welcome there; her dad had had no secrets from her, or anyone else, she was sure of that. But, she reminded herself, Alan couldn’t know him as she did; he would have to find out for himself.
“In here,” she said, then caught a breath and waited with pounding heart for Alan to slip past her before following him into the room.
It looked the same, smelled the same, seemed exactly as it had always been, except for the computer that now took up space on his desk, and the all-in-one printer-copier on a smaller desk set at right angles to the big one. She watched Alan take it all in from his position just inside the doorway, with his cool cop’s eyes that didn’t miss a thing: the desk with its rather ostentatious green leather executive’s chair with brass studs the glass-front cabinet that held her dad’s collection of Oriental art-an exquisite ivory Confucius he’d found at a yard sale, a jade temple jar, cloisonne bottles, a hand-painted Chinese fan, an old Chinese coin almost as big as a computer disk sitting upright on a carved rosewood stand. She’d played with them all as a child-except for the fan, which was too fragile, her dad said. Bookcases filled with an eclectic selection of books, and magazines neatly contained in wooden sleeves. The antique reproduction globe that sat on the floor beside the recliner chair where her dad sometimes napped, the pictures on the walls, signed prints of watercolors by a well-known artist who specialized in painting children and the play of sunlight and shadow. One, her favorite, of a mother sitting in a rocking chair holding a sleeping baby, he had taken down after Isabella died, and she’d known then how deeply he, too, had felt the loss of his only grandchild.
Tears stung her eyes-tears of anger and resentment rather than sadness. Anger at the circumstances that had made her bring this intruder into her father’s private space, resentment of
But after all, she reminded herself, she’d started this. He was only doing what she’d asked him to do.
She blinked the tears away and said abruptly, “The yearbooks are over here,” as she moved past him to cross the room.
But she saw that, instead of following, Alan had paused at the desk and was opening drawers, one after the other, rifling through, then closing them again. “Doesn’t lock up his desk,” he commented, more to himself than to her.
She answered him anyway. “Why should he? He doesn’t have anything to hide.”
He had pulled out the wide center drawer. “It’s been my experience,” he murmured absently, “that everyone has something to hide.”
Lindsey yanked a yearbook off of a shelf and turned with it clutched to her chest, biting back a new surge of anger. “You don’t get it, do you? My dad is a good man. I keep telling you-” She stopped, cold clear through, as her father’s voice came from just down the hallway.
“Lindsey? You guys in here? I’m putting the steaks on the grill…”
Alan slid the drawer closed without a sound and in two long strides was across the room. In the next moment, she felt his arms come around her and at the same time he turned her so that her back was against him and he was looking over her shoulder. His hands covered hers and he opened the yearbook she was holding in her hands. “Laugh…” he whispered with his lips touching her ear.
It wasn’t even a thought, just a feeling, maybe panic. She couldn’t breathe, the air seemed to have grown too warm and thick. Her heart was pounding, so hard her chest hurt. So hard she thought he must be able to hear it.
The heat from his body was soaking into her back. She could feel his heartbeat, firm and steady, not helter- skelter, like hers. She wanted to close her eyes and lean into the heat and the heartbeat, and let the strong arms around her take over for her weakening knees. Mortified, she thought:
Alan turned, unhurried, to smile at Richard Merrill as he stuck his head through the doorway. He kept his hands on Lindsey’s upper arms because the way she was shaking, he wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand up if he let her go. And maybe because, while professionalism had taken over his conscious mind, making it aware of every nuance of voice and expression-his own, Lindsey’s, Merrill’s-his body was operating on another wavelength entirely. All its senses and instincts were tuned to the woman’s warm body so abruptly separated from his own, which was shrieking like a disappointed child:
Meanwhile, his conscious mind was ignoring that voice and on full alert.
“Oops,” he said, with just the slightest note of apology, “hope you don’t mind. Your daughter’s been showing me your old high school yearbooks. You had some sports career.”
Merrill’s grin was wry, his shrug self-effacing. “Very small town. I was a big frog in a little bitty puddle.”
“Still. Pretty impressive. So, you played pretty much all the sports?”
“Well, the big three, anyway. Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. Everybody did. Like I said-small town. You know how it is.”
“Not really,” Alan said easily. “Grew up in Philly.”
“Ah.” Merrill nodded as if he understood.
Keeping his arm around Lindsey but holding the book in his other hand, Alan hefted it in a thoughtful way. “Must be nice, knowing everybody. Clifton. That’s in…Nebraska, right?”
“Right.” Merrill gestured with the tongs he was holding and seemed about to say something-most likely what he’d come there to say-but Alan interrupted.
“You still keep in touch with the gang?”
“Wish I could.” The other man’s smile was regretful, sad. And, Alan had to admit, now seemed completely genuine. “I’m afraid there’s not much there to go home to.” His glance flicked to Lindsey. “Clifton was destroyed by a tornado in nineteen fifty-six.”
Alan said, “Oh, man, that’s terrible,”
And Lindsey added in a faint, shocked voice, “Daddy, you never told me about that.”
Merrill gave an apologetic shrug. “I was away in college when it happened. My folks survived, thank God we had a storm cellar, but our house was destroyed. The whole town was leveled. A lot of people were killed. It was a bad time.”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry,” Alan said. “Surprised they didn’t rebuild. What happened to everybody?”
“The town was dying anyway-you know how it is, those little midwestern towns. The young people all go off to school, find jobs in the big city. Like I did. By the time the tornado hit, half the businesses on Main Street were empty.” This time the man’s shrug was dismissive. “Tornado just put the town out of its misery, I guess.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“Moved to Chicago. I was going to the University of Illinois in Springfield, but I transferred to the Chicago campus so I could help out. Things were tough. My dad never did really recover-died of a heart attack five years later. Mom passed away the next year.”
“Sorry,” Alan muttered.
Merrill waved the tongs as he turned away, with the abrupt manner of someone who finds the subject too painful to discuss. “Happens. Hey-just came to tell you two, I’ve put the steaks on the grill. If you like ’em rare, better get out here pretty quick. Honey-” he threw Lindsey a quick look “-I know you do, and I’ve got your favorite hot sauce. Son, how ’bout you?”
“Uh…same here, only hold the hot sauce. And,” Alan added, “Chelsea won’t eat much-she can have some of mine.”
Merrill smiled and again waved the tongs, once more the genial host. “Oh, we’ve got hot dogs and hamburgers for the kids, if she’d rather have that.” He turned to go, missing the dirty look his daughter shot at Alan as she tugged herself free of his encircling arm.
“Sure,” Alan said agreeably, reeling Lindsey back into his half embrace just as her father glanced back at them,
