Split Second
Page 41
“That’s a very easy promise to keep, Uncle Alan. Come in, come in.”
She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”
Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the intimidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.
She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”
“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”
She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.
He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,” he said. “It’s so damned uncertain, you know?”
She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew, knew too well. And so did Mr. McGruder.
“Why did you move back in here, Lucy?”
Because of what my father yelled out right before he died. But she didn’t say that; she couldn’t; it wasn’t fair to anyone if there was no proof, no reason for it. She said, “I always loved this house. I didn’t want to see it go to strangers. At least not yet.”
“Talk about rattling around. Your Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think it’s healthy for you, Lucy. She says too many ghosts live in the corners.”
“Ghosts?” She smiled. “I haven’t bumped shoulders with a single ghost yet. Listen, I’m fine. Do you know my old bedroom still looks like a teenage girl just walked out of it? Grandmother didn’t change a thing, not that she’d need to, since there are—what? Ten bedrooms in this place?
“Everything’s okay, Uncle Alan. Tell Aunt Jennifer not to worry. If a ghost turns up, why, then we’ll have a nice chat and I’ll offer it coffee with lots of Splenda. As for Bundy’s daughter, I don’t even live here officially, so she can’t know my address, and don’t forget, I’m always armed and dangerous.”
“Even Court says he’s impressed with what you can do in the gym. He still spends much of his time there, you know.”
Lucy thought again about her dashing, beautifully dressed cousin once removed, and that smirk he always wore. From their youngest years, Court had known he was hot. He’d hated his sister, Miranda, enough to make her hate him as much as she loved him. Lucy once saw Miranda haul off and punch him in the nose. He’d been so shocked, he hadn’t retaliated. Lucy laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t laughed since Coop had come to her hotel room in San Francisco. No, she’d also laughed when he’d patted her hand as they left Lansford’s suite at the Willard early that afternoon, and Coop had remarked to no one in particular that anyone who told his lawyer to shut up without even sparing him a glance couldn’t be all bad, and he’d given Lucy a blazing smile.
Uncle Alan drank more coffee, though it had to be lukewarm by now, with all the milk he’d added, and then drummed his fingertips on the table. There was something on his mind, Lucy realized, and he didn’t know how to bring it up. So she patted his hand just as Coop had patted hers, and said, “Spill it, Uncle Alan. I can take it. What do you want to say?”
He took another sip of his coffee, carefully and studiously returned the mug to the middle of a napkin, then finally looked at her. “Your Aunt Jennifer and I want you to come stay with us for a while, Lucy. We’re worried.”
Worried? Why, for heaven’s sake? She was shaking her head as she said, “I really appreciate your offer, but I need to stay here.” She realized she might have sounded a bit cool, and added, “I can’t, Uncle Alan. I’ve got so much on my plate right now, and I’ve got so much to do here—” She broke off, wondering how in the world she could be an FBI agent when things she wanted to keep buried insisted on popping right out of her mouth.
She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”
Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the intimidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.
She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”
“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”
She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.
He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,” he said. “It’s so damned uncertain, you know?”
She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew, knew too well. And so did Mr. McGruder.
“Why did you move back in here, Lucy?”
Because of what my father yelled out right before he died. But she didn’t say that; she couldn’t; it wasn’t fair to anyone if there was no proof, no reason for it. She said, “I always loved this house. I didn’t want to see it go to strangers. At least not yet.”
“Talk about rattling around. Your Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think it’s healthy for you, Lucy. She says too many ghosts live in the corners.”
“Ghosts?” She smiled. “I haven’t bumped shoulders with a single ghost yet. Listen, I’m fine. Do you know my old bedroom still looks like a teenage girl just walked out of it? Grandmother didn’t change a thing, not that she’d need to, since there are—what? Ten bedrooms in this place?
“Everything’s okay, Uncle Alan. Tell Aunt Jennifer not to worry. If a ghost turns up, why, then we’ll have a nice chat and I’ll offer it coffee with lots of Splenda. As for Bundy’s daughter, I don’t even live here officially, so she can’t know my address, and don’t forget, I’m always armed and dangerous.”
“Even Court says he’s impressed with what you can do in the gym. He still spends much of his time there, you know.”
Lucy thought again about her dashing, beautifully dressed cousin once removed, and that smirk he always wore. From their youngest years, Court had known he was hot. He’d hated his sister, Miranda, enough to make her hate him as much as she loved him. Lucy once saw Miranda haul off and punch him in the nose. He’d been so shocked, he hadn’t retaliated. Lucy laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t laughed since Coop had come to her hotel room in San Francisco. No, she’d also laughed when he’d patted her hand as they left Lansford’s suite at the Willard early that afternoon, and Coop had remarked to no one in particular that anyone who told his lawyer to shut up without even sparing him a glance couldn’t be all bad, and he’d given Lucy a blazing smile.
Uncle Alan drank more coffee, though it had to be lukewarm by now, with all the milk he’d added, and then drummed his fingertips on the table. There was something on his mind, Lucy realized, and he didn’t know how to bring it up. So she patted his hand just as Coop had patted hers, and said, “Spill it, Uncle Alan. I can take it. What do you want to say?”
He took another sip of his coffee, carefully and studiously returned the mug to the middle of a napkin, then finally looked at her. “Your Aunt Jennifer and I want you to come stay with us for a while, Lucy. We’re worried.”
Worried? Why, for heaven’s sake? She was shaking her head as she said, “I really appreciate your offer, but I need to stay here.” She realized she might have sounded a bit cool, and added, “I can’t, Uncle Alan. I’ve got so much on my plate right now, and I’ve got so much to do here—” She broke off, wondering how in the world she could be an FBI agent when things she wanted to keep buried insisted on popping right out of her mouth.
