Stay (Dunham series #2) (15 page)

“Hi, Glenn,” she said, her voice warm and her
expression patient, pleasant.

“You’re taking Eric home with you then?”

“The small one,” she said, her mouth twitching.
“Yes.”

Glenn, seeming a bit troubled, hesitated. He opened
his mouth, shut it. Opened it again. “It’s been nice meeting you,
Vanessa,” he murmured, as if bemused by his own hesitance. He
turned to leave her where he’d found her, but she touched his arm.
Surprised, Glenn looked at her warily.

“If you really want to talk to me,” Vanessa said
gently, “you’re free to come to Whittaker House, stay awhile. See
what I do, how I work.”

The man stared at Vanessa for a full half minute,
probably trying to figure out why she was being nice to him. Eric
wouldn’t mind knowing that, either.

“Okay,” he said slowly, and suddenly Eric realized
that Glenn didn’t know how to respond to someone—anyone—who had
taken time to speak to him kindly. “Thank you, Vanessa.”

She smiled at him and said, “You’re welcome.” Then
she glanced up and caught Eric watching her, listening to the
exchange, and her smile faded. She turned away with a final,
absentminded pat on Glenn’s arm.

Eric had had the wind knocked out of him before, but
this . . .

All those years, carrying his gratitude around like
a punishment, his humiliation keeping him from finding her and
doing what he should’ve done immediately—and he was the
only
person in the county she wouldn’t speak to.

. . . you
should know that better than
anybody.

“What was that about?” Glenn asked snidely, snapping
Eric out of his agony.

“What?”

“That look. You two have some bad blood between
you?”

Not on Eric’s part. Glenn might not be able to put
the last piece of any given puzzle in place, but he could get
uncomfortably close. Every response that flooded Eric’s mind would
indict him, so he simply stared Glenn down until the man left.
“Karma’s a bitch,” Eric growled at no one.

. . . you better get a clue before you can’t even do
that anymore.

Eric decided to stay in his office and close the
door.

He was in a foul mood that night when he sat down by
Dirk to watch their new karate teacher in action, so he was mad at
Giselle by default. Knox wasn’t there to take the blame for keeping
the facts of Vanessa’s existence from him, so
someone
in
that mafia family had to.

Once he got immersed in Giselle’s teaching, though,
a don’t-fuck-with-me wall around her not mitigated in the least bit
by her easy humor, it occurred to Eric that perhaps he’d just
rather tussle with Knox than her. Knox barked a lot but rarely bit.
Eric could clearly see Giselle wouldn’t bother to bark before she
took a chunk out of somebody’s ass.

She converted to the gospel of Glock some time
ago.

Yeah. That. Exactly.

Eric and Dirk knew what she’d done, gotten arrested
and investigated for. Cleared of. Eric suspected her of having much
darker secrets, but didn’t dare ask.

And he could see why she’d converted to the gospel
of Glock: She was a small woman. The realization had been slow in
coming because her personality was far too large to be contained in
that petite body.

Dressed as she was, being in charge, an intimidating
edge to her fragile and humor-packed voice, she had the instant
respect of every person in that room. She would not coddle students
as Eric and Dirk were wont to do.

Giselle called on two of the more timid women in the
class to demonstrate a technique. They arose nervously, but both
showed a competency and confidence they’d not shown before.

Those women didn’t want to disappoint her. They
wanted to be like her—check that. They wanted to
be
her.
Eric looked back at Giselle and he saw that she knew exactly what
she was doing.

Women responded to her edge.

He and Dirk exchanged looks, then bumped fists.
“Bryce Kenard is definitely the only man in town who could roll
her,” Dirk muttered out of the side of his mouth, and Eric couldn’t
find fault with that statement. Eric glanced over at Bryce, the
soon-to-be golf partner, where he sat on the floor with his son
asleep on his shoulder.

Even with an infant in his arms, Kenard’s power was
unmistakable. He intimidated everyone. Not only was he huge, taller
and much broader than Eric, he had deep burn scars that matted one
half of his face. His voice was as damaged as his face from the
house fire that had killed his first family and nearly killed him.
Eric didn’t think the man could get any more intimidating than he
already was—
especially
in a courtroom—but the wide Celt knot
tattoo around his massive right arm probably made him downright
terrifying to anyone who didn’t know him.

Yet he’d rather watch his wife teach karate classes
while feeding and burping his baby than be home alone at night.

That was really sad.

On the other hand, Bryce would be going home with
and getting laid by a woman who obviously adored him, and Eric . .
.

. . . would not be.

Which jolted his mind fully back to Vanessa
Whittaker.

Not the cover girl. Not the TV chef. Not the Ford
muse.

The sweet woman he’d met at Chouteau Elementary.

How could he apologize to her, thank her, and make
her believe it enough so he could have a chance to find out if—

Eric looked down at the floor, his mouth tight.

Who
was the sad one again?

He wanted to talk to the woman who’d fought for the
guardianship of a troubled kid, the one who’d been kind to an old
crank reporter nobody liked, the one who’d borne Eric’s unwarranted
rudeness with grace.

His gratitude remained, along with deepening
embarrassment, regret, and guilt, all badly tarnished by the fact
that he wanted to sink himself into that gorgeous body. He wasn’t
sure how much was his emotional connection to her or sheer
attraction.

Gratitude. Hero worship. Whatever you want to call
it, but you’ve got some other neuroses mixed up in there besides a
hard-on and being . . . ‘in love.’

He sighed. The rest of the class passed in a blur
until all the students had left and the Kenards had said their
goodnights.

“Must I say it or are you going to pop out with it
like you know you should?”

Eric glowered at Dirk’s smirking face.
“
Dammit
, news gets around this town fast.”

“Yes, it does, especially when you telegraph it for
the entire courthouse to mock. And you thought Justice’s crush on
Knox was pathetic. At least Knox managed to hide his feelings for
her until they started sleeping together.”

“I’m just grateful nobody knows the rest of the
history.”

“Why would that make any difference?”

“I,” said Eric heavily, “was the only person in
Annie’s life who didn’t have any connection to Vanessa Whittaker at
all. And then I wasn’t.” At Dirk’s blank stare, Eric explained what
had changed between Saturday and Monday.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Dirk sighed. “I can see why Annie
wouldn’t want to stay.”

So could Eric.

Tuesday, Dirk argued for Vanessa’s permanent
guardianship of Junior. It wasn’t hard.

Vanessa Whittaker had everything a kid could ever
need: a mansion to live in on hundreds of acres of developed and
wooded land, a gourmet restaurant, a small fortune in the bank.

LaVon Whittaker had . . . less than nothing: A toxic
dump of a home, an empty refrigerator, no money, and a bad
reputation.

In the courtroom, Eric had to face LaVon’s screeched
accusations once again, but that was nothing new. Judge Wilson
finally threatened her with contempt of court if she didn’t shut
up. When court was adjourned, the room emptied, and LaVon continued
her rant. Dirk interrupted her spiel, at which point she’d hurled
racial epithets at him Eric had never heard outside a redneck
locker room.

“LaVon, shut your mouth before I slap it shut,”
Vanessa snapped as she approached them. She grabbed LaVon’s arm and
forcibly dragged her away. “Sorry, Dirk,” Vanessa tossed over her
shoulder with a wince of embarrassment.

Dirk shrugged, unperturbed, and turned back to Eric.
“I have been hearing that since the first time I stepped between
her and LaVon.”

“Huh. So what’s up?”

“Turns out the kid can read.”

“No shit?”

Dirk shook his head. “Vanessa found him in a corner
with his nose in a book—and I mean,
in
the book—so I called
his teacher. She came up here on her own to testify on his behalf,
but he needs glasses. She’s sent notes home with him, but she
doesn’t know whether LaVon got the notes or if she ignored them.
She wasn’t sure whether or not to call you directly to take him to
the eye doctor.”

“Good God,” Eric muttered, feeling as if he’d failed
the kid on a couple of different levels.

An hour later, from the window of his private
office, Eric watched Vanessa leave, holding Junior’s hand as they
went to her car. His jaw clenched when he beheld the fine piece of
machinery she drove, and his fist clenched against the window,
above his head.

A Plymouth Prowler, in that distinctive purple
metallic.

Eric had vaguely noticed it at her motel, but had
been too distracted to devote much attention to it.

He watched her drive that beautiful purple . . .
Batmobile . . . down the street, the boy belted in and looking
happy for the first time in his life.

“I’ve never been so humbled by an act of courage in
my life—by a child,” Knox had said years before as he stood in the
Salt Lake City airport with Eric and Dirk, awaiting the boarding
call that would take Knox back to Kansas City, leaving a freshly
shorn Eric to Dirk’s stewardship in these strange cities with a
strange history and a strange religion. “And at great personal
cost. Make something of the life she gave you and don’t let her
down.”

Eric couldn’t believe the sudden moisture in Knox’s
eyes when he looked at Dirk, so freshly returned from his mission
to New Zealand that he still spoke with an accent. “Don’t try to
convert him, don’t haul him to church; just get him acclimated to
Provo and the culture so he can concentrate on school. Keep him out
of trouble as much as you can. You know what I want to happen.”

Yes, Eric
had
been obsessed with Vanessa all
these years, doing what was right, trying to make that little girl
proud of him, being careful not to let her down so that her
sacrifice would not have been in vain.

And after all that, after everything Eric had
attained, he’d let her down anyway simply because he hadn’t said
“thank you” when he should’ve.

* * * * *

15: Laura Must Not Complain

Tuesday afternoon was extremely busy once Vanessa
had been appointed Nephew’s legal guardian.

“Nephew—” Vanessa refused to call him Eric. Eric
Cipriani, no less. “Junior” was just as bad. “I’ll give you ten
minutes to collect whatever prized possessions you have and put
them in here.” She handed him a largish box once they’d pulled up
in front of her parents’ mobile home. “No clothes. No shoes.
Nothing that stinks. I’ll let LaVon dig out that landfill herself
because I sure as hell am not doing it and I’m not going to let you
do it, either.”

“That’s stupid. What am I going to wear?”

“We’re going shopping for a few things and get your
sizes. When we get home, you can go online and see what you like
and order from there.”

She could see that concept was lost on the kid. He
had no idea how business was accomplished in the world of easy
access to . . . anything because there was no computer in the
trailer, much less internet access. No PDAs, video games, cell
phones, though they did have basic cable because LaVon wouldn’t
miss her soaps. Nephew’s school had a computer lab and internet
access, but he didn’t understand how it worked because he’d never
had enough time or attention to have it explained to him thoroughly
or use it to any great extent.

“Oh, and before we get to the store, remember this:
You swipe anything you don’t pay for, I’ll take you right back to
Eric and have him keep you there for a good month before I come
back to get you. If you do it when we get home, you’ll really be
sorry.”

His jaw clenched.

“I know you’ve grown up thinking that’s normal, but
it’s not. You pay for what you get and you do honest work to earn
the money you need. Next item on the agenda: Pick a name. Any name.
I’m not going to live with a pint-sized Eric Cipriani.”

His eyes narrowed speculatively. “You like him.”

“Yes, I do, and if I wanted to take an Eric Cipriani
home with me, it’d be the big one.”

“You know he’s getting married in December?” he
taunted.

“Yes, which is one very huge reason I’m not taking
him home with me.”

Well, and Nash.

“And so maybe you’re not so different from Simone
after all.”

She turned to look at him slowly and cocked an
eyebrow at him. His smug expression faded. “Do I need to remind
you?
I
have a college degree, a television show, a
million-dollar business,
and
I know how to cook. How am I
like your mother again?”

That shut him up, since, being a fairly bright kid,
he understood when one of these things was not like the other.

“One more thing. If you think Eric’s hard on you,
you just wait until I get Knox Hilliard down your throat.”

He gulped.

Naturally LaVon wasn’t in the trailer, but Vanessa’s
father was, napping in his wheelchair, his chin on his chest,
working for every breath of oxygen he took. This time, she didn’t
let him sleep; she awakened him to tell him what was going on—and
it shocked him to his core.