she focused on the road ahead. “Turn left here.”
He did. Then he drove along a tree-lined lane, with rich, gorgeous homes scattered a half acre apart from each other and fifty yards away from the road, to be closer to the lake.
“Right there.” She was pointing out her place, a brown cobblestone split-level, with a lawn and gardens that were manicured to perfection, and with the midnight-blue of Cazenovia Lake as a backdrop. He almost gaped as he pulled into the long paved driveway.
“You, uh, live here?”
“Yeah.”
“The station pays that well?”
“Not quite. I bought it with some money I inherited a long time ago.”
“Uh-huh.”
She got out of his car. He shut it off and got out, as well, though she hadn’t invited him in. She sent him a frown, but he pretended not to see it.
“You gonna be able to get in without your keys?”
“Of course.” She walked over the flagstone path, up the front steps to the door and poked the doorbell.
Oh, so that was it. She didn’t live alone. He racked his brain for tidbits about Jones. Getting dirt on her would make his freaking year. But there was never much to find. She guarded her privacy like a goddamn pitbull. She wasn’t married, he knew that much. Maybe she had some stud living with her. He expected someone too young, too skinny and probably unshaven to open the door when he heard footsteps approaching. It would be just like Jones to go for some underfed, left-wing Bohemian type.
“It’s me, hon,” Jones called. And her tough as nails newswoman voice had gone all sugary sweet. It was enough to make him puke.
The door opened.
The teenager on the other side was pale and blond and cuter than hell. She smiled as if she really meant it. “Hi, Mom. Forget your key?” Then she caught sight of him and smiled even wider. “Hey, you brought home a date? Wow, we should declare a national holiday. And he’s cute, too. You wanna come in?” she asked him.
“Sure,” he said, at the same time Jones said, “No.”
The girl smiled wider. She could have been a supermodel with a smile like that. “I’m Dawn.”
“Sean MacKenzie.”
“So are you coming in or what?” She stepped back. Julie rolled her eyes but walked in and didn’t blow a gasket when he walked in behind her.
“You want coffee or soda or anything?” Dawn asked.
“Coffee would be great, thanks.” The living room was two steps up, and it resembled, Sean thought, a woodland paradise. Hanging plants everywhere, dark wood furniture and a small bubbling fountain full of tumbled stones in the far corner were what produced the effect, he realized. The colors were earth tones, greens and browns, with touches of russet and mustard in the throw rugs and pillows. It was a great room, though it was dim, lit at the moment only by the TV, the screen of which was frozen in place.
Dawn hurried through the room, under an archway into the kitchen, flicking on the light as she did. “Go on in and sit. Help yourself to popcorn,” Dawn called. “I was just watching Nathan Z’s Power Hour.”
“You taped that thing again today?” Julie asked.
“Oh, come on, Mom. It’s Ms. Marcum’s favorite show, you know, though I personally think Van Praagh is better. He’s on right after—I taped them both.”
“Efficient of you.”
“I think he really helps some of those people.” She shrugged. “Besides, he’s about to go big time. I read his cable show’s going into syndication.”
Julie rolled her eyes and headed for the sofa. Sean followed, leaned over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you had a daughter,” he whispered.
“Now you do.”
“She’s a doll. She looks nothing like you.”
Jones sent him a scowl. “Gee, thanks.”
“What is she, fifteen?”
“Sixteen,” she said. “Barely. Just got her driving permit.”
He frowned. “Sixteen? Hell, Jones, what did you do, give birth at the age of ten?”
“Trying to flatter me now?”
“Here we go.” Dawn came in with a mug in each hand, handing one to her mother and the other to Sean. Jones sat in a nearby chair, so Sean took a seat on the sofa and glanced at the hottest New Age guru of the season in freeze-frame on the television screen. Dawn plopped down beside him, folded her legs under her and picked up the remote. Then she paused and looked at him, frowning. “Wait a minute. Are you the Sean MacKenzie? From the radio?”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“Oh, God, I love your show. I listen to it all the time.”
That put a smile on his face. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Mom does, too.”
“Does she really?” He slanted Julie an amused look.
“What’s not to love?” Dawn went on. “You’re totally irreverent. I never know what you’ll say next.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t always agree with your politics, but your taste in music is awesome. Especially for someone your age.”
He had sipped coffee, beaming at her praise, but the last line had him damn near spitting hot java out his nostrils. Jones wasn’t so reserved. She laughed out loud, smiling at her daughter.
He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Sometimes Ms. Marcum tapes your morning broadcast and lets us listen to it during study hall. You know, after she’s edited out all the swearwords and stuff.”
He leaned toward Julie. “Ms. Marcum?”
“Favorite teacher, English Eleven.”
“Got it.”
“She says you’re relevant and thought provoking.”
“Ms. Marcum has excellent taste.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, MacKenzie,” Julie said with a nod toward the TV. “She just told you the woman’s favorite show is Nathan Z’s Hour of Wasted Air Time.”
He frowned, then returned his attention to the teenager beside him. “So do you like my show better than your mom’s?” he asked, just to wipe the smug look from Jones’s face.
Dawn frowned in thought, then sighed. “I guess I can’t really compare. I mean, Mom does news.”
He blinked as if she’d hit him between the eyes. “Ouch.”
“Oh,
