tossed him a quick glance, then looked away, as if retreating. She folded her hands on her lap, lay her head against the backrest and closed her eyes. The conversation had come to an end.
Logan wondered what caused the sudden change this time. Wondered why it bothered him. Wondered why he should care.
He had enough on his mind. He concentrated on the road, watching the enticing oasis of Cypress Hills grow larger, bringing Logan closer to his destination and decisions.
Finally the road made one final turn and then skirted the lake for which the town of Elkwater was named. Sandra sat up as Logan slowed down by the town limits.
“Just drop me off at the service station,” Sandra said.
He pulled up in front of the confectionary and gas station and before he could get out, Sandra had grabbed her backpack and was out of the van.
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. P.,” she said with a quick grin. “I just might see you around.”
Logan nodded, feeling suddenly self-conscious at all that he had told her, a complete stranger. He wasn’t usually that forthcoming. “You’re welcome,” he said automatically. She flashed him another bright smile then jogged across the street.
Logan slowly put the car in gear, still watching Sandra as she greeted a group of people standing by the gas pumps, talking. She stopped.
Logan couldn’t hear what she was saying but could tell from her gestures that she was relating her adventures of the day. They laughed, she laughed and for a moment Logan was gripped by the same feeling he had when she had first smiled at him.
He pulled away, shaking his head at his own lapse, putting it down to his frustration and, if he were to be honest, a measure of loneliness. Sandra Bachman was a strange, wild young woman, and he’d probably never see her again.
A few minutes later he pulled in beside a small blue car parked in front of a large A-frame house with a commanding view of Elkwater Lake.
“Oh, Logan, my darling. There you are.” Florence Napier stood on the porch of the house, her arms held out toward her only son.
As he stepped out of the car to greet his mother, Logan forced a smile to his lips at his mother’s effusive welcome. It always struck him as false, considering that when he and his sister were growing up, Florence Napier seldom paid them as much attention as she did her current project.
“Come and give us a kiss,” she cried. Today she wore a long dress made of unbleached cotton, covered with a loosely woven vest. Her long gray hair hung loose, tangling in her feathered earrings.
Her artistic pose, Logan thought as he dutifully made his way up the wooden steps to give her a perfunctory hug.
“I’m so glad you came so quickly, Logan. I was just packing up to leave.” Florence tucked Logan’s arm under hers and led him into the house. “I got an unexpected call from my friend Larissa. You remember her? We took a charcoal class together when we lived in Portland. Anyhow, she’s up in Anchorage and absolutely begged me to join her. She wants to do some painting. Of course I couldn’t miss this opportunity. We’re hoping to check out Whitehorse and possibly Yellowknife, since we’re up there anyway.”
Logan didn’t care to hear about his mother’s itinerary. He knew from his youth how hectic it would be. He had more important things to deal with. “Where are Brittany and Bethany?”
Florence wrinkled her nose. “Upstairs. Pouting. I told them you would be taking them home since that dyspeptic tutor you hired decided to quit.” Florence shrugged, signifying her inability to understand the tutor’s sudden flight.
“Diane has left already?” Logan had to ask, was hoping and praying it wasn’t true.
Florence’s shoulders lifted in an exaggerated sigh. “Yes. Two days ago. I’ve never seen a woman so lugubrious.”
Logan pulled his arm free from his mother, glaring at her, his frustration and anger coming to the fore. “I talked to her when she phoned me. She told me that you never backed her decisions.”
Florence looked at him, her fingertips pressed to her chest. “Logan. That woman’s goal was to turn my granddaughters into clones of herself.”
“Considering that she came very well qualified, that might not have done Bethany and Brittany any harm.”
Logan’s mother tut-tutted. “Logan, be reasonable. They’re young. It’s July. They shouldn’t have to do schoolwork. I moved you and your sister all over the country, and it never did you any harm.”
“Not by your standards,” Logan retorted. For a moment he was clearly reminded of Sandra.
Lord, give me strength, give me patience, he prayed. Right now would be nice. “They were also both earning a 45% average in school,” Logan said, struggling to keep his tone even. “It was only by begging and agreeing to hire a tutor to work with them over the summer that they won’t have to repeat grade five. If they don’t finish the work the teacher sent out and if they don’t pass the tests she’s going to give them at the end of the summer, they will repeat grade five.”
A quick wave of Florence’s hand relegated his heated remarks to oblivion. At least in her estimation. “My goodness, Logan. You put too much emphasis on formal education.” Then she smiled at him. “But don’t worry. I’m fully cognizant of your plans and I’ve already had the good luck and foresight to find a tutor for the girls. Imagine. She lives right here in Elkwater.”
“Really? And what are her qualifications?” Logan was almost afraid to ask.
“She has a Bachelor of Education from a well-respected eastern university. With—” she raised an index finger as if to drive her point home “—a major in history.”
“And what is this paragon’s name?”
“Sandra. Sandra Bachman.”
So now what are you going to do? Sandra thought, dropping her knapsack on her tiny kitchen table. She pushed her hair from her face and blew out her breath in a gusty sigh.
She was pretty sure the man who had just dropped her off was the same Uncle Logan that Bethany and Brittany were always talking about. After all, what were the chances of two men having twin nieces living in Elkwater?
From the way the girls spoke of him she had pictured the mysterious uncle to be a portly gentleman, about sixty years old, with no sense of humor.
The real Uncle Logan was a much different story. Tall, thick dark hair that held a soft wave, eyebrows that could frown anyone into the next dimension, hazel eyes fringed with lashes that put hers to shame. His straight mouth and square jaw offset his feminine features big time.
The real Uncle Logan was a dangerous package, she thought. Dangerously good-looking, if one’s tastes ran to clean-cut corporate citizens like accountants. Architects, she corrected. She knew from the girls that Uncle Logan was an architect. She bet he had a closet full of suits at home.
Sandra shuddered at the thought. Her tastes never ran in that direction. If anything, they went in the complete opposite direction of anyone remotely like her father, the epitome of conventional and normal that
