Have You Seen Her? (9 page)

Mrs. Kasselbaum appeared, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her housedress perfectly starched—as usual. She patted her hair, then lightly stroked the ever-present pearls around her neck. Jenna often thought this was how Beaver Cleaver’s mother would look, forty years later. “Hello, Jenna. Your young man didn’t stay very long.”

Adam’s father raised his bushy brows. “What young man? Where’s your car? It’s not outside.”

“I don’t have a young man. Come in, Dad.”

Seth Llewellyn turned to Mrs. Kasselbaum with a frown. “What young man? Where’s her car?”

Mrs. Kasselbaum leaned forward conspiratorially. “She came home with a man. Tall, clean-cut, very handsome. Blond hair, size forty-eight long, brown eyes. I know nothing about her car.”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Come
in,
Dad. Good
night,
Mrs.

Kasselbaum.”

Seth didn’t even glance Jenna’s way. “How tall? How handsome?”

Mrs. Kasselbaum looked up, batting her eyelashes. Mrs. Kasselbaum had a thing for Adam’s father, a widower for as long as Jenna had known him. “About as tall as you,” Mrs. Kasselbaum said coyly and Jenna rolled her eyes. Steven Thatcher, although not her young man, was at least three inches taller than Seth. Maybe four. Mrs. Kasselbaum batted her eyes again, with enough power to take off in flight. “But not as handsome as you.”

Seth laughed. “Go on with you, now.” He leaned a little closer toward Mrs. Kasselbaum, only encouraging her further. “And how long did he stay?”

Jenna hit her head against the door frame. Several times. The two matchmakers ignored her.

“Sixteen minutes,” Mrs. Kasselbaum answered, nodding emphatically.

Seth pursed his lips. “Only sixteen minutes?”

Mrs. Kasselbaum shrugged her thin shoulders and sighed dramatically. “I can only tell what I see.” She raised a superior gray brow at Jenna. “She’ll have to do the rest by herself.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jenna said. “Dad, I hurt my ankle and shouldn’t be on my feet.”

Seth was instantly contrite. “Why didn’t you say so, young lady?” He waved a fast good-bye at the disappointed Mrs. Kasselbaum and hurried inside where he put his hands on his hips. “What happened to your ankle? Who was the young man? And where is your car?”

Jenna rolled her eyes again. She loved Adam’s family dearly, but sometimes they could be a bit smothering. She limped to the sofa and sat down. “He’s not a young man. He’s the father of a high school senior so he’s got to be—oh, I don’t know—forty at least.”

Seth winced. “Forty is ancient.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Does this forty-year-old father of a high school senior have a name?”

“His name is Steven Thatcher. I called him for a conference and when we met he accidentally knocked me down and I twisted my ankle. He felt badly and brought me home.”

Seth looked alarmed. “Your car’s still in the school parking lot? We shouldn’t leave it there over the weekend—I’ll drive over and get it.” He turned for the door and Jenna cleared her throat.

“Dad, wait.” He stopped and turned, his expression expectant. Jenna had hoped not to have to tell them that her car— Adam’s car—had been towed. Adam had restored the old 1960 Jag XK 150 as an undergraduate. It had been his pride and joy, even when he’d become way too sick to drive it. Adam had left her the car in his will and although none of Adam’s family had disputed it, the well-being of the car was well monitored by the entire Llewellyn clan.

“The car’s fine, Dad.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “But the tires were slashed today.”

His whole body tensed. “How?”

Jenna shrugged. “I flunked one of the kids on the football team. It was childish retaliation.” She would keep the threatening note to herself. “Don’t worry, I asked the guys that towed the car to replace the tires with the same kind Adam used.” It would cost her a fortune, but ...Well, it was Adam’s car. And hopefully the insurance would cover most of the cost.

Seth sat next to her on the couch. “I’m not worried about the car.”

Jenna raised a brow. “You are so full of it.”

“Okay,” he amended. “I was a little worried about the car.” Jenna nodded. “Just so we’re square.”

Seth smiled and shook his head. “Such a mouth on you, girl.” His smile faltered. “Such grandchildren the two of you would have made.”

Jenna’s stomach turned upside down. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and reminded herself she was over this. “I’m missing him tonight, Dad,” she whispered.

Seth swallowed. “Me, too, Jenna. That’s why I came to see you. I always feel a little closer to Adam when I’m with you.”

She patted his arm and for the second time that day tried to remember Adam as he’d been when he was healthy. For the second time that day she failed. She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly feeling guilty for having sexual thoughts about Steven Thatcher when she couldn’t even remember Adam’s face clearly. The guilt was irrational. She knew it in her head. But that made no difference to her heart. There was, of course, one primary solution for guilt. “I was going to have ice cream for dinner. Want some?”

“You really need to have better nutrition, Jenna.” Seth stood up. “Butter pecan is my favorite.”

“It’s Rocky Road.”

Seth pushed her hair behind her ear and smiled. Looking into his kind face, so like Adam’s, Jenna finally conjured a mental snapshot of a healthy Adam. Somehow that made her feel better, being able to remember the face of the only man she’d ever loved. Seth cleared his throat. “Like I said, Rocky Road is my favorite.”

Jenna swallowed hard and leaned her forehead against Seth’s shoulder. “I love you, Dad.”

Seth’s arms came around her, hard and strong. “Love you, too, Jenna.” He let go and tilted up her chin. “So tell me about the not-so-young man who’s almost as handsome as me. And please don’t make me go to Mrs. Kasselbaum for all the details.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but that woman is a terrible gossip.”

Jenna hiccuped a laugh. “Last one to the kitchen has to eat the top layer with all the ice.”

S
EVEN

Friday, September 30, 8:30
P.M.

“S
TEVEN
,
YOU NEED TO EAT
,” H
ELEN SAID FROM
the kitchen doorway.

Steven set his briefcase by the front door and followed his aunt to the kitchen where a single hot plate of food waited. Helen poured herself a cup of coffee and sat in the chair across from him.

“Eat.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth at the barked command. “Yes’m.” Dutifully he ate while she watched, her eagle eye trained on every bite he put in his mouth.

“You were late tonight,” she observed, her voice gone softer.

He nodded, swallowing. “I had an appointment with one of Brad’s teachers.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah.” His fork drew an aimless design in his gravy-laden mashed potatoes. He looked up to find Helen patiently waiting. “He’s failing chemistry, Helen. His teacher wanted me to know.”

Helen closed her eyes and sighed. “What’s happening to our boy, Steven?”

He kneaded his browbone. “I don’t know. Jenna recommended I see his guidance counselor.”

“And will you?”

“I’ll call him first thing Monday morning.” He shrugged, feeling utterly helpless and hating the feeling. “I tried to talk to Brad, but he shut me out.”

“I know.” Helen reached across the table to squeeze his hand and they held on quietly until she asked, “So who is Jenna?”

Steven’s fingers tightened on his fork. His face was turning red, he could feel it. He damned the involuntary response that was the curse of redheads and he damned the light that came on in his aunt’s matchmaking eyes. He pulled his left hand from Helen’s. “Brad’s teacher,” he muttered, dropping his eyes to his potatoes.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see anything, Helen,” he ground out. “She is a nice woman who cares about my son. She stayed late on a Friday afternoon to tell me he was failing her class. That’s all.”

“Okay.”

He glanced up to find her expression serene. Chills went down his spine. Extreme measures were called for. “She’s married, okay? She’s sixty and married with four children.” He’d confess the lie whenever he made it back to church.

Helen sighed in resignation. “Do you really have to go back out tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.

Steven thought of the Egglestons. “Yes,” he answered. “I do. I should be home before midnight, though. I read Nicky a story and put him to bed already.” Which meant tucking his baby into a sleeping bag on the floor. Since being abducted from his bed in the middle of the night six months before, Nicky had refused to sleep in his own bed. The counselors said Nicky would return to his bed in his own time. He wondered what the counselors would say about Brad.

“Then eat your dinner, Steven.”

He ate the rest of his dinner in silence, trying to ignore his aunt’s watchful stare. Truth be told, he loved her more than any other woman in the world. He could tell her fifty times a day he never planned to marry again and it was like talking to the wind. But Helen loved him and loved all his boys dearly. At the end of every argument it always came back to that.

He cleaned his plate. “Thanks, Helen. That beats dinner out of a sack any day of the week.”

“Do you want any more? I made plenty.”

Steven stood up and pecked her weathered cheek. “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to get fat.”

Helen had the good grace to look embarrassed before she laughed aloud. “I’m going to have to teach that son of yours when to keep his big mouth shut.”

He arched a brow. “You can try.” He got to the front door and stopped short. “Shit.”

“Steven!” Then she saw it too. “Oh, no. Cindy Lou!” She ran to the door and pulled the hundred-pound sheepdog away from Steven’s briefcase. “She didn’t mean to, Steven.”

With a grimace, Steven fetched a towel from the kitchen and cleaned the dog drool from the handle. “Look at these teeth marks! That dog’s a menace.”

“She’s a sweet dog.” Helen’s lips twitched. “She just has overactive drool glands.”

“So get her a glandectomy.” He wiped the bag, then cleaned his hands. “I need to go now.”

She followed him to the driveway, the drooling ball of hair from hell in tow. “Drive carefully.”

“I always do.” He opened the rear passenger door and stopped short again. “Shit,” he repeated, this time in a whisper.

“I heard that,” Helen said from behind him, then peered around him to peek inside the car. “Whose briefcase is that?”

He could feel his cheeks heating again. “It belongs to Brad’s teacher.”

Helen was quiet for a half beat. “Jenna?”

Steven rolled his eyes, damning his own slip of the tongue. “Yes, Jenna.” He should return it, he thought. He should return it to that comfortable little apartment of hers where she was probably sitting on that soft brown sofa with her two dogs at her feet.
She’d be grateful,
he thought. She’d smile up at him with those violet eyes. And those full lips. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it was too late. His body had already responded to the image his mind had conjured. He pulled her briefcase from the backseat with a harder jerk than necessary.

He put the bag in Helen’s arms and she stumbled a little from the unexpected weight. “Put it in my study. I’ll return it to her on Sunday.”

“But—”

“I need to get to the office.” He put his briefcase in the backseat and slammed the car door.

Helen winced. “But—”

He climbed into the front seat, pulling his seat belt on with one motion. “Don’t wait up. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pulled out of his driveway and chanced a look back in his rearview mirror. Helen stood in the same place, her mouth slightly open, watching him drive away.

Steven grimaced. He probably could have handled that with more finesse. He shifted his body in the car seat, trying to relieve the pressure against his zipper. It was stupid, just plain foolish. Jenna Marshall had a nice pair of legs. That was all. No, that wasn’t nearly all. Her breasts were nice, too. His hands gripped the steering wheel, hard. And her rear end. He cracked his window to let in some of the cool night air. And her eyes. And her smile. He shifted in the seat again, the pressure unabated. Okay, he could admit it to himself. She was a tidy little package. He was . . . attracted to her.

He pulled his car from his subdivision onto the main highway.
Be honest, Thatcher. She makes your mouth water.
He frowned in the darkness.
Be
really
honest, Thatcher. You want to jump that woman’s bones.
He shuddered, able to imagine it all too well.

It was just that it had been such a long time. A very, very long time. Maybe he just needed to get it out of his system. A little honest sex, with no expectations for a long-term commitment. No promises made, no regrets when he walked away. Because he
would
walk away.

He’d almost made himself believe casual sex with Jenna Marshall was a feasible solution to his problems when he remembered the way her eyes softened in compassion over his son, then again over saving a puppy about to be put to sleep. A woman like that was not a candidate for a no-strings sexual relationship. She was just not that kind of woman.

Steven sighed. No more than he was that kind of man. That’s why it had been such a very, very long time since he’d been with a woman.

That’s why it would continue to be a very, very long time.

Frustrated and alone, he turned his thoughts to the subject of Samantha Eggleston. Her parents would want an update. Hoping Kent was still in the lab, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

Friday, September 30, 11:00
P.M.

“So they lost.”

Victor Lutz looked over his mostly empty glass with a sneer. His wife stood in the doorway of his study, dressed for bed in the same nightgown she’d worn every night of their miserable marriage. It wasn’t really the same nightgown, but one of ten identical gowns that hung in her closet, magically replicating themselves year after year. It had to be magic. No one in their right mind would buy such an ugly garment on purpose, much less ten of them year after year.

After year after year after year.

On top of being hopelessly stupid, Nora Lutz had absolutely no sense of style. Unlike Rudy’s teacher. Not that
Miss
Marshall had style either, but with a body like that he’d be willing to turn a blind eye to the prim suit. Unfortunately on top of having a great body, she also had guts.

Victor hated women with guts. Guts, brains—they only served to distract women from their sole purpose on this earth. Sex and servitude. In that order. He glared at Nora over his glass. She was a failure on both counts.

“Of course they lost.”
Idiot.
“Rudy sat on the bench the entire goddamn game.” He tossed back the last swallow of vodka, stood, and crossed the Aubusson carpet to pour himself another.

Nora pursed her lips, sending deep lines radiating from the corners of her mouth. “I thought you were going to straighten that out with the principal before the game started. Daddy isn’t going to be happy about this. He had to pull some strings to get that scout to come watch Rudy.”

He hated that mistress-of-the-household tone. She’d learned it from
Daddy
, the rich sonofabitch.

He tossed back half the glass. The rich sonofabitch whose money bought the Aubusson carpet under Victor’s feet, the roof over his head, the business that paid his salary. He eyed the clear liquid in the now half-empty glass. Whose money bought the hundred-dollar-a-bottle vodka that helped Victor drown out the reality of being married to the rich sonofabitch’s tired, ugly, whiny daughter.

Thank God for mistresses and whores, was all he could say. Of course, not out loud.
Daddy
wouldn’t like that. Thank God
Daddy
didn’t really know everything.

Nora crossed her arms over her scrawny bosom and leaned back against the wall with an air of superiority that she liked to remind him was born, not bought. The rich dark hair that had been her only notable attribute would once have blended into the black walnut wood that paneled his office. But she’d started to gray and never lifted a finger to halt the change. She, like
Daddy,
was a dried-up old prune. “I thought as much,” she said curtly. “Big man going to tell the stupid principal how to run his school.” She shook her head. “You are so full of hot air, Victor. You make me ill.”

“That makes two of us,” he muttered into his glass. “Excuse me?”

Victor looked up and focused his eyes on hers, saying nothing until she paled. There was more than one way to deal with Nora when she got too nasty for her own good. He rarely had to carry through on his threats. She usually backed down before he had to rouse himself into enough of a rage to raise his hand to her. Although the satisfaction at seeing her cowed and silenced was always well worth the effort. After the first time, years ago, he’d waited for Daddy to send a couple of thugs to put him in perpetual traction, but the thugs never came. Not that time, nor the times after. Victor guessed there were some things even Nora didn’t tell Daddy. He cleared his throat.

“I said, that makes two of us. I did visit the school today for your information. I might have gotten your son reinstated this afternoon if he hadn’t been such a fucking idiot.”

Nora frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone now significantly less belligerent.

“I mean, your idiot son pushed the wrong teacher. He handed in a test on which he’d written only his name. That and the smirk on his face are making his teacher dig in her heels. I gave the principal a week to fix this.”

“And if he doesn’t? What then?”

“Then we pull
Daddy’s
funding of Blackman’s new stadium.”

Nora smoothed her hair away from her face, one of her many nervous gestures. He knew every last one. Every last one drove him nuts. “Not everyone is motivated by money, Victor.”

Victor drained his glass. Not motivated by money.
Hah.
Only a person who’d grown up wanting nothing could actually believe that. “Of course they are. They just don’t always know it.”

Friday, September 30, 11:55
P.M.

The church’s old door handle was cool under Steven’s sweating hand. They didn’t make handles like this anymore. Doors either, Steven thought, feeling the cool night air on his hot face. Both were vintage 1923, as was the rest of the church. He’d lost track of how long he’d been standing there, telling himself to either go in or go home.

Hours of paperwork hadn’t cleared his mind, just served to stave off the worry gnawing at his gut for just a few more hours. He’d left his office and driven around aimlessly, not really surprised when he stopped in the parking lot of the old parish.

His old parish. He’d grown up here, served as an altar boy, been confirmed. Taken his first communion and planned to study the priesthood himself. His grip on the door handle tightened. Then his life had taken a sharp turn after a single night of . . . What would he call it, looking back now? Certainly not passion. They’d been seventeen in the back of his father’s Olds. Passion it certainly was not. Experimentation? It was that. Folly? In many ways it was that as well. Melissa had turned out to be the greatest folly of his life. Brad, on the other hand . . . He could never call creating his oldest son a folly, no matter how troubled Brad was at the moment.