Fathers and Other Strangers. Karen Templeton
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As Jenna watched him stride down the driveway, she realized just how much of a hellish position she was in. While there was no way she was going to tell Hank the truth until she determined whether or not he was worthy of being entrusted with that knowledge, if and when she did decide to tell him, she suffered no illusions about what was going to hit the fan. And yes, she knew she was being judgmental. But she had sole responsibility for the welfare of a child she loved with all her heart, a responsibility she was more than willing to put her butt on the line for…even if it meant royally pissing off the man who was, in all likelihood, that child’s father.
Exactly one hour later, Jenna pulled the Corolla up alongside Hank’s truck, parked outside the office, and honked. And waited. When, after several minutes had passed and no scary, scruffy man emerged, Jenna left the car and went inside, leaving the engine running. An on-its-last-legs air conditioner rattled and wheezed from a small window on her left; the door to his apartment was cracked open.
“Mr. Logan?” She batted the bell a few times. “I’m here!”
No answer.
She drummed her nails on the counter for a second, then walked around the counter and called again. Nothing. So she knocked on the door. Which, not being completely closed, swung open.
She didn’t mean to look, honestly. Nobody was bigger on privacy issues than she was. But the door fell away and the room was just…there.
In all its A-bomb glory. In fact, she was so stunned by the state of Hank’s apartment—she’d seen more orderly dumps—the music, only half-audible over the air conditioner’s groaning, barely registered. Then it did.
Hold the phone—the man listened to opera? To Wagner, no less? She would have expected country. Hard rock, heavy metal, maybe. Opera…uh, no.
Hank’s scowling face was suddenly inches from hers. Jenna yipped and jumped back.
“I said I’d be ready in an hour,” he said.
“Which was up fifteen minutes ago.”
The scowl deepened. He glanced at his watch, some gigundo number that probably did everything but launch the space shuttle. He swore, mumbled “Sorry,” then grabbed his wallet, slid through the door and shut it firmly behind him.
“Anybody ever teach you to knock?” he asked, loping through the office and on outside, making Jenna scurry behind him.
“Anybody ever teach you how to pick up your clothes? And slow down, for heaven’s sake! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”
He did—sort of—then whipped out a pair of sunglasses, ramming them into place as his legs ate up the space between the office and the truck. “Don’t see how I keep my own apartment is any business of yours.”
Okay, he had a point. Besides, so it was a little…messy. That didn’t mean it was actually dirty.
Did it?
“Anyway,” she said, neatly evading the issue, “I did knock. The door wasn’t closed tightly.”
They’d reached the vehicles. Hank shot a glance at her car and asked, “Where’s the kid?”
“What? Oh, she decided not to come. Anyway—”
Hank jerked open his truck door, climbed inside.
“—I guess you didn’t hear me knock over the music. So you like opera?”
Seated behind the wheel, his door still open, he glared at her for a moment, then slammed shut the door. “Yeah, I like opera. Now can we get goin’? I haven’t got all day.”
He backed out of the parking space in a cloud of dust, barely giving Jenna time to hop in her car and follow.
Blair crunched up into a sitting position on her bed and tossed A Tale of Two Cities across the room, then apologized to Meringue for making her jump. God, this was the suckiest summer of her entire life. And A Tale of Two Cities was like the suckiest book ever written. Why did they make them read this boring old stuff, anyway? Like who cared what happened two hundred years ago?
She felt all knotted up inside, like she wanted to cry, but when she screwed up her face, nothing happened. Which is the way she’d felt when Jenna’d told her about her mother, like she should’ve been sadder or missed her more or something. Mostly, she’d just been mad, even if she didn’t really know why.
Feeling weird and jittery, like when she drank a whole Coke before going to bed, she got up and walked out into the living room, Meringue trailing her. Maybe she should’ve gone back into town with Jenna. Except then she would’ve had to ride back in Mr. Logan’s truck, between him and Jenna. No way.
God. Hank Logan was like the weirdest man she’d ever met, acting like he thought he was all cool and stuff because he smoked and didn’t comb his hair or shave.
And she did not like the way he looked at Jenna.
Her arms crossed, Blair stood in the middle of the room—which still smelled funny—listening to the irritating clink-clink-clink from the pull-chain rattling against the overhead fan’s light globe. What was really sucky was having everyone tell you to stop acting like a baby but never letting you make any decisions about your own life. If she’d been older, sixteen or seventeen, Jenna wouldn’t’ve dared drag her out here like this.
Meringue mewed, snaking around her ankles; Blair picked her up, burying her face in the cat’s soft white fur, getting a head bump for her efforts. Then she sneezed and let the cat drop back onto the floor, swiping at her nose.
“God, Merry—keep your fur to yourself!”
The cat flicked her tail and stalked away; Blair plopped down at the dining table where Jenna had set up her laptop and logged online, but nobody she knew was on. So she sent a couple of e-mails to her best friends, DeAnna and Tiffany, but since they had gone to camp, she didn’t know if they could write her back.
She slumped in the chair, her arms folded across her chest. Maybe she should go for a walk or something. Not that she figured there was anything to see, but it was either that or A Tale of Two Cities. So she found a piece of paper and left Jenna a note, squirted on some sunscreen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left, heading for the far side of the lake.
Once there, she found the trail Mr. Logan had mentioned, cutting through the woods. She hesitated, then figured she wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t like she was going to get lost or anything. If she had to, she could always double back.
She hiked for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, hearing nothing but her breath coming in short, ragged pants and a bazillion birds and her thoughts buzzing around inside her head. But it was cooler in here, and kind of pretty, the light all green-gold and sort of…heavy, like being underwater, and eventually the buzzing got softer and softer until she couldn’t really hear it anymore.
The path suddenly brightened ahead of her; a minute later, she came out onto a rutted dirt road leading to a farm or something in the distance. On the other side of the road, a field planted with long, soft grassy stuff rippled in the warm breeze like the ocean’s surface; looking toward the farm buildings, she could see a small cornfield, and beyond that several rows of smallish trees. An orchard maybe.
The bleat of a bicycle horn behind her made her spin around. Blair shaded her eyes against the sun as, in a cloud of dust, three bikes screeched to a stop in front of her.
“Who the heck are you?” yelped one little boy, seven or eight years old. His blond head was shorn so close his ears seemed to jut from his head like open taxi-cab doors. And she could see his scalp, which was kind of gross. Another boy, a little younger, his dark hair just as short, his ears just as big, giggled. But the third rider—who had let out a really pissed, “Wade, for heaven’s sake!” at the blond kid’s question, was a girl. A dark-haired girl wearing a loose, bright purple T-shirt over white shorts with fringed hems. She looked like she might be about Blair’s age, but even under the floppy shirt, Blair could