Janelle Taylor (4 page)

“You’re divorced, too, huh?”

Beau looked down at his watch. “Sorry, I’m late for my game.”

“See you around,” she said with a wave.

He was already halfway to the door.

“Where’s Mommy?”

Jordan blinked. The little boy lying in her guest-room bed didn’t. No, Phoebe’s son was staring right up at
her with his big brown worried eyes, waiting. He looked as though he had been lying awake there for quite some time, pondering the very question he had just asked.

“Mommy is …” Jordan hesitated.

Damn Phoebe!

Damn her for leaving so quickly last night.

As soon as Jordan had agreed to take Spencer for her, she had said she wanted to catch the last train back to Philadelphia and asked Jordan to call her a cab. Jordan obliged, never expecting a driver to materialize at the door within minutes. She had thought it would take at least a half hour. That she would have time to talk more to Phoebe, to find out more about…

Well, about everything.

About her life, and her marriage, and her son—and about what could possibly have been earth-shattering enough to propel her back into Jordan’s life with such a bizarre proposition.

But there was no time.

The cab was waiting, and the train was leaving.

Phoebe had to go.

Spencer had fallen asleep on the couch watching television while Jordan and Phoebe talked in the kitchen. With tear-flooded eyes, Phoebe kissed him gently on the forehead. He didn’t even stir as she made her way to the door, with Jordan trailing along behind, asking every question she could think of—except the one Phoebe had already refused to answer directly:

Why are you leaving him here?

After she had disappeared into the rain-shrouded darkness, leaving a bewildered Jordan alone with her child, Jordan cried. She couldn’t help it. She cried out of exhaustion, and frustration. She cried because seeing Phoebe again only reminded her of how much she
missed her friend, and because her heart hurt for the abandoned little boy on the sofa, and because, quite frankly, she had no idea how to care for a small child.

She had watched Spencer sleep for more than an hour before deciding to move him upstairs to the bed. She decided that if he woke up, she would explain that his mommy had to go away for a short time but would be back for him soon. She even rehearsed the exact words she would use.

But he didn’t wake up.

Not then.

Now, he was fully awake, waiting for an explanation.

Now in the grim light of Saturday, after Jordan’s own sleepless night and her early-morning call to Jeremy, the previously rehearsed words had evaporated and an explanation refused to come as easily.

She took a deep breath and began again. “Mommy had to go back to … um, go back home.”

But
was
that where she had gone? Was she back in Philly? The answering machine had picked up every time Jordan dialed the number since early this morning, wanting to ask Phoebe how she should explain her absence, and whether Spencer had any food allergies, and what kind of toothpaste he used….

“Back home?” Spencer echoed. Jordan heard the sob in his voice before the first tear trickled down his cheek. “Without me? But—”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said, hurriedly sitting on the bed and reaching out to take him into her arms. She stopped only when she saw him flinch and recoil.

She didn’t blame him. She might be his godmother, but she was a virtual stranger to him. Phoebe—no, more likely Reno—had seen to that.

Jordan settled for a pat on the small, round arm that
extended above the pale blue sheet. “Your mom had to take care of something in Philadelphia, and then she’ll be back for you. I’m going to take good care of you until she returns. Anything you want or need, just tell Auntie Jordan and I’ll see that you have it. Okay?”

He didn’t nod. He didn’t do or say anything, except lie there staring at her with tears spilling down his cheeks.

Oh, Lord. Her heart was breaking all over again.

Where the hell was Phoebe? Why had she left?

And whose life, Jordan wondered, remembering her friend’s chilling, cryptic statement, was in danger?

Was it Phoebe’s?

Or was it Spencer’s?

Drumming the fingertips of his right hand on the cotton tablecloth, Beau checked the Rolex on his left wrist. Again.

“Sir? Would you like to order a drink, perhaps?”

Beau looked up at the waiter who once again materialized beside the choice table for two—a table that was currently occupied by one, and soliciting aggravated stares from the waiting patrons clustered across the room by the hostess podium.

Beau cleared his throat and contemplated the question.

Would he like a drink?

Yes. He certainly
would
like a drink. A good, stiff bourbon. But he had learned the hard way that intoxication tended to hamper his efforts to avoid temptation of the feminine variety. After all, he had met Lisa while
drowning his sorrows in a French Quarter bar, and the next thing he knew, they were living together.

Yes, but he had long since successfully extracted himself from his relationships with Lisa
and
with bourbon. He now considered himself past seeking the brand of comfort that both had provided in his time of need.

His time of need.

He didn’t want to go there.

No, he never wanted to go there.

Anyway …

He would be wise to conduct this evening’s social engagement with a clear head and chaste intentions—especially if Jordan Curry was as bewitching as Andrea MacDuff claimed.

“Nothing to drink yet, thank you,” Beau told the waiter. “At least, not until the lady arrives. I’m sure she’ll be here in a few minutes.”

But the lady
didn’t
arrive. Not in a few minutes, and not in fifteen. Nor in twenty.

When nearly a half hour had gone by, Beau reached into the pocket of his navy Brooks Brothers blazer and checked his cell phone to make sure it was on, just in case she was trying to reach him. Maybe she had called and he hadn’t heard it ring over the John Coltrane CD that was playing on the restaurant’s sound system….

The phone wasn’t even turned on. Darn.

He still wasn’t used to carrying one of these things around. His partner, Ed, had insisted that it would be good for business. It would make him more accessible to Ed, and to clients.

Well, it sure as hell isn’t doin’ me any good
—
for business
or
pleasure
—
if I don’t turn the damn thing on,
Beau chided himself, shoving the phone back into his pocket in disgust.

Now what?

Jordan might have been trying to reach him.

Or they might have gotten their signals crossed. Maybe he had the wrong date. Or time. Or place.

Beau reached into his jacket pocket and took out his Palm Pilot—another electronic gizmo Ed insisted was indispensable. Flipping it open, he scrolled to today’s date to check the details. Nothing was written there.

He frowned. He was fairly certain this was the right date. He distinctly remembered Jordan asking him whether he meant this Saturday or next.

It wasn’t unusual that he hadn’t entered the date in his electronic organizer. As far as he was concerned, that was yet another device that was far more trouble than it was worth. The truth was, Beau happened to be an old-fashioned paper-and-pencil kind of guy, whether he was making a date or drafting a floor plan.

Shoot. If only he had grabbed paper and pencil and jotted down exactly when and where he was supposed to meet Jordan Curry. For all he knew, he was supposed to have picked her up at her place two hours ago.

Beau sighed and summoned the hovering, watchful waiter, who promptly rushed over.

“I’m afraid my date won’t be able to make it,” Beau said, pointing at the pocket that held the cell phone as though he’d just received the unfortunate news. He pushed back his chair, pulled several ten-dollar bills from his wallet, and handed them to the waiter. “I’m sorry I took up your table and your time. Have a good night.”

“You too, sir. Come back again.”

“I will.”

And he probably would, he thought, as he left the large dining room. The exposed brick walls and spinning
paddle fans overhead, along with the delectable savory aromas and piped jazz, reminded him of restaurants back home.

But Beau doubted he’d be back with Jordan Curry. She probably thought he’d stood her up.

After retrieving his sleek black SUV from the valet attendant, he headed out onto M Street. Stopped at a light, he wondered if he should find a place to pull over and call her from his cell phone.

Or you could just go over to her place,
he reminded himself. After all, he knew exactly where she lived. Andrea had casually mentioned that Jordan resided in an upscale, relatively new townhouse development, and it turned out to be one of the few local places with which Beau was familiar. He had visited a potential client who was temporarily relocated in the same complex after losing his home in a fire. The client, who ended up hiring Beau to design his new home, knew who Jordan was when Beau inquired about her, and pointed out her place just a few doors down from his own.

Small world.

So what would Beau say if he did decide to show up on her doorstep late, or possibly early, or perhaps not expected there at all?

After all, maybe Jordan really had stood him up just now. Maybe he had all the details straight and was in the right place at the right time, and she had simply blown him off.

But what if she was all dressed up and waiting for him, pacing her living room, thinking he had forgotten her?

It wasn’t as if a stranger’s perception of him mattered so much to Beau in the grand scheme of things. No, it wasn’t as though Jordan Curry’s concluding that he was
a rude cad would preclude what might have been a lifelong romance. He had no intention of getting involved with her either way.

But the old-fashioned Southern gentleman part of Beau simply wouldn’t let it rest. He couldn’t drive home and forget about Jordan. He couldn’t let her think he was the no-show.

If it turned out that this was her fault, consciously or unconsciously—if she didn’t want to meet him for whatever reason—well, he could deal with that. But he had to find out.

But if it turned out she was all dressed up and merely thinking he was late—or early—well, he would come up with a fitting excuse and never mention having waited at the restaurant at all. They would go to dinner—someplace other than the restaurant he had just left—and his obligation to Jordan Curry and to Andrea Mac-Duff would be fulfilled. End of topic.

It was a terrific plan.

His mind was made up.

Whistling, he drove the few short blocks to the familiar brick town houses on a quiet side street.

Jordan sat on a stool beside Spencer’s, her chin in her hand, watching him push his food around on the cobalt blue plate.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I am, but…”

“But what?”

He didn’t look at her. In fact, she couldn’t recall his looking directly at her since this morning, when she told him his mother was gone. He went out of his way
to avoid her gaze—sort of the way Kevin had the one time they saw each other after the wedding that wasn’t. They had bumped into each other in the supermarket back home around Thanksgiving, and it had been one of those superficial conversations about the weather and the Steelers and the recent election.

Jordan had been having superficial conversations like that with Spencer all day. Only they talked about butterflies and chocolate and cartoons.

Rather, she talked while he listened. Or didn’t listen. She couldn’t tell. She wanted to know what was going on inside that poor little boy’s head, but she didn’t have a clue.

He mumbled something now as he dragged his fork through a pile of mashed potatoes.

“What was that, Spencer? I didn’t hear you.”

She bent closer to him.

He visibly moved back an inch. “I said, I don’t really like this stuff.”

She looked at his plate. “But when I asked you, you said you liked mashed potatoes.”

“Not like this. This has little green things in it.”

“Those are scallions,” she explained. “To give it flavor. Scallions are kind of like onions—”

“I don’t like onions, either.”

“Oh.” She looked at his plate. “How about the chicken? You said you like chicken.”

“I meant McNuggets.”

“Oh,” she said again. “Well if you try this—”

“It looks yucky.”

Yucky. Huh. Who would guess that somebody would call her cordon bleu yucky? It had taken her three years to perfect the recipe.

“Maybe if you try the greens,” she offered.

He made a face.

“Look, I know you probably think you don’t like it, but this isn’t just regular spinach or something. I sautéed…” She trailed off, watching his face. He probably didn’t even know what
sauté
meant. He was just a kid.

Well, she wasn’t used to kids. She didn’t know any kids. She might have been one once, but that didn’t mean—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing doorbell.

Jordan’s heart leaped.

“Do you think that’s my mom?” Spencer asked, brightening for the first time.

Please God, I hope so,
Jordan thought, hurrying to answer it. “Maybe it is,” she called over her shoulder, which was enough to send Spencer careering after her.

But when she opened the door, she didn’t find Phoebe standing on the step.

She found a lanky, sandy-haired stranger wearing what was practically a business-casual weekend uniform: pressed khakis, a chambray shirt, a navy blazer, and polished loafers. He was so put-together—and so good-looking—that Jordan was instantly aware of her own appearance.

She had on a plain white Gap T-shirt tucked into her oldest pair of jeans, her feet were bare, and her pedicure was a week old. She had skipped her standing Saturday morning appointment at
the
salon in favor of watching cartoons with Spencer. Come to think of it, she hadn’t combed her hair since pulling it back with a rubber band while brushing her teeth at five-thirty
A.M.
Oh, and she must have big, dark circles under her eyes. Lovely.

“Are you Jordan Curry?”

She recognized his voice as soon as he spoke.

She also remembered something.

It was as though a thunderbolt struck her from above.

“Oh, my god!” She clasped a hand to her mouth. “I completely forgot.”

He looked mildly amused. “You forgot who you were? Glad I could be of service, ma’am.”

Caught off guard by his quip, she found herself looking into a pair of green eyes—eyes that were precisely the shade of her own, she noticed. In fact, there were circles under his, too, but they were better concealed by a tan. There was an outdoorsy look about him, as though he belonged on the range or splitting wood rather than on this Georgetown doorstep in dressed-up clothes.

“You’re Beau Somerville,” she said.

“Thanks, but I knew all along who
I
was. I thought
you
were the one who had the problem.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The man was charming. And for a split second, looking into those moss-colored eyes, she forgot all about Spencer.

Until Beau Somerville glanced at something over her shoulder, and she followed his gaze right to the child who stood in the doorway of the kitchen, disappointment written all over his round little face.

“How about you, fella? You know who you are?” Beau asked.

Spencer nodded.

“You sure? What’s your name?”

“Spencer,” the little boy said in a near-whisper.

“Hey, how’s it goin’, fella?” Beau asked gently, as though sensing something was wrong.

Spencer hung his head. “Okay.”

“Nah, something’s buggin’ you. I can tell,” Beau said, with a wink at Jordan.

Her heart melted despite the surge of worry that rose within her at the realization that somebody now knew about Spencer’s presence. Not just somebody—a total stranger.

“Let me guess what the problem is. Hmm … You just stepped in dog doo?”

Jordan was shocked when a sudden giggle erupted, and she realized by process of elimination that it had come from Spencer.

“No!” he said, looking up shyly at Beau. “I didn’t step in dog doo!”

“Then what can it be? Oh, I know! You accidentally ate a caterpillar? Because it happens to the best of us, you know.”

Another giggle. Another emphatic “No!”

“How did you do that?” she murmured to Beau under her breath. “He hasn’t laughed all day.”

“Kids love gross stuff,” he muttered back. “Works every time.” To Spencer he said, “Well, if it’s not a caterpillar and it’s not dog doo, I can’t imagine what’s got you so down.”

“Guess!” Spencer commanded.

“Let’s see … oh, I know what it is. Your mom’s making you eat eyeball soup, right?”

This time, there was no laughter.

Spencer’s face fell.

Jordan realized why.

It was the mention of his mom.

Beau must think Spencer was her son. He couldn’t possibly realize that the little boy was pining for a mother who had brought him to a strange place, vanished into the dead of night, and hadn’t been heard from since.

“Listen, Beau,” she said hastily, to change the subject, “I’m so sorry I stood you up. Were you waiting for me at the restaurant?”

He paused, then shifted his attention from Spencer back to her. “Actually, I was. I presume you forgot all about it?”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did something like this. I never do things like this. I’m usually so organized, but…” She gave a helpless shrug.

“It happens to the best of us,” he said. “But look, why don’t you guys get your shoes on and come out with me to grab a bite to eat now? I’m starved, and it looks like there are lots of good restaurants right in your neighborhood.”

“There are, but I just ate,” she confessed.

“How about you, fella? Did you just eat, too?”

“Nope,” Spencer said morosely.

“How come? I smell something good coming from that room behind you, and I’m thinkin’ it must be the kitchen.”

“It is,” he said. “You want my chicken? You can have it.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t like chicken?”

“Not the blue kind,” Spencer said.