summer friendship? Jenna had had a couple of those, when she’d gone to visit her mother’s parents in Virginia as a child. And maybe, if Blair found herself coming to visit again on a regular basis, it would be nice for her to have someone her own age to pal around with—
Her stomach cramped.
As much as Jenna tried to concentrate on her niece’s prattling, her mind kept meandering back to Hank. And everything thinking about him meant. And now…oh, this was probably stupid, but…well, when she’d seen that both Hank and his brother Cal had six-packs, she couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a problem with alcoholism in the family. Granted, she was probably just overreacting, but having lived with the effects of her sister’s chronic substance abuse, she doubted whether anyone would fault her for being too cautious.
Then again, she was already beginning to see things—little things—that gave her hope. Not his appearance, certainly. Or, most of the time, his attitude. But the man did read. And listen to classical music. And although he tended toward acerbity, there was a sense of humor there, too. And, maybe…a smattering of protectiveness, buried under all that grief and bitterness?
She thought back to the scene in the convenience store, the brothers’ interaction. Years of observing human nature for her work had made Jenna a fairly good judge of character, and while she guessed Hank and Cal didn’t spend much time together, neither did they hate each other. Which meant family ties, though perhaps tenuous, were at least intact. And after all, Hank Logan had been a cop for more than fifteen years. Not generally a career choice for the self-centered.
Yet, whenever she thought about telling Hank the truth, something inside said, No. Not yet. Not until you’re absolutely sure. As whacked as her sister had been, Jenna still felt she owed Sandy at least the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a valid reason she’d refused to tell Hank Logan he had a child. And maybe family loyalty was a lousy thing to base such a momentous decision on, but it was all she had.
She glanced across at her niece, who looked almost happy for the first time in several days, and a bittersweet smile tilted her lips. No, Blair was all she had. And she wasn’t about to share her with anyone she didn’t feel in her soul she could trust.
Without any reservations.
“So…your aunt and uncle raised you?” Libby asked the next day.
“Yeah.”
Libby had finished all her chores, and since this was one of the days the part-time housekeeper came, her dad had told her—with a wink—to go on with Blair ’cause who needed two giggling girls hanging around the house? Blair thought Libby’s dad, Sam, was nice. Even though he had the farm to run and all those kids to take care of, it seemed like he was always laughing and smiling and teasing the kids. Not grumpy all the time like Mr. Logan. Oh, Libby had said her dad had been pretty sad for a long time after her mother had died, but that he’d really tried not to let it show. And that it was probably a good thing, him having all these kids, so he wouldn’t miss their mom so much.
That’s what Blair had thought, too, after Uncle Phil died, that it was a good thing Jenna had her to keep her from getting lonely. The funny feeling came back, like a weird tickle in the middle of her chest.
“I guess I think of Jenna more like my mom, since she’s always been around.”
Since there wasn’t another bike Blair’s size, the two girls were walking, following the road around to where it would eventually meet up with the old highway, where the motel was. Libby bent over to pick a wild daisy, which she now twirled around and around in her fingers as they walked. “So you get along pretty good with her?”
“Yeah. I guess. ’Cept when she’s in one of her ‘no, you can’t do that, you’re too young’ moods.”
Libby let out a sigh, like she understood, then fluttered the hem of her baggy white T-shirt—they were dressed practically the same, in big shirts and denim shorts, their hair pulled back into ponytails—to let some air up inside. It was so hot. Libby had said it hadn’t rained in more than a month.
Libby had also said she didn’t like wearing anything too tight since she’d started to get breasts, ’cause the boys kept staring at her. A problem Blair said she wished she had, until Libby pointed out how much she hated bouncing when she ran and besides, they hurt like anything when she got her period. “But if it makes you feel any better,” she added, probably because Blair hadn’t looked all that convinced, “I knew some girl at church who was flat as a pancake, but then she grew into a 38C over the summer when she was fourteen. So you never know.”
It was weird, how Blair thought Libby was so pretty and perfect—well, except for her crooked teeth, but even they weren’t that bad—yet Libby said she’d give anything to be tall and skinny like Blair, and to have red hair like hers, that her own was just this boring old brown.
“What happened to your real mom?” Libby now said, climbing over a post-and-rail fence to plop down in a shady area about halfway between the farm and the motel. The housekeeper had given the girls a sack filled with sandwiches and fruit. And bottles of water. Libby had said her dad didn’t want the kids drinking a lot of pop and stuff. “I mean, how’d she die?”
“Oh.” Blair followed her, clumsily, dusting off her butt before sinking onto the grass beside her, which gave her time to decide how much of the truth to reveal. “A drug overdose.”
Libby stopped rummaging in the lunch bag to look up. “No way?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Wow.” Libby pulled out an apple and swung the bag toward Blair, who shook her head. She was too hot to eat. Libby, however, took a huge bite of the green apple, chewing thoughtfully for a couple seconds. Then she said, “I knew a boy over in Pryor who died from drugs. My friend Heather’s cousin.” She crunched into the fruit again, talking around the mouthful. “I never knew a grown-up who died from them, though.”
“Rock stars and stuff die from them all the time.”
“Oh, yeah, huh?” Libby made a face at the apple. “Yuck. It’s all mushy.” When she reared back to hurl it into the cornfield, Blair could see the high, round bumps of Libby’s breasts. She didn’t care what Libby said, she wanted some of her own. Maybe if she looked more like a woman, Jenna would stop treating her like a child.
“I’m never gonna do drugs,” Libby said. “They’re stupid. Besides, I wanna live to be a hundred….” She grabbed Blair’s arm, cocking her head. “You hear that?”
“What?”
“Coming from the blackberry bushes over there…c’mon!”
Libby scrambled to her feet and took off. Blair followed, thinking Libby had gone nuts…until she, too, heard the frightened whimpering. Seconds later, they reached the wide clot of bushes strangling the fence farther down the road; Libby fell to her knees, then let out a small cry. “It’s a puppy! He’s all caught up in the bushes!”
“Where? Let me see!” Blair dropped to all fours as well, her insides pinching at the sight of the black pup, so scared you could see the whites of his eyes. His high-pitched yips made Blair feel sick.
“We’ve gotta get him out of there!” Without thinking, Blair grabbed for the branches to pull them away, only to let out a shriek of pain herself. “Ouch! Dammit!”
“We’ve gotta get
