Buch lesen: «The Daddy's Promise»

Chapter One

The mouse won—by default.

If the doorbell hadn’t rung, Anita Ricardo was sure she would have won the staring contest with the scrawny rodent. Then she could have chalked up at least one point for herself on this hot, calamity-prone day.

Well, maybe a half point.

The three-note off-key song played again. Not exactly the lyrical melody of the bell back at her apartment in L.A.—the apartment she’d given up to come to Mercy, Indiana, and start a new life.

Unfortunately, right now a new life meant living in a rickety rental house with a rodent for a roommate.

Geez, put that way, her life sounded like the plot of a bad sitcom. Anita got to her feet. She reached for the front door, twisted the knob and pulled. The heavy door refused to budge. For the second time that day, the late-August humidity had swollen it tight to the frame. The first time, she’d been able to use a little elbow grease—little being the operative word for a five-foot-three woman who barely topped a hundred pounds—to wrestle it open.

The doorbell pealed a third time. Anita put both hands on the knob and yanked.

“Just a minute,” she yelled. Maybe it was the plumber, here to do something about the sputtering rust that passed for water. Or the electrician the landlord had promised to send over to fix the flickering lights. Or even, please Lord, the telephone company, here to connect her with the outside world.

Anita tugged harder. The door moved a fraction of an inch. She put her weight into it and then—

The knob jerked out of the locking mechanism and right into her hands. Anita stumbled back several steps. She blinked at the brass sphere in her hands.

“Hello?” called a quavering female voice.

“Hang on a minute. I have a bit of a problem here.” She tried to slip the knob back into the hole. It refused to connect. Anita bent down, peered through the opening and saw—

A canned ham.

“Um, hello?” Anita said to the pink oval.

The ham moved away, replaced by an eye and part of a wrinkled cheek. “Why hello, dear. Welcome to Mercy.” The woman straightened and the ham swung into view again. Fully Cooked, Real Maple Flavor, No Refrigeration Needed. “I’m with the Mercy Welcoming Committee.”

“Do you have a screwdriver with you? Maybe a sledgehammer?”

“Did you say sledgehammer, dear?”

“Never mind. Let me open the window.” The back door, Anita knew from an unsuccessful door-pull match this morning, was likely just as stuck. She straightened, then lifted the sash on the small window, fumbling with the finicky metal screen.

After two good curses and a solid tug, she managed to fling it up. She dipped her head to her knees and crawled out the window and onto the wide wooden porch.

The woman didn’t blink at Anita’s unconventional entrance. She looked close to eighty years old and wore a bright floral sleeveless dress shaped more like a bell than an hourglass. “Here you go, new neighbor.” She thrust the basket into Anita’s arms. “I’m Alice Marchand.”

Anita staggered a little under the weight of the wicker container. A hand-drawn smiley face dangled from the handle, with the words “Welcome to Our Town” forming the lips. The basket was piled to the brim with a motley collection of foods and household things: a red flashlight emblazoned with Joe’s Hardware: Screws You Can Use; two bottles of Pete’s Hotter Than Hades Salsa; some calico-topped jars of home-canned food; a Tupperware container of chocolate-chip cookies; and the pièce de résistance, a hand fan from the local funeral home, decorated with Ten Tips for Planning Early for the Afterlife.

The basket took the prize for hokiest gift of the year. And yet it touched some kind of sentimental nerve because, for a brief second, Anita wanted to cry.

Crazy. She was hot, sweaty and tired. Nothing more. A glass of lemonade and a good meal and she’d be back to her regular, optimistic self. “Thank you, Mrs. Marchand.”

“Oh, I’m not a missus. Never did find a man I could tolerate.” She leaned closer and winked. “Besides, I’m holding out for true love.”

Anita chuckled. “The basket is beautiful. Thanks again.”

“It’s nothing. Just a bit of Indiana hospitality.” Miss Marchand bent forward, pointing inside it. “There’s some of my neighbor Colleen’s homemade orange marmalade in there, and a loaf of bread baked special by the ladies of the Presbyterian Church. Oh, and a coupon for Flo’s Cut and Go. Our little beauty shop hasn’t been the same since Claire left—that’s who rented this house before you. The new girl, Dorene, is trying, bless her heart, but she’s just not Claire.” Miss Marchand pressed a hand to her gray pouf. “Dorene is mighty stingy with the hairspray. Keep an eye on her with the Aqua Net.”

“I’ll, ah, keep that in mind.” She should invite the woman in for a glass of lemonade, but doubted a senior citizen would be up to a climb through the window. “Would you like something to drink? I can go in and get—”

“Looks like you have your hands full already. And, in a few more months, you’ll have them twice as full,” she gestured toward Anita’s stomach.

Anita glanced down at her legging shorts and oversize T-shirt. She’d just hit the seventh month of her pregnancy and had outgrown most of her regular clothes but hadn’t yet bought many maternity clothes. Stretchy outfits and sundresses were comfortable and the easiest on her tight budget. “How did you know I’m pregnant?”

“Old lady’s intuition. Not to mention, the little clues sitting in the porch swing.” She smiled, gesturing toward the pregnancy guide Anita had left out there earlier that morning. Beside it sat two pairs of half-crocheted baby booties, one in pink and one in blue.

“Oh, those! I—”

Miss Marchand waved a hand in dismissal. “No need to explain. It’s nice to see someone young making something by hand,” she said. “You have a nice day. Oh, and if you need any work done or help with anything, call John Dole. His number’s in there. Now that he’s retired, he works part-time as a handyman. Nicest man you’d ever want to meet, and with the smartest sons you’ve ever seen. I should know. They all passed my biology class with flying colors. Why, Claire even married one of them.” Miss Marchand smiled. “She always was a bright girl.”

“Did you say John Dole?” Anita’s breath lodged in her throat. “Does he have a son named Luke?”

Miss Marchand nodded. “Along with Mark and Nate and Katie. Quite the family, the Doles. If you ever get to meet any of them, you’ll love them to pieces.”

“I already have.” In that instant, Anita saw Luke’s face again, half in shadow in his darkened office. That kiss—no, not a kiss, more an eruption of hot, molten desire. One kiss, nothing more, but it had been enough to scare Luke away and to tip Anita’s perfect, planned-out world off-kilter. “Is he…is he living in town now?”

Miss Marchand smiled and her silvery blue eyes perked up. “Why, yes he is, dear. He was working at the steel mill, but now he’s got a business at home. He lives just a couple blocks down, too. It’s the little white house on Cherry Street. You should stop over and say hello. If you’re old friends and all.” The sentence came out with a lilt at the end, more question than declaration.

“Actually, he’s the reason I’m here.”

“Oh?” Miss Marchand gave Anita’s swollen belly an obvious glance.

“Oh, no, this isn’t his baby.” She laughed. “When I knew him in California, he raved so much about Mercy, he made it sound like paradise. At least, compared to L.A. That’s why we’re here.” She pressed a hand to her abdomen.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No, I…well, I haven’t had a chance to tell him.” Seeing Luke wasn’t part of her plan. Men in general weren’t part of her plan. All Anita cared about was settling in a nice place, where her baby could grow up happy and healthy, with neighbors who wrapped around their lives like a well-worn quilt. Mercy, with its quaint streets and quiet neighborhoods, seemed perfect so far.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that.” The old woman winked. “News spreads faster than chicken pox here. I’m sure Luke will be dropping in to see you soon.”

Anita doubted that, but left those words unsaid. “This basket looks great. I really appreciate the welcome.”

Miss Marchand wasn’t dissuaded by a change of topic. “If you ever want to talk to Luke, just call John. Luke’s there, staying with his folks for a bit. That young man’s been through an awful time.” She tugged on a leather strap and a little dachshund Anita hadn’t noticed before scrambled to her feet, wagging her tail, clearly anxious to be on her way again. When Miss Marchand reached the sidewalk, the dachshund hopped into a little red wagon, obviously the basket’s conveyance. “The number’s right behind the ham!”

Miss Marchand toodled a wave, then picked up the wagon’s handle and set off down the sidewalk. Anita stayed on the porch, hugging the basket to her chest.

In L.A., no one would have done something so nice. Her neighbors had never introduced themselves to her or taken the time to give her the phone number of a handyman. It proved to her once again that she had made the right choice for her and her baby.

The hokier the better, that was her motto from here on out. Hokey was good for raising a family.

A plaintive squeak-squeak sounded behind her. The mouse sat on the windowsill, nose twitching, watching her. He blinked several times, raised his teeny snout in the air, sniffing.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Anita told him. “I’m not sharing.”

The mouse lowered his head, stretched his body toward her. When he did, he looked skinny and deprived. Lonely.

Anita glanced inside the basket and spotted a package of wheat crackers. “Oh, all right. But just one.”

She withdrew a cracker from the package and tossed it on the flaking paint of the porch floor. The mouse scrambled down and dove for the cracker. Anita thrust the basket through the window, clambered in after it and shut the screen.

There. She might not have any hot water. Or a front door she could open. Or reliable electricity. But she had managed to outsmart one wily mouse.

Surely, that was a sign her life was on the upswing. If not, she had a flashlight, a hand fan and plenty of cookies to tide her over.

Luke Dole had been pacing the carpet in his daughter’s bedroom for the past twenty minutes, mashing an even path in the beige plush. He ran through a mental list of places where Emily could be for the hundredth time and got nowhere. Nothing.

She’d taken off right after school. When the principal called five minutes later to announce Emily’s latest act of defiance and impending suspension—only one week into the new school year—Luke knew why his daughter had disappeared.

Now it was ten-thirty, an hour and a half past Emily’s curfew, and he had no idea where she could be. He’d already gone out looking once and come up empty. He’d returned home, hoping to find her here, but her bed was still made, her sandals missing from their place by the door. Images of serial killers, rave parties and fiery car wrecks ran through his mind like a horror slide show.

“Reminds me of when I used to wait up for you and your brother.”

His father’s voice made Luke jump. He spun around and saw John Dole standing in the doorway, wrapped in a navy terry-cloth robe, holding a glass of water.

“Dad! I didn’t hear you get up.”

“Well, I heard you. Sounds like a herd of elephants in here.” John crossed and took a seat on the edge of Emily’s bed. The worn Barbie comforter seemed too girlie for tall, broad John. “I’m sure she’s fine, Luke. Just testing some boundaries.”

“Yeah, well those boundaries are an hour and a half late. Where could she be?” He began pacing again. “I should call the police.”

“Mercy isn’t L.A., Luke. Don’t you remember what it was like to be twelve, going on thirty? You and Mark were a handful then. Always taking off, building forts, chasing frogs, cornering poor Miss Tanner’s dog and painting it purple.”

Luke laughed. “I think Miss Tanner’s still mad at us for that one.”

“That dog of hers was a pain in the neck anyway. Barked at gnats, for God’s sake.” John sipped, then placed the glass on Emily’s white wicker nightstand. When she’d been seven, Emily had loved this bedroom set, right down to the Barbie-and-Ken pillowcase. But now, it seemed to be one more thing for them to argue about. Luke hated that she was outgrowing the memories he and Mary had worked so hard to build.

His father rose, put a hand on his shoulder. “Em’s going through a tough time. Losing her mother just when she needed her most.”

“I lost Mary, too, Dad. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be two parents at once.” He’d carried this load alone for almost two years, and he’d dropped it more than once. “I keep screwing it up.”

“You and she have a few things to work out, that’s all. It’ll be all right.”

Luke had heard those words so many times. From the psychiatrist he’d hired for Emily after Mary died, from the teachers and principals who had thrown up their hands after unsuccessfully trying to reverse Emily’s failing grades and continued rule breaking, from the neighbors who thought they were doing the right thing by bringing over hot dishes and well-worn platitudes. He’d moved back home, hoping his parents could help him break through the brick wall she’d put up.

Maybe he wasn’t the right man to raise Emily. Maybe another man would have—

That thought damn near broke his heart in two. He hung his head. Thick emotion clogged his throat, strangling his vocal cords. “When, Dad? When is it ever going to be right again?”

John’s eyes shimmered. “I wish I had that answer for you.” He gripped Luke tight for a moment. “Go find Emily. Talk to her. I’ve never seen two people who needed each other more.”

How true that was. Each of them was all the other had left. And yet, they kept pushing each other away as if they were fighting over the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

Luke gave his father a quick, one-armed hug, then headed for the door.

Once again, he drove up and down the streets of Mercy. It was a small town, barely more than six thousand in population, so there wasn’t much area to cover. For half an hour, he saw nothing but the occasional loose dog. And then, on the corner of Lincoln and Lewis, he saw a familiar figure with fuchsia hair and a bright orange T-shirt climbing in the window of a house.

Claire Richards used to live there, until she’d married Luke’s twin brother, Mark, and they’d moved to California. Renters were few and far between in Mercy, and the home had fallen into disrepair and become a teen party hangout over the last twelve months. His mother had mentioned something about a new person moving in, but Luke had barely caught the comment and didn’t remember if his mother had said there was a tenant already in residence or soon to be.

The house was dark, looked empty. Emily would see it as the perfect hiding place.

Luke parked his Chevy in front of the neighbor’s house. He snuck down the drive, around to the back of Claire’s, then hoisted himself into the window Emily had disappeared through.

Anita bolted upright in bed. The sound she’d heard coming from the next bedroom—the one she’d started setting up as an office—hadn’t come from a mouse. Unless the mouse had invited a few million friends over for a canned-ham-and-marmalade party.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Images of her certain demise flashed through her mind: the coroner shaking his head at the woefully unprepared corpse, the headline decrying the loss of the newest Mercy resident and all that wasted food from the Welcoming Committee.

Anita took a deep breath, clearing her head.

A weapon. She needed a weapon. In the half light of the moon through the curtainless windows she didn’t see anything remotely lethal, unless she counted one pair of red spike heels.

Then, in the corner, a box labeled “Kitchen,” left there when she got too tired to move anything else. Eureka. She prayed for a rolling pin, maybe even that cast-iron waffle maker she’d never used but felt compelled to tote across the country, in case she ever had a hankering for homemade Belgians.

Anita crept out of bed, snuck over to the box and pried open the cardboard lid. From the other room, a scuffling sound. She held her breath, praying Jack the Ripper wasn’t about to lunge through the door and show off his superior surgical skills.

She pulled out the first thing her hand lighted on. A Teflon skillet. Twelve inches of coated aluminum, with a wooden handle. Not a heck of a lot more lethal than the stilettos, but easier to wield and requiring far less accuracy.

Anita got to her feet, steadying her stomach with her hand when a wave of nausea threatened to undo her. She crept out of her room, down the short hall and toward the next doorway. Like a SWAT-team leader, she plastered herself to the wall, peeking around the corner, pan at the ready above her head.

At first, she didn’t see much but then, a flash at the window.

A man was on the window ledge, heaving himself into the room. A large man. Son of Sam size. Anita slithered around the doorway, pressed herself to the wall and crept barefoot around the perimeter of the room.

He didn’t notice her. He was too busy huffing and puffing his way through a B and E. He paused, his hands propped on the sill. Anita reached him and before she could think about what she was about to do, she raised the pan, then swung it down as hard as she could. Her muscles—or maybe her conscience—flickered at the last second, turning her crushing blow into nothing more than a cornflake-crunching glance.

The man let out an oomph, lifted his hands to ward off future attacks and promptly fell forward, landing face first with a thud on the wood floor.

Anita raised the pan, ready to strike again. She hesitated.

There was a man on her floor. A large man. If she knocked him out, how would she ever get him out the door? That is, if she could even open the door. She could call the police, but her phone still wasn’t hooked up and for all she knew, Mercy, being such a small town, didn’t have a full-time police department, just some local yokels who probably took the law into their own hands after work. Maybe she should get the stilettos. Threaten him with the pointy end and make him crawl out.

But first, she’d be smart. Force him to fix that door. And maybe move the kitchen table to the other side of the room. Every once in a while, her choice to be manless presented a few logistical problems.

Anita hoisted the pan higher. If worse came to worse, she could tie him up with the useless telephone line and leave him for the mouse.

“Hey! That’s my dad!” A female voice shrieked behind her. “Don’t hit him!” Before Anita could react, the pan was yanked out of her hand by a girl not much bigger than her.

The man on the floor groaned. He put a hand to his head and rolled over. “Who are you and what are you doing in Claire’s—” He leaned forward, blinking. “Anita?”

She knew that voice. And that face. It couldn’t be him. Absolutely, positively could not be him. She could almost hear Rod Serling humming “Do-do, do-do…” in her ear.

The man on her floor wasn’t a bungled burglar. He was…

“Luke?”

“Dad! Don’t talk to her. She’s crazy. Not to mention, she tried to kill you.” The girl dropped the pan on the floor and crossed to her father. Anita remembered meeting his daughter—Emily was her name—a couple of times when the girl had still worn pigtails. Now she hovered over Luke, not touching him, feigning indifference, but it was clear she was concerned. “Are you, like, okay?”

“I’m fine.” Luke got to his feet, brushing off his pants as he did. He turned to Anita, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. “If that’s how you say hello, I’d hate to see you say goodbye.”