be going now,” she declared. “And please don’t worry about paying the agency for my time, Mrs. Parrish. I’ll make sure they know that this performance was on…me.”
It was all Kate could do to get the words out before the waves of anger and humiliation swept over her. Jeff Parrish held out her shoes. She snatched them out of his hand and spun away, her throat jerking as she led her daughter across the lawn to the road, where the Jeep was parked.
Summer people!
Jeff was hauling chairs and tables into the storage shed when he stumbled over the green duffel lying open on the grass. Only after he’d caught his balance did he realize what he’d found. “Damn,” he muttered, his emotions slamming between dismay and a strange, primitive elation. “Damn.”
He stood still for a moment, the lonesome cry of a kittiwake echoing in his ears. Inky clouds were swirling in over the dunes. The breeze carried the cool smell of rain. Kate would need the duffel before her next Jo-Jo performance, he reminded himself. He would have to get it back to her.
Jeff exhaled slowly, then, drawn by an urge too strong to resist, lowered himself to a crouch and began rummaging through the contents of the faded canvas bag. If he could find an address, or a phone number—
But who was he kidding? It was plain male curiosity that was driving this search. The odd little clown with the sexy voice had gotten to him in a most unsettling way, and he was looking for a clue—any clue—about the woman beneath that padding and greasepaint. A driver’s license photo, an article of clothing…
But the bag held no surprises. There was nothing inside except clown props—a small boom box and an assortment of tapes, the fluorescent balls from the juggling act, a sack of leftover balloons, a bag of cheap party favors and a battered tin fishing-tackle box that contained brushes, tissues, cold cream and tubes of greasy stage makeup. There was nothing of real interest—except for a name and address scratched inside the tackle box lid.
Frank Valera, 81 Seacove Road, Misty Point, N.C.
Jeff frowned pensively as he latched the box and zipped it inside the duffel bag. Kate had mentioned that she was single. So who was Frank Valera? Her brother? Her ex?
But what did that matter? Jeff reminded himself as he tossed the duffel in the trunk of his silver-gray BMW and slammed the lid. Kate’s private life was none of his business. He would return her things, drive home, and that would be the end of it.
The end?
The end of what?
For Pete’s sake, he barely knew Kate Valera. He wasn’t even sure what she looked like. He was making altogether too much of this, Jeff berated himself as he carted the last few folding chairs into the shed and padlocked the door. Maybe he’d spent too many months living like a blasted monk, cloistered in his work. Maybe it was time he came out of his shell and found himself a woman—a genteel, socially accomplished lady who would set a fine example for his daughter.
The wind was picking up. It raked Jeff’s hair as he strode toward the house. It rippled the grass and lashed his face with the first cool raindrops. Lightning crackled blue fire above the dunes, its resounding thunderclap echoing over the ghostly hiss of the ocean.
Mermaids!
Yes, it was time he had that talk with Ellen.
The rain was splattering down by the time Jeff reached the front steps. He sprinted across the wet verandah and hurried inside through the front door.
The house was silent except for the staccato patter of raindrops against the glass. Jeff was shutting an open window when he remembered that his mother had gone out for early dinner and a movie with Mrs. Frances Appleton, who lived up the road. Floss, the cook, had the evening off—so much the better, Jeff resolved. He would build a fire, then make Ellen some hot cocoa and toasted cheese sandwiches. The two of them could enjoy an evening alone reading or playing a few games of checkers, and there would be plenty of opportunity to talk her out of this mermaid nonsense before bedtime.
There was the matter of Kate Valera’s bag. But—yes— he could return it after his mother came home. Maybe he would give Kate a call about it later if her number was in the book. The thought of hearing that delicious, raspy little voice in his ear…
“Ellen…” he shouted from the foot of the staircase. “Hey, come on down, and I’ll make us some supper!”
The only answer was the sound of rain.
“Ellen?” He started up the stairs, wondering why she hadn’t replied. He’d been a bit harsh with her earlier, but it wasn’t like his daughter to sulk.
“Hey, answer me! This isn’t funny!” He reached the landing and paused, listening. Outside, thunder boomed across the sky and raindrops splattered the wooden shingles. Inside, the silence was louder than the storm.
“Ellen!” He raced down the hall toward the closed door of her room. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and couldn’t hear him. Maybe…
His heart stopped as he reached the door and flung it open. Ellen’s small neat room, with its white ruffled bedspread and framed Renoir prints, was empty.
Kate stepped out of the shower, flung a towel around her short, auburn hair and shrugged into her thick, green terry robe. The steamy air surrounded her like a blanket. She inhaled its damp warmth, forcing the afternoon’s events to the back of her mind. Yes, she was doing better. Maybe after a cup of good, hot herbal tea, she would feel almost human again.
She opened the bathroom window to clear the steam. Outside, the storm had grown savage. Rain battered the sides of the small clapboard house. Wind lashed the oleander bushes and tore at the wisteria vine Kate had trained with such patience, threatening to rip its tendrils from the eaves. The roiling clouds matched the stormy hue of Jeff Parrish’s eyes.
Kate pattered down the hallway to her room, tossed the towel on the bed, and finger-combed the tangles out of her hair. Forget Jeff Parrish, she admonished herself. The man was a hopeless, hidebound snob, and she pitied any woman addlepated enough to give him a second glance.
As for his ridiculous family tradition—
A knock at the front door, faint but insistent, shattered her train of thought. Kate hesitated; then, remembering she’d remanded Flannery to her room, she knotted the sash on her robe and hurried down the hall. As she raced across the living room, the weak tapping, like the peck of a stormtossed bird, grew more urgent, more frantic.
She flung open the door to find a small, forlorn figure trembling on the stoop.
“Ellen!” She swept the little girl inside. Jeff Parrish’s daughter was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, all soaked with rain. Water dripped off the end of her nose and streamed down her hair to puddle on the floor.
Kate seized a knitted afghan off the couch and flung it around the shivering little body. There would be time for questions later. Right now she had to get the child warm and dry.
Racing back down the hall,
