and turned on him. She opened her mouth to swear, and then closed it again. She shook her head and sighed.

  “Ugly morning.”

  “I can see that,” he said from his place in the doorway. “Want to tell me about it?”

  He’d always been ready to share a joke, and he’d always been willing to listen. That was something else she’d forgotten, maybe on purpose.

  She leaned back against the side of the building, tilted her chin, and considered the lines of the roof. “Chris was a terror all morning.”

  She heard Everett shift against the doorjamb.

  “In fact, he’s been a terror for the last few months. I can’t figure what’s up with him. He’s always been the sweetest kid. And lately it’s like he’s completely on edge of...something. Some sort of Dr. Jekyll complex.”

  “I always preferred Mr. Hyde.” Bricks scraped as he shifted again. “Being a single mom must be hard.”

  Abby tried not to smile. “Triter words I’ve never heard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thing is,” she continued, trying in vain to ignore the zing of mirth that threatened to lighten her mood. “I’ve always been a great mom.”

  “A great mom and modest.”

  A bubble of laughter escaped before she could stop it.

  Defeated, Abby turned from the roof and contemplated the man on the threshold. She wanted to hate him for making her troubles humorous. Instead she felt the old fascination rise and an easing of the constriction around her heart.

  “Pot and kettle.”

  “I’ve never been called modest,” he agreed. The corners of his mouth lifted.

  “Any kids?” She found herself asking, although she’d convinced herself only days earlier that it was better not to know.

  “None.”

  “Wife?” As soon as the question slipped free she wished it back. Heat blossomed over her cheeks, and she bent again over the geraniums to hide it.

  He answered with easy disregard. “Not even one.”

  Abby wouldn’t let herself succumb to the dizzying relief that threatened to make her hands shake. She broke a bud from the plant, crushed the stem between her fingers, and brought it to her nose. The pungent scent cleared her head and made her sigh.

  “So what’s it like, anyway?”

  “What?” His roving eyes flicked from DOG Street to fluttering leaves and then lighted on her face. Immediately her body tightened in a million quiet longings.

  “Seattle?”

  “Wet. Green. Cold.” Crisp cotton pulled against his shoul
ders as he shrugged. “Right.”

  “But here you are again.”

  He shrugged. “It seemed the correct thing. Sometimes even a world traveler finds himself in search of a little peace.”

  “Living in your father’s house?” She wrinkled her nose in deliberate disbelief.

  Everett nodded, eyes narrowing. The heat of his regard made Abby quiver. She crossed her arms over her ribs.