"They sound like a better choice than those girls. They don't seem to be into anything but themselves, do they?"
"They talk about boys. Ashley is crushing majorly on Jim Holder, the captain of the soccer team, but he doesn't like her back. They're still my friends, though. I am trying to be friends to them because they, like, friended me. It's like Logan says, you can have different kinds of friends."
David had said that, too, but apparently the word of a boy superseded the word of a father. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"That's Logan, isn't it?" David gestured with his coffee mug toward a figure coming across the side yard. "Or at least I think it is. He looks different."
Sarah watched his progress approvingly. Instead of his usual hunched-over, head down posture, he held his head up, his backpack slung over one shoulder, a self-assured, confident look about him. His hair was clean and shorter, falling softly over his brow.
"Tell him you like his haircut, Dad. I talked him into it. I took him to Delon, who cuts my hair."
"You dragged the poor kid to a beauty salon?"
"He was a good sport about it. Now, please, tell him you like it."
David smothered a laugh. "Sarah, men don't comment on other men's hairstyles. It isn't manly."
She slanted him a look, getting it. "I wonder why he's still here? He usually leaves early, so he can use the computer in the school lab. He doesn't have a computer," she added, disbelief in her voice. "He doesn't have a cellphone, either."
"Possibly, he can't afford one. He lives with his mother, doesn't he?"
"Mostly. His dad's only home a couple of days a month."
Logan marched up the steps and onto the porch, giving Sarah a wide smile of approval. It caught David's interest. Was this going to be Sarah's first real boyfriend?
"Hey, Sarah, looking good. I thought we'd walk to school together today."
"Hi, Logan," David said, "come join us for breakfast. We have plenty of oatmeal."
"Uh, oatmeal?" Logan's eyes brightened.
"I'll get it for you." Sarah jumped to her feet without waiting for a reply, and hurried into the kitchen. Clearly, if Logan needed something, she wanted to do it.
"Well," David commented, observing his daughter's hasty departure, then giving Logan a questioning look that caused the boy to redden painfully.
"Uh. I think she likes to feed me. Uh, you weren't home last night when we walked home from school, and she gave me some of the chicken you made for supper."
His embarrassment at the confession was evident. David frowned at him. The kid was so afraid of censure, he practically stuttered.
"Uh, sir, we ate out here. I didn't go in the house, or anything. She said it was okay if I stayed to eat. I hope you don't mind." He waited anxiously for a reply.
David hastened to reassure him. "Son, you're welcome here anytime." The poor kid was so afraid of offending, but David's thoughts were on Sarah. She had always been the caretaker of the family, but her attention to this boy seemed a bit more.
"Of course he doesn't mind." Sarah came out of the kitchen with a tray she had obviously taken great care to assemble. Along with a glass of orange juice, two pieces of toast, the bowl of cereal, a small pitcher of cream, and sugar, she'd added a cloth napkin and their best silverware.
David looked at the tray, gave her an amused glance, and then winked at Logan.
"What?" Sarah demanded. She hated it when she wasn't in on the joke.
"Nothing. You're a gracious hostess, Sarah, just like your mother."
Pleased, but with a sideways glance that said she wasn't entirely satisfied, she took the dishes from the tray and placed them in front of Logan. "It's special oatmeal Dad has sent from Chicago. You'll like it."
Logan attacked the food as though he hadn't eaten anything this morning, which David figured he hadn't. Sarah mentioned his mother rarely cooked when his dad wasn't home, so he fended for himself, leaving a shopping list of food he wanted on the refrigerator. Hell of a way to live.
They sat quietly. Sarah nibbled at a piece of toast, while Logan scarfed down his oatmeal and David, deep in thought, drank his coffee.
This was nothing like the hectic rush of a morning in Chicago. Anne hurried to avoid morning traffic. He rushed to get to his office before the markets opened, and Sarah needed to catch the Academy bus, all at the same time, creating chaos.
Life was slower here. He had time to linger over breakfast, listen to the sound of a lawnmower, or to the neighbor's dog when he barked at the mailman.
Logan finished eating. Sarah asked, "How come you're here? You usually leave for school early."
"Uh." He blushed, hesitant to say anything.
"Well?"
"Uh," the words came out in a rush, as he studied his empty bowl. "I thought you might want company, uh, with your new look, and all. I thought maybe we should walk together." He gave her a sideways glance; clearly doubting she'd accept that explanation.
"Logan Biesterman, you want company, because you aren't sure how it'll go with your new haircut. It looks great. You're very handsome." At his shy smile of acknowledgement, she continued, "Trust me, you look good, really hot."
David watched, amused, as the kid stood and, with a 'superior male' smile, held out his hand. "Well, come on, then."
Sarah stood, picked up her backpack, and placed her hand in his.
"Thanks for breakfast, Mr. Martin."
"You're welcome, Logan."
As they set off, Sarah turned to her father and said, "Your tux is in the spare bedroom closet upstairs. It needs to be pressed. There's a cleaners on Main Street. They close at four today because it's Friday, and the dance is tomorrow."
He laughed. He could always depend on Sarah.
David watched them to the end of the block. The whole breakfast scene set off alarm bells clanging, stridently, in his mind.
Comprehension hit him with the force of a speeding truck; he was the father of a fifteen-year-old girl, on the threshold of womanhood, and all that it entailed. The drug crisis at Sarah's old school paled in the face of this new problem. He could hardly think the word, let alone say it aloud.
Sex.
He didn't have a clue what to do. Recollections of his own adolescence were no help. He'd been a late bloomer. Early on, his life was filled with so many accelerated classes, he had no time for girls, until after college. He learned how easy sex could be if you had good looks and money, and he never suffered from a lack of it. Hell, it was his for the taking, not that he was interested that often. The thought of a boy treating Sarah with the same sort of casualness turned his blood cold.
He needed advice. He had to have a talk with his daughter and probably Logan, but he had no idea how to go about it. He needed the wisdom of a woman in his life.
Lindsay.
The name was always in his mind.
With growing anticipation, he thought of his date with her Saturday night. His response to her confounded him. She excited him—made him feel alive for the first time in two years. He should do something to let her know he was looking forward to their evening. It might give him an edge in case he screwed up again.
"I'm not nearly ready for this." Lindsay paced the floor in her bedroom, so overcome with nervousness and anticipation, her stomach threatened to revolt.
Within the hour she would leave for the Chamber of Commerce Dinner Dance. Pausing in front of her bedroom mirror, she began delivering a pep talk to her image, arguing with herself.
I am going to have a good time. The evening will not be like other dates. David Martin is, more or less, a nice guy. He isn't going to demand sex the minute he gets me alone in the car. There is nothing to worry about.
Oh yeah? Then why did he send a single red rose to the shop today—throwing Violet into a romantic frenzy? And the card. It said 'Looking forward to a nice evening.' What did that mean?
Nothing. It meant nothing. I'm behaving like an idiot. He was just making a romantic gesture.
Well, it worked, didn't it? You're attracted to him. You have feelings you were not ever again going to have for a man. Remember? Never again.
I can do this. I'm a grown woman suffering from paranoia. He probably won't even want to kiss me. Lord knows I've insulted him enough times. The wonder is he even wants to be in my company. Besides, I've had other dates.
Oh sure, remember the last one? The date from hell?
The memory distracted her. She had, against her better judgment, agreed to have dinner with a pharmaceutical representative visiting town. They'd spent the entire evening discussing his ex-wife and his failed marriage. Now, two years later, she was about to try again.
I have a right to be anxious. Who is David Martin? I don't know anything about him—only that he's a hotel waiter who likes to cook, and I get giddy looking at him. Is he divorced? Married? A drunk? A serial killer?
She laughed at that last thought, finally realizing how irrational she was being. He had never been anything but polite and considerate, except for when he was being irritating.
Relax, girl. You're going to have dinner with a truly stunning man, in the company, and relative safety, of your peers, and maybe dance a little. No big deal.
One last look in the mirror revealed a tall, elegant woman she hardly recognized. Her dress was formal length, a column of teal silk with a matching, waist-length jacket, bordered by tiny leaves embroidered in shades of blue, green, and gold. She turned for a side view and was thrilled at the way the dress gently revealed her shape, making her feel so feminine.
Delon had completely outdone himself with her hair; piled it on top of her head, threading blue-green ribbon through the curls. There was no more to be done. She was as ready as she would ever be. It was time. She went to the living room to wait for her date.
As the chimes sounded, she opened the front door, not knowing what to expect. The gorgeous man who greeted her rendered her speechless.
Oh, my!
D.G. Martin, in a tuxedo, was the epitome of male sophistication. Hugh Jackman couldn't do it better. D.G. could have walked off the cover of a paperback romance, but yet, he retained a slightly dangerous, controlled look.
Yeah, Hugh, eat your heart out. You've been beaten by a country mile.
The suit was unmistakably custom made, and hugged his body like a glove. In the glow of the porch light, his perfectly groomed, blonde hair gleamed, setting off his smooth-shaven face to perfection. She stood mute, while his eyes roamed over her, reflecting more male appreciation than she could have ever hoped for. Her spirits should have soared at his reaction, but instead the embarrassing truth stared her in the face. No way was this man a down-on-his-luck drifter. She'd misjudged him and owed him an apology. His next remark added salt to the wound.
"Lindsay, you look incredible." His expression of complacent amusement robbed the compliment of any sincerity. She decided to play it cool until she could make amends.
"You clean up pretty good yourself, sir."
Like the very savvy gentleman he was, he acknowledged her compliment, enjoying her discomfort, and indicated he was going to let the moment pass.
"Your chariot awaits, milady," he said, with a bow.
David made the moment a fairy tale. She smiled at him gratefully, and, enveloped in a haze of excitement, allowed him to lead her down the steps to the waiting Jaguar convertible, bathed in the glow of the porch light, motor purring contentedly.
Jaguar? Hold on a minute.
Wary, and already being played for a fool, she waited until she was seated and he was backing out of the driveway, to comment.
"Okay, David Martin, I admit you had me fooled, and I'd give anything to take back what I said at the restaurant about itinerant waiters, but what's going on? You've certainly proved your point. So you aren't a waiter and you own your own tuxedo, but driving a Jaguar?"
The brilliant, chagrinned, little-boy smile he delivered while he leaned toward her had the persuasive power to make her forgive anything. Lord, this man was lethal. There was no doubt he read her like a book.
"Busted," he laughed. "Okay, in real life I'm a financial analyst. I work with about a dozen clients, managing their investment portfolios, along with a pension fund or two. It pays the bills. The job at the Kensington is because I like the restaurant business. I already told you that. Am I forgiven?"
Lindsay studied his face, uncertain. She felt like an idiot—she didn't want to sound like one, too.
"Okay, but I'm a little disappointed. Why the masquerade?"
He grinned. "Okay, I guess now it's my turn to sound like a jerk, but I'll try to explain. I moved here from Chicago to get away from a world where everyone is judged by how important they are and how much money they have. To the women I knew, that's the only thing that matters. I wanted to get away from all that, and be seen as a normal guy. Okay?"
"Yeah, I can understand that."
"Now it's your turn. Why so quick to condemn drifters? Maybe they just don't want to settle down."
"I've seen too much of the heartbreak that kind of relationship can cause. If I ever get interested in a relationship it'll have to be with someone I know will stay around if things get tough."
David looked at her intently, clearly reading her. He knew now she no longer considered him an unmotivated drifter.
"There's a whole lot more to that story than you're telling, Lindsay Keith, but we'll let it go for now and enjoy the evening. Let's get one thing straight. I wasn't determined to date you to prove a point. I'm genuinely attracted to you and I'm looking forward to enjoying your company this evening."
Lindsay decided, in the few minutes it took to reach their destination that nothing was going to interfere with her having a good time. She had invested effort and money into this evening, and no matter if David turned out to be a first class jerk, he was stunningly handsome and she was going to enjoy the moment. She smiled at him, letting him know they were on good terms.