Ragged Rainbows. Linda Miller Lael
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had been taller than Garrett, was welcome, too. “You don’t want to know,” she answered, thinking of the upcoming commercials and the attraction she felt toward the man standing behind her with a bucket of chicken in his arms.
Garrett laughed. “Yes, I do, but I’ll get it out of you later. Right now, I want to find out if Maggie and I can borrow Hank for a month.”
Shay swallowed hard. “A month?”
“Come on, mother hen. He needs to spend time with me, and you know it.”
“But…a month.”
“We’ve got big stuff planned, Shay. Camping. Fishing.” There was a brief pause. “And two weeks at Dad’s ranch.”
Shay was fond of Riley Thompson; of all her six stepfathers, he had been the only one who hadn’t seemed to regard her as an intruder. “How is Riley?”
“Great,” Garrett answered. “You’ve heard his new hit, I assume. He’s got a string of concerts booked and there’s talk that he’ll be nominated for another Grammy this year. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Shay, our taking Hank to his place, I mean? Dad wants to get to know him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s your kid, Amazon.”
Shay felt sad, remembering how empty that big beautiful house overlooking the sea had been after Riley and Garrett had moved out. Everyone knew that the divorce had nearly destroyed Riley; he’d loved Rosamond and chances were that he loved her still. “I want you to tell him, for me, how much I appreciate all he’s done for my mother. God knows what kind of place she’d have to stay in if he weren’t paying the bills.”
“Shay, if you need money—”
Shay could hear Hank and Mitch in the kitchen. It sounded as though they were setting the table, and Hank was chattering about his beloved Uncle Garrett, who had a house that could be “drived” just like a car.
“I don’t need money,” she whispered into the phone. “Don’t you dare offer!”
Garrett sighed. “All right, all right. Maggie wants to talk to you.”
Garrett’s wife came on the line then; she was an Australian and Shay loved the sound of her voice. By the time the conversation was over, she had agreed to let Hank spend the next four weeks with the Thompsons and their two children.
She hung up, dashed away tears she could not have explained, and wandered into the kitchen, expecting to find Mitch and Hank waiting for her. The small table was clear.
“Out here, Mom!” Hank called.
Shay followed the voice onto the small patio in back. The chicken and potato salad and coleslaw had been set out on the sturdy little picnic table left behind by the last tenant, along with plates and silverware and glasses of milk.
“Do I get to go?” Hank’s voice was small and breathless with hope.
Shay took her seat on the bench beside Mitch, because that was the way the table had been set, and smiled at her son. “Yes, you get to go,” she answered, and the words came out hoarsely.
Hank gave a whoop of delight and then was too excited to eat. He begged to be excused so that he could go and tell his best friend, Louie, all about the forthcoming adventure.
The moment he was gone, Shay dissolved in tears. She was amazed at herself—she had not expected to cry—and still more amazed that Mitch Prescott drew her so easily into his arms and held her. There she was, blubbering all over his fancy blue sports shirt like a fool, and all he did was tangle one gentle hand in her hair and rock her back and forth.
It had been a very long time since Shay had had a shoulder to cry on, and humiliating as it was, silly as it was, it was a sweet indulgence.
Chapter Three
“Tell me about Shay Kendall,” Mitch said evenly, and his hand trembled a little as he poured coffee from the restaurant carafe into Ivy’s cup.
Ivy grinned and lifted the steaming brew to her lips. “Are you this subtle with stool pigeons and talkative members of the Klan?”
“Dammit,” Mitch retorted with terse impatience, “don’t say things like that.”
“Sorry,” Ivy whispered, her eyes sparkling.
Mitch sat back in the vinyl booth. The small downtown restaurant was full of office workers and housewives with loud little kids demanding ice cream; after a second night in that cavernous house of his, he found the hubbub refreshing. “I asked about Ms. Kendall.”
Ivy shrugged. “Very nice person. Terrific mother. Good office manager. Didn’t you find out anything last night? You said you had dinner with Shay.”
Mitch’s jaw tightened, relaxed again. “She was married,” he prompted.
Ivy looked very uncomfortable. “That was a long time ago. I’ve never met the guy.”
Mitch sipped his coffee in a leisurely way and took his time before saying, “But you know all about him, don’t you? You’re Shay’s friend.”
“Her best friend,” Ivy confirmed with an element of pride that said a great deal about Shay all by itself. A second later her blue eyes shifted from Mitch’s face to the sidewalk just on the other side of the window and her shoulders slumped a little. “I don’t like talking about Shay’s private life. It seems…it seems disloyal.”
He sighed. “I suppose it is,” he agreed.
Ivy’s eyes widened as a waitress arrived with club sandwiches, set the plates down and left. “Mitch, you wouldn’t—you’re not planning to write a book about Rosamond Dallas, are you?”
Mitch recalled his telephone conversation with his agent that morning and sorely regretted mentioning that the house he’d just bought had once belonged to the movie star. Ivan had jumped right on that bit of information, reminding Mitch that he was under contract for one more book and pointing out that a biography of Ms. Dallas, authorized or not, would sell faster than the presses could turn out new copies.
He braced both arms against the edge of the table and leaned toward his sister, glaring. “Why would I, a mild-mannered venture capitalist, want to write a book?”
Ivy was subdued by the reprimand, but her eyes were suspicious. “Okay, okay, I shouldn’t have put it quite that way.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you writing about Shay’s mother or not?”
Mitch rolled his eyes. “Dammit, I don’t know,” he lied. The truth was that he had already agreed to do the book. Rosamond Dallas’s whereabouts, long a mystery to the world in general, were now known, thanks to the thoughtless remark he’d made to Ivan. Mitch knew without being told that if he didn’t undertake the project, his agent would send another writer to do it, and unless he missed his guess, that writer would be Lucetta White, a barracuda in Gucci.
Lucetta was no lover of truth, and she made it a practice to ruin at least three careers and a marriage every day before breakfast, just to stay in top form. If she got hold of Rosamond’s story, the result would be a vicious disaster of a book that would ride the major best-seller lists for months.
“Shay’s husband was a coach or a teacher or something,” Ivy said, jolting Mitch back to reality. “He was a lot older than she was, too. Anyway, he embezzled a small fortune from a high school in Cedar Landing, that’s a little place just over the state line, in Oregon.”
“And?”
“And Shay was pregnant at the time. She found out at her baby shower, if you can believe it. Somebody just walked in and said, ‘guess what?’”
“My God.”
“There was another woman involved, naturally.”
Mitch