Now You See Me Page 8

  “Whoa, buddy. Is it your ankle?”

  “Yeah.”

  All of a sudden, Downton Abbey was looking a lot more appealing.

  Ten minutes later, J.T. pulled into the Brewster driveway. Ben spoke only to give directions that J.T. didn’t need, but pretended otherwise just to haul a few words out of the kid. There was a story here and he was pretty sure he understood it. Too bad he couldn’t get a little corroboration.

  As he killed the engine he saw a figure hurrying down the porch steps. Lydia probably started watching out the window the minute he called. The leap of pleasure he felt when he saw her was a welcome surprise. The fact that she smelled like vanilla and made his heart beat a little faster was a bonus.

  She beat him to the passenger side of the car.

  “Oh, Benjie. What happened?”

  The boy mumbled halfheartedly. “Nothing.”

  She frowned. J.T. felt oddly jubilant, glad that she wasn’t taking the attitude in stride.

  “Let’s get you inside and have a look at the ankle.” Her tone shifted. “Then we’ll talk.”

  He helped Ben out of the car. Lydia braced the boy on the other side. It seemed like a good system until their hands met somewhere in the middle of Ben’s rigid back, sending a zing straight down his arm.

  “Sorry.” Lydia curled her fingers away from his, but he wasn’t ready to lose that touch yet.

  “Actually, it will probably work better if we hold hands. Or at least grab wrists. We’ll be more stable that way.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She extended her hand and he circled her wrist with his fingers.

  She felt... He wasn’t sure how to describe her. Soft, but strong. Pliant, but not something he could shove around.

  Holding Lydia’s wrist, he decided, was probably a sneak preview of how it would be to hold her in his arms.

  “Ready?” She sounded slightly breathy, the way she had in the boathouse. Damn. Did she feel it, too?

  Good.

  Soon they deposited the boy on a sofa in an exceedingly cluttered family room. Here in the light, J.T. could clearly see the paleness of Ben’s face. He was one hurting puppy.

  “Let’s have a look.” Lydia kneeled on the floor and tugged on the lace of Ben’s sneaker.

  The slump of her shoulders made him frown. It must get damned tiring, being the only parent 24/7.

  “Here. Let me have a look.” He moved in and probed the ankle with experienced fingers. “How’s it feel here? How about here?”

  “You sound like you know what you’re doing.”

  “I ran cross-country in school. I’ve dealt with a few ankles in my time.” Her vanilla scent was making it damned difficult for him to think clearly. “I bet that if you ice it and keep it elevated overnight, it should be a lot better by morning.”

  “Sounds good.” Lydia was back to her usual brisk efficiency. “We’ll deal with the ankle tonight. The rest will wait.”

  J.T. hid a grin as he straightened. He wouldn’t want to be in Ben’s half-laced sneaker in the morning.

  “Need me to get him up the stairs?”

  The look she sent him was so filled with gratitude, he felt like he’d just rescued a drowning kitten. “That would be wonderful. My mother-in-law is at bingo tonight, and this lug is getting too big for me to manage on my own.”

  “My pleasure.”

  And it was, even though the presence of a banister for Ben to lean on meant there was no excuse to touch Lydia. By the time he got Ben to his room—one so filled with geek apparatus that it could have been his own at that age—Lydia had joined them with ice packs and extra pillows. He headed back down, listening to the soft rise and fall of their voices while he waited for Lydia. Only because he needed to tell her about the circumstances surrounding Ben’s injury, of course. When she crept down the stairs, her smile was weary but still welcoming.

  “Let me guess,” she said softly. “He didn’t get injured while helping a little old lady cross the street.”

  “Only if she’s a hell of a runner.”

  “Okay. You’d better give me the whole story.” She nodded toward the door. “Let’s go out on the porch so I don’t wake anybody when I start to fume. Can I get you anything? Some coffee, or a beer, or—”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  And he was. Despite the fatigue creeping in after a long day of driving and meetings, despite the dread he felt at needing to give her news she didn’t want to hear, just the thought of spending a half hour on a secluded porch with Lydia made him feel inordinately cheerful.

  Once outside, he settled himself in the rocking chair she indicated. She sat in the chair beside his, kicked off her flip-flops and propped bare feet on the railing, sighing as she leaned back. He was tempted to throw off his sandals and follow suit. The question was, would he be able to resist a game of footsie?

  “Okay.” She spoke without looking at him, head tilted back, eyes closed. “Give it to me straight.”

  He summarized the events and his suspicions, stressing that Ben had not acted alone. He didn’t want her to think that her kid was the only budding juvenile delinquent in town. Especially when he mentioned the cans of spray paint he’d spied in the bushes.

  When he finished, she sat in silence. She was so quiet, her breathing so steady, that for a moment he thought she might have fallen asleep. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts and felt an unexpected contentment creep over him. What was it about this woman that felt so damned right?

  At last she spoke. “I’m glad you were the one to catch him. Someone else might not have been so willing to give him a second chance.”

  Did she mean that only someone with his history would be willing to cut the kid some slack? Honor among thieves, and all that? He hoped not. He wanted her to see that there was more to him than a lousy reputation.

  But they weren’t talking about him, and neither did he want to go down that road at the moment. So he settled for saying, “Yeah, well, they get kind of protective about old Maple Road School here in—”

  She made a strange sound, like a smothered cough.

  “What did I say?”

  “It’s not Maple Road School anymore.”

  “It isn’t? When did they—oh. Right.” He remembered now. The school had been rechristened a couple years ago. It was now known as Brewster Memorial.

  So not only was the kid out to vandalize public property, but he was also going after something dedicated to his father and grandfather. Wouldn’t Freud have a field day with that one?

  “You can tell me to take a hike,” he said, eyes firmly fixed upward on the stars that he’d been watching since he was Ben’s age, “but I remember summers around here when I was a kid. Boring as hell. Still the same?”

  “Afraid so. There’s day camp, but he’s too old for that, and he’s too young for a job.”

  “So he spends his day plotting trouble with his friends?”

  “It sure looks that way.” She sighed. “I didn’t think... Not to sound like a bragging mom, but he’s smart. Really smart. Which is great except that he’s kind of outgrowing everyone around him, so when he started hanging out with those kids, I hoped...well...” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “He’s not a bad kid. Really. He’s just... It’s a hard age, I guess.”

  If she hadn’t said that, he might have been able to say good-night and walk away. Might have. But how many times had he overheard his mother defend him to his father using those same words?

  “Is he any good with his hands?”

  With that, she finally stirred, lifting her head to face him. “Excuse me?”

  “Can he hammer a nail and handle a paintbrush?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I have three cottages to fix up before I can sell them. I could use a set of extra hands.” Yeah, like a hole in the head.

  She sat upright, staring at him with a gleam in her eyes visible even in the darkness of the night. “You want to hire Ben?”

  “If he’s inte
rested. I’d pay him a few bucks a day and work him hard.”

  “Hard enough that he’d be too tired to go out and make trouble at night?”

  “Hard enough to cramp his style, at least. It’s tough to totally wear out a kid that age.”

  “Why?”

  He had half a dozen answers, most of which were so ill-formed and illogical that he couldn’t speak them aloud. How to tell her he wanted to ease some of her burden, smooth the worry lines from around her eyes?

  He settled for the one reason that made sense, the one that had hit home when he saw Ben’s room. “He reminds me of myself.”

  Too late, he realized that might not be considered a compliment in certain circles. Luckily, Lydia didn’t seem to care—at least if the way she almost bounced out of the chair was any indication.

  “I honestly don’t know how to thank you. That’s so generous, I—”

  “It’s pure selfishness. I’m getting too old to keep bending over, picking up dropped nails.”

  “It’s a lot more than that to me. And Ben.” She gave a short laugh, as if in disbelief. “Give me a minute to catch up. Um, when do you want him to start? What exactly would he be doing? Oh, and he’ll be gone for three weeks later in the summer, is that a problem?”

  “I can work around it. Maybe we’ll be finished with the cottages and ready for something else by then. Where’s he going?”

  “Science camp in Toronto. It’s his big summer adventure. Sara went to Vancouver, he gets to be a total geek for three weeks and Tish is going to—”

  She stopped abruptly.

  “Let me guess. Tish will be going to spy school and you forgot that you weren’t supposed to tell.”

  “What?” Again she laughed, higher this time, almost nervously. What had caused that? “No, no, she’s going to Disney with Ruth. I just... I’m sorry, I just realized something for the first time. Anyway. Ben. Thank you.” She leaned forward, placed a warm palm on his forearm as if to pat it, then pulled back abruptly. Damn. He’d been looking forward to a couple more seconds.

  “Um, J.T., since you’re here and we’re talking about unpleasant things already, I have to tell you. There’s a problem with the sale.”

  Crap. “What is it?”

  “My loan request was turned down.”

  Jillian. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.”

  “Did they give you a reason?”

  Her laugh was bitter. “Oh, yeah. Ted said—”

  “Hang on,” he said, all vengeful thoughts of the mayor momentarily knocked aside. “Ted McFarlane?”

  “Mmm-hmm. He’s the manager down at the bank.”

  “Ted is a bank manager? Do you know how many times he had to take grade nine math?”

  Her laugh was far too short. “To his credit—well, maybe not—anyway, I don’t think he’s the one really responsible for turning me down.”

  “Of course not. It’s Jillian. She wants some potato-chip guy to get the buildings. She can’t get it through her head that she has no say in who buys my property.”

  “Bingo. She believes she’s doing what’s best for the town, and if that means I have to move, she’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.”

  “She always was a determined one.” And no way in hell was he going to let her do this.

  “Yeah, well, so am I. I’ll apply to another bank. It’s going to slow things down, I’m sorry, but—”

  “Do you want to move?”

  “No.”

  “Even though you know that you’re going to end up on Jillian’s naughty list?”

  “At the moment, I couldn’t care less.” She stared into the night, the tight curl of her toes negating her casual air. “Well, yes. I do care. But I’m not giving up. Not that easily.”

  “What would you think of me holding the mortgage?”

  Her feet thunked to the floor as she twisted to face him. Surprise widened her eyes, brought a joyful light to them for a fraction of a second before something shuttered them down.

  “No.”

  “No? Lydia, I’m offering you the perfect way out of this. You can tell Ted and the rest of the town to do whatever they want. If you want to buy the properties, they’re yours.”

  “I said no.”

  “Are you—”

  “Damn it, J.T., no!”

  Well, hell. He could understand it if she’d said she didn’t want to have to deal with the fallout. Or that she wanted a regular mortgage, or had changed her mind about the whole thing. But this made no sense. She acted like she was pissed as hell, and it was directed at him. “Can I ask why not?”

  “I don’t trust your motives.”

  Crap.

  He took a deep breath and leaned forward, giving himself time to get the words right. “Okay, look. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t find you attractive. I like you, Lydia. But if you think I’m offering this to try to get you to—hell, you don’t think I’m that much of a jerk, do you?”

  For a second she did nothing but stare at him with her mouth slightly open. Then she went very, very red.

  Crap squared.

  “Oh, my God. That’s not what I—oh, geez, I messed that up so badly, I...” She buried her face in her hands and kind of shook for a moment. He had the awful feeling she was crying. He hated watching women cry.

  But when she raised her face to look at him, he saw no tears glinting in the porch light—just total mortification.

  “Um...J.T., I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  Great. He’d just admitted an attraction to a woman who didn’t think of him that way at all.

  “Well, this is awkward.”

  She leaned back in the chair—probably so she wouldn’t have to look at him—and stared up at the sky as she spoke.

  “I don’t think you’re a jerk. Okay, maybe a little that first day when you came strutting in doing your king-of-the-castle thing. But since then, no. You’re on my side and listened and you’re helping with my kid and you...well, you’ve done everything right. But it’s too much. I can’t accept anything else.”

  “Lydia—”

  “Lyddie. Please. Only my mother-in-law calls me Lydia.”

  “Okay, Lyddie. Everything I’ve done has worked to my advantage, too. Selling to you is easier than to someone else. Having Ben help will get me through my work faster. Holding the mortgage is financially good for me, since I’ll be getting the interest.”

  “Those are fringe benefits. You know that’s not why you’re doing any of this.”

  “And you have a window to my mind that lets you see my thoughts? Even those that I seem to be missing?”

  “I don’t need a window.” Her voice hardened. “I’m living it. And it’s getting to me.”

  “You want to tell me what I’m doing so wrong, since I’m clueless?”

  “You bought in to the guilt.”

  Glenn. She had to be talking about Glenn.

  “You think I’m doing these things because I feel sorry for you.”

  She seemed to pull deeper into her chair, as if withdrawing from his words. “Essentially.”

  Oh, shit. How was he supposed to answer that one?

  Did he feel sorry for her? Well, yeah. He didn’t belong to the cult that practically worshiped Glenn—after all, the guy was another of the ones who had left him to face the fire all alone—but still, he hadn’t deserved what had happened to him. Neither did Lyddie.

  So when did it become wrong to give a helping hand to someone who could use it?

  “And if that was my sole reason—which it’s not—why would that be a bad thing?”

  “Because...well... Do you have any idea how people talk about me here? Poor Lydia Brewster. She’s so brave. Carrying on after her husband died making sure we were all safe. She’s so noble, so strong, we owe her so much—”

  She erupted from the chair, holding her arms rigidly across her chest as if she were afraid she would explode. “I’m so sick of it. So damned tire
d of being put up on a pedestal like some unfeeling statue. I’m real and human and I’m afraid if it keeps up I’ll—”

  Again she stopped. This time, though, he got the feeling she wasn’t about to say more. This time he was pretty sure she thought she’d said way too much.

  What she didn’t know was that she’d spilled her guts to one of the few people in town who could understand.

  “You’re afraid that if you keep living with that reputation, you’ll start believing it yourself.”

  She plopped back into the chair like a marionette whose strings had just been severed. “How did—”

  “Been there, done that.”

  She opened her mouth then closed it again, fast, before looking away. Embarrassed, most likely.

  “Look, Lyddie. Here’s the truth. Yes, I want to give you a hand. Not because I think you’re some kind of martyr,” he said quickly when she started to bristle. “But I meant what I said. It makes sense. It’s the easiest course of action. Yeah, I think you got a raw deal, but since it helps me to help you, I don’t see the point in not doing what’s best for both of us.”

  She started to say something, then stopped and pulled her knee up, hugging it close to her chest.

  “You might call that pity,” he said softly when it became apparent that she was thinking over his answer. “But in my book, wanting to help someone I like sounds more like friendship.”

  “Friends?”

  She seemed to appreciate that idea. For a moment he debated telling her the truth about Glenn. Would it help? She’d said in the cemetery that she wanted her kids to know who he’d really been, and hell, learning that he’d been one of the fire gang would sure twist his image around.

  But she’d said nothing about Glenn himself tonight, just about her and what she was living. And there was a world of difference between hearing that someone had almost accidentally poisoned the science teacher and learning that even a hero had once been guilty of cowardice.

  After all, the last thing people want to change is their minds.

  So he pushed thoughts of Glenn aside and nodded. “Friends who can help each other. Can you handle that?”

  “Promise you’ll never say I’m being brave?”

  “Promise.”