His Ordinary Life

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Again, to Carol, for everything.

To Anne, for helping to shape this book into what it is. (And for loving Del.)

As always, for Rick.

“Blake, you’re not going.” Barbara Calvert closed the dishwasher door and switched it on. “It’s a school night.”

Barbara took a deep breath and turned to her sixteen-year-old son. Blake’s brown eyes shimmered with resentment, and the force of his temper manifested in the visible trembling of his arms and hands. For the first time, the sullen fury held a sense of threat and tendrils of fear uncurled in her stomach.

Let that fear show? Not an option. She forced a calmness she was nowhere near feeling into her voice. “You’re right. I can’t physically stop you.”

His throat worked with a hard swallow and a sharp stab of grief swamped her fear. Where was the dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy who’d thrown his arms around her neck and demanded kisses? She couldn’t find a trace of him in the young man before her, his chest heaving, his livid face flushed.

Beyond the tall windows, rain frogs croaked in the still Georgia night, their carefree song an odd accompaniment to the silent battle stretching between mother and son.

More color flooded Blake’s face and he tensed. Nerves taut, Barbara watched, sure he would storm out the back door. Instead, he burned her with one more hateful glare and brushed by her to rush out of the kitchen. The boom of his bedroom door slamming reverberated through the compact house. The windows rattled.

Barbara sagged against the counter, her breath whooshing out in a shaky sigh. Her fingers trembled, and she pressed them to her forehead. She couldn’t handle this. She’d actually been
afraid
of her own child. Her son, her firstborn, who’d gone overnight from an active, happy-go-lucky boy to this surly, hair-trigger teenager. No, not overnight. This had been building for weeks. Months. Ever since Del had gone. But what had been an underlying resentment now seemed destined to railroad into a full-blown fury.

She reached for the phone, the urge to lay this particular problem on Del’s sturdy shoulders overwhelming. Her still-shaky fingers froze on the receiver. Over a hundred miles away, living his footloose life of freedom in Atlanta, he would hardly be interested in her altercation with their son over whether or not he could leave the house on a school night.

Angry bitterness trickled through her, the slow drip of poison she’d lived with every day since Del had walked out.

No. She could handle this. She’d find a way.

She lifted the phone, but instead of punching in her estranged husband’s number, she dialed her best friend. Melanie would help her come up with a plan.

The robust aroma of fresh coffee curled in the warm night air and mingled with the sweet scent of blooming jasmine. Moths plinked against the porch light. Barbara tucked her feet beneath her in the chair and took slow sips of the steaming hazelnut brew. “I don’t know what to do. He’s so angry.”

Melanie’s spoon clinked against the side of her cup. “You could lock in him his closet.”

“I wish.” A slight ache pulsed between Barbara’s eyes, and with her free hand, she massaged the bridge of her nose.

“Come on, Barb, stop being so hard on yourself. You’ve done everything—set limits, enforced them, gotten him counseling. But face facts. You need help.”

“And what would you suggest?”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this by yourself. Call your soon-to-be ex and tell him to get his sorry self down here.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“That, too.”

“What about your brother-in-law?”

“Tick?” Envisioning her husband’s tall, lean brother, Barbara sank lower in her chair, the wicker creaking. Shamed embarrassment curdled in her throat. Call Tick and ask for help with Blake after the way she’d acted? “I don’t think I can do that.”

“He cares about these kids. He’d help.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Lord, how to explain this? How to explain her too-clingy behavior since the separation? Her cheeks burned. No wonder everyone thought she’d pinned her hopes on Tick as a replacement for Del. Moving from one brother to the other, the gossips tittered. And the worst part was that she’d never entertained one romantic thought where Tick Calvert was concerned. Her focus had always, always been on Del. Tick merely represented the stability she craved for her children.

And as badly as she hated to admit it, a way to get back at Del for not wanting her anymore.

“Barbara? Why can’t you call him?”

“For heaven’s sake, Melanie, the man has a life. I can’t just call him up and say, ‘I can’t control my kid. Please help.’”

“Then call Del.”

“If it doesn’t get better, I’ll call him.” When little demons were strapping on ice skates. If she asked him to come, he’d probably think she was angling for a reconciliation. She shuddered. He’d think she wasn’t sure about the separation or the impending divorce, and her hard-won pride couldn’t handle that.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” It would get better. She’d talk to Rachel Simmons, the school counselor, tomorrow. The idea warmed her, settling the nerves jerking under her skin. Calm, focused Rachel would have concrete suggestions and then Barbara would have direction. She
needed
that direction. Remembering the fury bordering on hatred in Blake’s eyes, she wrapped her arms around her midriff.

She needed direction, because her son needed her.

A dull thud jerked Barbara from a light sleep. She lay still, listening. Fingers of moonlight fluttered between the slats of her blinds and the leaves of the huge azalea outside her window tapped at the glass. Wind murmured beneath the eaves.

The soft thunk tightened every muscle in her body. She pushed the comforter away, scooted to the edge of the bed and slid her feet into pink frou-frou slippers, a Mother’s Day gift from the girls. She slipped to the doorway, straining to hear something beyond the normal creaking of a forty-year-old house.

Her mind conjured visions of masked rapists and murderers, her pulse thumping in her throat with uncomfortable force. Maternal instinct overrode self-preservation. Her children lay sleeping down the hall, on the other side of the living area, and she eased out of the bedroom, stepping around a creaky floorboard.

The beaded lamp she always left burning cast a soft light from the living room. The mantel clock ticked in a hushed rhythm. Hugging the wall, she slipped into the living room and peered into the dining room. Empty. So was the kitchen.

But the back door stood wide open. The glass-paned door swung in a soft arc, hitting the wall with a muffled bump.

Oh God, someone was in the house.

All thoughts of quiet fled her brain and she ran for the children’s rooms. With their low heels, the slippers hampered her, and she kicked them off. She snatched the cordless phone from its cradle on the hall table. Her sweat-dampened fingers slipped on the buttons, but she managed to punch in 911.

On the second ring, a male voice answered. “Chandler County Emergency. How can I help you?”

“This is Barbara Calvert, 132 Lovers Lane Road. I think someone may have broken into my house.”

“Are you in the house, ma’am?”

“Yes. I heard a noise. The kitchen door is open. I’m checking on my children now.”
Please, God, let them be all right.

Stomach clenched, heart racing, she flung the first bedroom door open and flipped on the light.

Both girls slept. Anna lay curled in a tight ball, the coverlet up to her chin. Lyssa’s covers rested on the floor in an untidy heap, her long arms and legs spread out in her normal sprawling sleeping position. Barbara’s gaze darted about the room. The window remained closed, but the closet door was open, revealing only the girls’ bright clothing and long-abandoned doll collection. She turned the light off again.

Assured of the girls’ safety for the moment, Barbara spun and crossed the hall to open Blake’s door. His lava lamp bathed the room in an eerie red glow. His bed was empty.

“Oh, God.” The groan slipped past her lips and she sagged against the doorframe, eyes closed.

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

No. She was far from all right. Her hands trembled, and her heart insisted on thudding an uncomfortable rhythm against her ribs. Moistening her lips, she straightened. “Yes, I’m fine. My son isn’t in his room.”

Silence hummed over the line for long seconds, then the dispatcher spoke again. “I’ve dispatched an officer. He should be there any time now. Would you like me to stay on the line?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” She disconnected. Anger roiled through her, a wild whitewater sweep. She was fine, but Blake was a different story. When she got her hands on him, she planned to ring his neck, despite the six inches and twenty-five pounds he had on her now.

And his father was next in line. The anger deepened. Darn it, Del was supposed to
be
here. She wasn’t supposed to deal with things like maybe-intruders and rebellious teenage boys alone. He’d made promises, vows. He wasn’t supposed to up and decide she wasn’t enough anymore and walk away.

Her son wasn’t supposed to turn into Rosemary’s baby overnight, either.

Headlights swept the front of the house, bouncing down the hallway. She moved toward the front door, collecting her slippers along the way. With a deep breath, she flipped on the porch light and swung the door open. A Chandler County sheriff’s car sat in her driveway. The light breeze puffed a couple of stray leaves across the brick walkway and the doors opened.

Her brother-in-law unfolded his long frame from the passenger seat, and Barbara wished for a hole, a paper bag, anything to swallow her so she didn’t have to meet those dark eyes so like Blake’s, didn’t have to look into the lean face so like Del’s and remember that she’d acted like the desperate almost-divorcee she didn’t want to be. She settled for drawing the collar of her pajamas closer.

“Barbara? What’s going on?” Followed by a young deputy, Tick moved up the walkway with the loose-limbed stride all the Calvert men shared. She’d even begun to see traces of it beneath Blake’s teenage awkwardness.

She brushed her bangs back, torn between anger and embarrassment, but still thankful for his steady presence. “Blake’s sneaked out of the house. He left the kitchen door open and I thought someone was inside.”

Tick’s brows lowered and his jaw tightened. “He did what?”

“I just had the deadbolt replaced on that door. The other one stuck all the time, and I haven’t given him his key yet. I guess he left the door unlocked so he could get back in.”

“That little sh—snot.” Tick shook his head. “He knows better than to do something like that.”

Barbara stifled a sigh. She’d thought so, too, except this was the second time in two months he’d done so. Thinking of that open door again, she shivered. Anything could have happened.

“Any idea where he might have gone?” The young deputy waited, pen poised over a small notebook. He met Tick’s weary look and snapped the book shut.

Barbara cupped her elbows with her hands. “He wanted to go riding around earlier with some friends. I told him no because it’s a school night.”

“So he decided to sneak out instead.” Angry disgust colored Tick’s voice. “Well, tell you what, Barbara, he’s got to come home sometime. How about if Troy Lee goes back on patrol, and you and I just wait for him?”

“Are you sure?” She eyed his pale face, the high cheekbones more prominent than she’d seen them before. He’d lost weight during that last undercover assignment with the FBI, and although he’d been home, working for the sheriff’s department for weeks now, he still bore a worn-down, pinched look.

“I’m sure.” A strained grin quirked at his mouth. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course not.” She really didn’t want him to go. Once the anger receded, maternal worry would flood in, and she’d rather not sit around with the oh-my-Lord-what-ifs by herself.

“What friends was he going with?”

Anxiety flirted at the edge of her control. “I couldn’t get that out of him earlier. He just kept saying ‘some of the guys’. Although I’m sure one of them would be Jamie Reese. They’re inseparable.”

Tick nodded. “Okay, we’ll have dispatch put out an alert. He’s probably just hanging out, but that way if anyone comes across him, he’ll get dragged home. I’ll sack out on your couch.”

As he gave the deputy and the dispatcher a brief description of Blake, she stood shivering in the light wind, not from cold but from all the doubts and worries crowding in. Yes, he was probably just “hanging out” in quintessential small town Georgia, but things still happened here. Bad things. Her stomach cramped. He was sixteen, on the verge of manhood, only two years younger than Del had been when they’d married, but Blake was still a boy in so many ways.

“Hey, are you all right?” Tick’s deep drawl dragged her back to the here and now. The patrol car reversed down the driveway.

Gathering her thoughts, Barbara nodded. “Want some coffee?”

“Sounds great.” As they moved into the house, he pointed at the phone in her hand. “Shouldn’t you call Del?”

The despised bitterness scalded her throat. “What good would it do?” Tick’s eyebrows lifted, and she sighed. “No sense in keeping him up, too.”

Tick rubbed a hand over his nape, a tense, uncomfortable gesture. “Look, Barb, it’s none of my business, but all of this shouldn’t fall on your shoulders. And most likely, Del would want to know what’s going on. I know I would.”

She glanced at the microwave clock. One eleven a.m. Reluctance dragged at her. The last time she’d made a middle-of-the-night call to Del, when Anna had a particularly wicked stomach flu and begged to talk to her daddy, Barbara had obviously caught him in bed and not alone. The sound of rustling and a female voice filtering over the line had pinched her heart like getting fingers caught in a door hinge. She didn’t need a repeat performance, especially since the pain still lingered, pricking her at the most unexpected times.

“If Blake’s not home in an hour, I’ll call.” She measured water and coffee into the percolator. Surely, he wouldn’t stay out later than two a.m. She rubbed a finger along the edge of an empty mug. In the intervening time, she needed to come up with an appropriate punishment.

Hanging him up by his toes sounded good.

She’d settle for his car keys and a month’s worth of extra chores.

At two o’clock, once more she dodged Tick’s suggestion that she call Del. By three, the worry resided in her stomach in a thick, cold lump. Her fingers shaking, she pushed the phone at Tick. “You call him.”