Kitabı oku: «The Men of Mayes County», sayfa 3

“Oh? And what’s yours?”

Again, his movements stilled. Then he abruptly stuffed his stuff back into the plastic bag and rocketed to his feet, and Jenna thought, Whoa, welcome to Arrested Male Development Central. Talk about getting your boxers in a bunch. If he wore any, that is. Which, considering her earlier encounter, was definitely not a given.

Could she trust a man who didn’t wear underwear?

And while she was musing about all this, Hank reached behind the railing and retrieved the largest toolbox she’d ever seen, the veins on his hand popping out in stark relief as he tromped down the porch steps. Then he turned, his expression kicking up her pulse. Even from here, she could tell every muscle in his body had gone taut, alert and unyielding underneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, his worn jeans.

“If you’re so damn intent on mollycoddling the gal, why’d you bring her out here to begin with?”

Now her heart jumped into her throat, even as her brain scrambled to make sense of his vacillation. He’d certainly seemed sympathetic earlier—why the sudden switch? “I hardly think trying to be sensitive to the emotional needs of a child who’s just lost her mother is mollycoddling her.”

“Thought you said you raised her?”

“I did.” She lowered her voice, resisting the urge to dodge that intense, assessing gaze. “But Blair still knew her mother. On top of my husband’s death, her mother’s came as a blow. And I told you. I’m here on a research trip. I obviously couldn’t leave Blair by herself back in D.C., could I?”

His eyes narrowed. “And she couldn’t stay with anybody back home?”

“No.” Jenna folded her arms over her quaking stomach. But there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about her heated cheeks. “She couldn’t.”

For an excruciatingly long two or three seconds, their eyes remained locked, suspicion rolling off him in suffocating waves. Her potentially fatal mistake, Jenna realized, was forgetting that Hank Logan had been a cop. A good one, too, from what she’d been able to glean. Anything out of the ordinary was liable to set off his alarms. Her being here with Blair, not to mention her deliberate evasion of her sister’s name, definitely qualified.

Why the hell had she thought she’d be able to pull this off?

Then he looked away. The frown was still in place, his jaw still set, but his breaking eye contact felt like being released from a stranglehold. Jenna hauled in a deep, shuddering breath, only to feel it catch when his eyes met hers again.

“Okay, look—I’d planned on goin’ into town tomorrow anyway, to pick up some supplies. Don’t suppose it matters a whole lot if I push it up a day. Just tell your niece, if she goes with us, I won’t get up her nose if she doesn’t get up mine, okay?”

Jenna stood, hugging herself. Even though she stood a step up from the bottom, Hank still towered over her, solid and strong.

And alive. Very, very alive.

She swallowed back bitter, out-of-nowhere tears. “Sounds fair to me.”

He cocked his head, his brows dipped, and Jenna willed the tears back, thinking, Oh, please God, don’t let him ask me if I’m all right.

But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Got some things to do first, though, before I can leave.” He twisted away, heading down the driveway. “Give me an hour,” he said, his words nearly swept away on the breeze swooshing through the trees, “then come on down to the office.”

A moment or two passed before Jenna collected herself enough to shout, “Okay! Thanks!” at Hank’s rapidly retreating back. Without turning around, he lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

As Jenna watched him stride down the driveway, she realized just how much of a hellish position she was in. While there was no way she was going to tell Hank the truth until she determined whether or not he was worthy of being entrusted with that knowledge, if and when she did decide to tell him, she suffered no illusions about what was going to hit the fan. And yes, she knew she was being judgmental. But she had sole responsibility for the welfare of a child she loved with all her heart, a responsibility she was more than willing to put her butt on the line for…even if it meant royally pissing off the man who was, in all likelihood, that child’s father.

Exactly one hour later, Jenna pulled the Corolla up alongside Hank’s truck, parked outside the office, and honked. And waited. When, after several minutes had passed and no scary, scruffy man emerged, Jenna left the car and went inside, leaving the engine running. An on-its-last-legs air conditioner rattled and wheezed from a small window on her left; the door to his apartment was cracked open.

“Mr. Logan?” She batted the bell a few times. “I’m here!”

No answer.

She drummed her nails on the counter for a second, then walked around the counter and called again. Nothing. So she knocked on the door. Which, not being completely closed, swung open.

She didn’t mean to look, honestly. Nobody was bigger on privacy issues than she was. But the door fell away and the room was just…there.

In all its A-bomb glory. In fact, she was so stunned by the state of Hank’s apartment—she’d seen more orderly dumps—the music, only half-audible over the air conditioner’s groaning, barely registered. Then it did.

Hold the phone—the man listened to opera? To Wagner, no less? She would have expected country. Hard rock, heavy metal, maybe. Opera…uh, no.

Hank’s scowling face was suddenly inches from hers. Jenna yipped and jumped back.

“I said I’d be ready in an hour,” he said.

“Which was up fifteen minutes ago.”

The scowl deepened. He glanced at his watch, some gigundo number that probably did everything but launch the space shuttle. He swore, mumbled “Sorry,” then grabbed his wallet, slid through the door and shut it firmly behind him.

“Anybody ever teach you to knock?” he asked, loping through the office and on outside, making Jenna scurry behind him.

“Anybody ever teach you how to pick up your clothes? And slow down, for heaven’s sake! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”

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.

And since none of this was any of his business, he could just do himself a favor and keep his butt out and his mouth shut. All she and the gal were, were paying customers. Since he didn’t come by those any too often, ticking them off probably wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.

“Thanks again for doing this,” she said through the open passenger side window when he pulled up. He’d noticed earlier she’d changed into one of those dresses that looked like a too-long golf shirt, ending just above her knees. Navy blue, white collar. Might’ve even been dowdy if it weren’t for the way the jersey clung to a curve here and there, especially when it hiked up her thighs as she climbed up into the truck. Since her hair was now hanging loose around her shoulders, he figured she must have washed it. Sure enough, the instant she settled in beside him, the cab smelled all flowery and womanly. Sweet. Sexy.

He yanked the gearshift into drive. “So…what’d Darryl say? About the air conditioner?”

She let out a sigh. “He has to order some part or something. So, like you said, it’ll be a couple of days. But his estimate did seem fair, at least.”

Hank drove through the station and was out onto the road when, out of the blue, he said, “You need to pick up anything while we’re out?”

She turned, her brows lifted over her sunglasses.

“I don’t know what prompted me to say that, either,” he said, wanting a smoke so bad he thought he’d die, but figuring she probably wouldn’t appreciate him mucking up that sweet-smelling hair with cigarette smoke. “So you might as well take advantage of it, ’cause God alone knows when you’ll get an offer this good again.”

A half laugh burbled out of her throat; he glanced over, noticed that the little commas around her mouth—which had a real nice shape to it—seemed a mite more pronounced.

“I brought a ton of food with us,” she said, “so I don’t need to do any major shopping for a while. But I could stand to stop by a 7-Eleven or something for milk and juice. If it’s no bother.”

“Nope. Not at all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms, staring out the windshield like it didn’t matter two hoots to her whether they talked or not. Well, fine. Offering to take her shopping didn’t mean he felt like having a conversation. But after about three seconds, he figured that was a damn sight better than sitting there and letting all that sweet, sexy, just-washed-hair scent take his mind down paths it had no business going down.

“So,” he said. “What do you write?”

She brushed her hair out of her face. In the sunlight, he could see it was about a hundred different shades of gold. He knew it was dyed—he’d seen the special shampoo in her bathroom—but that was okay. “Mystery novels,” she said.

“Yeah? Under your own name?”

“No. As Jennifer Phillips.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen those around.”

She did this little mm-mm laugh. He glanced over. “What?”

“I take it you’re not a fan, then?”

“Well, no, can’t say that I am. Since I haven’t read them. No offense,” he added quickly. “I just got the feeling they were kinda girly.”

Now she laughed full out, the sound doing far worse things for his mind-wandering problem than the shampoo fragrance ever even thought about. “Girly, huh? So. Who do you read? Assuming you do?”

“Yeah, I read. My mama was real big on reading, so all of us were hooked early. Read every Hardy Boys there was. Then in high school I started in on Stephen King, went on to Koontz, Grisham, Lawrence Block. Just recently started reading Jeffrey Deaver.”

He could feel, more than see, her smile. “You have good taste. If a bit gory at times.” And while Hank was wondering why it should make one shred of difference to him whether or not she approved of his reading matter, she added, “King’s just about my favorite writer. And probably one of the biggest influences on my own writing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Huh. Hank wouldn’t’ve thought that a woman who blushed as easily as Jenna Stanton would get off on Stephen King. Let alone write stuff like that.

At the Git ’n’ Go, Hank figured he might as well pick up a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack, since he was here. Not that he drank much, but he’d probably end up having pizza tonight, so the beer was a no-brainer.

While Jenna went off in search of her milk and juice, Hank grabbed his Bud and a carton of Marlboros, then noticed the rack of paperbacks by the magazines. Like a beacon, Jennifer Phillips jumped out at him, emblazoned in metallic hot pink across the entire upper half of the bright-green book cover. He plucked it off the rack, caught phrases like kick-ass and steamy and pulse-pounding before turning to the inside back cover, where a black-and-white Jenna—in makeup, her hair softly waved around her face and shoulders—smiled back at him. He tried to think of Jenna in terms of kick-ass and steamy. He couldn’t.

“You ever read one of her books before?”

Hank tore his attention away from Jenna’s picture to look over at Angel Creekwater wedged behind the counter. An institution at the Git ’n’ Go for probably twenty-five years, the roly-poly woman’s straight black hair was pulled back so severely the corners of her eyes practically reached her ears, from which dangled a collection of brightly colored seed beads and feathers and other assorted doo-dads passing themselves off as earrings.

“Nope.” Hank checked over his shoulder to make sure Jenna wasn’t within earshot, then raised the book. “She any good?”

Angel shrugged; bowling-ball bosoms shimmied underneath her brown smock. It struck Hank that her pooched-out lips were nearly the same color as Jenna’s name on the cover. “She’s okay. If you like that sort of thing.”

Wondering what Angel considered “that sort of thing,” Hank quickly paid for his purchases, slipping the paperback into the bag with the cigarettes just as a familiar voice rumbled, “Hey—they let you out on good behavior?” behind him.

Without even looking, Hank threw up his left hand, knocking off his brother Cal’s cowboy hat in one smooth motion.

“Jerk!” Cal bent down and snatched his hat off the floor. “And who asked you?” he said to Angel, who was shaking with laughter. Cal rammed his hat back down over his wavy light-brown hair, then thunked his own six-pack up on the counter, reaching around to his back pocket for his wallet. “Been meaning to call you,” he said to Hank, handing Angel a twenty. “Finally got around to sorting through some of those boxes up in the attic and came across a whole bunch of old pictures of us as kids, and Mama and Daddy. You should come over, see if there’s any you want.”

The family farm had been left to all three brothers—Hank, Cal and Ryan—but Cal, who’d turned the place into a thriving horse farm, was in the process of buying Hank and Ryan out. For the past several years, he’d been making noises about sorting through all the junk in the attic, but it was only in the last little while that he’d begun to make any headway.

Hank shook his head. “Can’t imagine why I’d want any of that stuff.”

Cal pocketed the change Angel handed him, his green eyes darkening. “And damned if I’m just gonna toss it without you and Ryan at least giving it a look-see. If you don’t want it after that, fine, but you can at least get your butt out to the farm and…oh! Excuse me, ma’am!”

Cal flashed a smile for Jenna, who’d come up behind them while they’d been talking. As smoothly as Hank had knocked Cal’s hat off a minute before, his brother now reached out and relieved Jenna of the basket suspended from her left hand, weighted down with a gallon of skim milk and a carton of orange juice. Cal was a notorious flirt. And by all accounts a damn good one, too. Something about that stupid, dimpled grin of his just had women eating right out of his hand.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before—”

“Knock it off, Cal. She’s too…smart for you.” Jenna’s eyes darted to his, that almost-smile playing on her lips, but Hank told himself there was no way she could have known he’d nearly said “old” instead of “smart.”

“No such thing,” Cal said, that dumb grin of his still in place.

Hank blew out a sigh. “Jenna Stanton, my much younger brother Cal. Jenna’s staying out at the Double Arrow for a while.”

Cal’s hat lifted up a good inch to accommodate his raised eyebrows. “That a fact?”

Hank glowered at him, but Jenna just said, “Nice to meet you, Cal,” as she swiped her card through the little box at the front of the counter. Apparently, hunky young cowboys with dumb smiles and dimples didn’t do it for her. And amazingly enough, Cal took the hint. Now there was a first.

“Nice to meet you, too, Ms. Stanton,” he said, touching two fingers to his hat brim. Then, six-pack in hand, he pointed to Hank. “Remember now, you’re gonna come over and go through that stuff.”

“I never said—”

But then he was gone and everybody was paid up, so he supposed there was nothing for it but to go on back. The ride was a mostly silent one, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Except, after he dropped Jenna off, her scent stayed in the truck.

Some time later, after he’d finished up scraping the shingles off one of the cottages and the Petersons in number 10 had checked out and some salesman or somebody from Wichita had checked in, and after he’d decided going back out for pizza wasn’t worth the effort so he’d just heat up some beans and franks instead, he went for a cigarette and discovered the pack was empty. So it wasn’t until then, when he dumped the Marlboros out on his bed and Jenna’s novel had come tumbling out with it, that he remembered the book.

Settling back at his dinette table with his meal, he popped open one of the Buds, forked in a bite of beans and, chewing, started to read.

Blair looked up from her plate of vegetarian pasta and said, “Then Libby told me she sometimes has to take care of her five brothers all by herself. And she’s my age! Does that stink or what?”

Jenna dropped a lemon slice into her glass of bottled water and gave Blair a reproachful look as she sat back down. “Actually, I think it’s pretty neat that she helps her father like that.” As Blair rolled her eyes, Jenna asked, “What happened to Libby’s mom?”

Blair swiped a hank of hair behind her ear, weeded out two microscopic pieces of onion which she banished to the rim of her bowl, and shoveled in a bite of pasta. “She died suddenly about two years ago,” she said, chewing. “A blood clot or something, Libby wasn’t real specific. So, like, we have this common bond, y’know?”

Ever since Libby’s father, Sam Frazier, had dropped Blair off a couple hours ago, the girl had been going on practically non-stop about her day’s adventures. Jenna couldn’t quite tell whether Blair had actually had a good time as much as she’d just been grateful for the diversion. Jenna had only met Libby briefly, and while she seemed like a nice enough child, Jenna couldn’t exactly see Blair bonding with someone so different from her other friends. Except then Blair asked if she could go back to Libby’s the next day, that Sam had already said it was okay, and Jenna thought, then again—what harm could there be in a summer friendship? Jenna had had a couple of those, when she’d gone to visit her mother’s parents in Virginia as a child. And maybe, if Blair found herself coming to visit again on a regular basis, it would be nice for her to have someone her own age to pal around with—

Her stomach cramped.

As much as Jenna tried to concentrate on her niece’s prattling, her mind kept meandering back to Hank. And everything thinking about him meant. And now…oh, this was probably stupid, but…well, when she’d seen that both Hank and his brother Cal had six-packs, she couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a problem with alcoholism in the family. Granted, she was probably just overreacting, but having lived with the effects of her sister’s chronic substance abuse, she doubted whether anyone would fault her for being too cautious.

Then again, she was already beginning to see things—little things—that gave her hope. Not his appearance, certainly. Or, most of the time, his attitude. But the man did read. And listen to classical music. And although he tended toward acerbity, there was a sense of humor there, too. And, maybe…a smattering of protectiveness, buried under all that grief and bitterness?

She thought back to the scene in the convenience store, the brothers’ interaction. Years of observing human nature for her work had made Jenna a fairly good judge of character, and while she guessed Hank and Cal didn’t spend much time together, neither did they hate each other. Which meant family ties, though perhaps tenuous, were at least intact. And after all, Hank Logan had been a cop for more than fifteen years. Not generally a career choice for the self-centered.

Yet, whenever she thought about telling Hank the truth, something inside said, No. Not yet. Not until you’re absolutely sure. As whacked as her sister had been, Jenna still felt she owed Sandy at least the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a valid reason she’d refused to tell Hank Logan he had a child. And maybe family loyalty was a lousy thing to base such a momentous decision on, but it was all she had.

She glanced across at her niece, who looked almost happy for the first time in several days, and a bittersweet smile tilted her lips. No, Blair was all she had. And she wasn’t about to share her with anyone she didn’t feel in her soul she could trust.

Without any reservations.

“So…your aunt and uncle raised you?” Libby asked the next day.

“Yeah.”

Libby had finished all her chores, and since this was one of the days the part-time housekeeper came, her dad had told her—with a wink—to go on with Blair ’cause who needed two giggling girls hanging around the house? Blair thought Libby’s dad, Sam, was nice. Even though he had the farm to run and all those kids to take care of, it seemed like he was always laughing and smiling and teasing the kids. Not grumpy all the time like Mr. Logan. Oh, Libby had said her dad had been pretty sad for a long time after her mother had died, but that he’d really tried not to let it show. And that it was probably a good thing, him having all these kids, so he wouldn’t miss their mom so much.

That’s what Blair had thought, too, after Uncle Phil died, that it was a good thing Jenna had her to keep her from getting lonely. The funny feeling came back, like a weird tickle in the middle of her chest.

“I guess I think of Jenna more like my mom, since she’s always been around.”

Since there wasn’t another bike Blair’s size, the two girls were walking, following the road around to where it would eventually meet up with the old highway, where the motel was. Libby bent over to pick a wild daisy, which she now twirled around and around in her fingers as they walked. “So you get along pretty good with her?”

“Yeah. I guess. ’Cept when she’s in one of her ‘no, you can’t do that, you’re too young’ moods.”

Libby let out a sigh, like she understood, then fluttered the hem of her baggy white T-shirt—they were dressed practically the same, in big shirts and denim shorts, their hair pulled back into ponytails—to let some air up inside. It was so hot. Libby had said it hadn’t rained in more than a month.

Libby had also said she didn’t like wearing anything too tight since she’d started to get breasts, ’cause the boys kept staring at her. A problem Blair said she wished she had, until Libby pointed out how much she hated bouncing when she ran and besides, they hurt like anything when she got her period. “But if it makes you feel any better,” she added, probably because Blair hadn’t looked all that convinced, “I knew some girl at church who was flat as a pancake, but then she grew into a 38C over the summer when she was fourteen. So you never know.”