The Truth About Tate. Marilyn Pappano
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birthday, she’d given birth to Jordan, signed away all her rights and they’d never seen her again.
Tate had forgotten about college, a career elsewhere and everything else, and had put all his energy into being a father and making a go of the ranch. He’d changed diapers, fixed bottles and learned to bathe and dress a wriggly, squirmy kid, and he and Jordan had done a bit of growing up together.
He had no doubt Stefani had given him the better deal. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, it couldn’t be as satisfying as his life.
“This is a nice place. Have you always lived here?”
“Pretty much.”
“Do you have any employees?”
“We hire on help when we need it, but usually it’s just us.”
“And what do you raise?”
“We’re a cow-calf operation.” At her blank look, he explained, “We have a dozen bulls we breed with our cows. We sell the little boy calves, keep the little girls and let them be girlfriends with the bulls when they’re old enough.”
She gave him a chastising look. “I don’t need the explanations quite that simple.”
“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t. Digging in his pocket for his keys, he led the way up the steps and across the deck to the side door of Lucinda’s quarters, then inside. The door opened into a broad room that doubled as a mudroom and laundry room. Off the connecting hallway, there was a bathroom on one side, a closet on the other, then a small dining room and kitchen straight ahead. From the kitchen a doorway opened into the living room, and from there another hallway led to the three bedrooms and the bathroom they shared.
The house was about twenty degrees cooler than outside, and was dimly lit, the blinds having been tightly closed against the sun. It smelled of furniture polish and mulberry, his mother’s favorite scent in the world, and it felt strangely empty.
Natalie gave a soft sigh as she closed the door behind her. “I don’t care what anyone says. Dry heat is not more comfortable than humid heat. At least you can breathe when there’s moisture in the air.”
“Have you always lived in Alabama?”
“No. We moved a lot because of my father’s job. I settled there about nine years ago.”
“What was his job?”
She turned from her study of the rooms they were walking through to give him an uneasy look. “He’s retired now, but he was a—a journalist. Maybe you’ve heard of him—Thaddeus Grant.”
Tate shook his head, wondering why she called herself a reporter and her old man a journalist. A mild case of hero worship, maybe. After all, she had followed in his footsteps.
“He won the Pulitzer Prize so many times they considered just automatically giving it to him every year, and the college he went to renamed its journalism school after him. He’s one of those people who becomes so much more than the job. Instead of merely reporting the news, oftentimes he is the news. These days he spends his time entertaining the rich and powerful, lecturing and giving promising young journalism students the full benefit of his years of experience.”
“Sounds intimidating.” Definitely hero worship, with a little something else underneath. Resentment? Jealousy? Anxiety?
He gestured toward the first bedroom they approached. “This is my mother’s room.” Then, down the hall, “Bathroom, guest room, guest room.”
She walked into the third bedroom, went to the windows that looked out on yard and pasture out back, yard and woods on the north, and nodded once. “This is fine. Am I allowed to go shopping for groceries?”
“Sure. You can go with me when I pick up a few things.”
“I’m surprised you aren’t taking my car keys away from me.”
“Why would I do that when you’ve already agreed to my conditions? Especially when breaking the agreement will mean leaving here immediately?” A few steps down the narrow back hall returned them to the kitchen. He glanced inside the refrigerator—pretty bare since Lucinda had transferred most of the perishables into his own refrigerator—then said without thinking, “You can eat with Jordan and me next door. Breakfast is at five-thirty, dinner’s around noon, and supper’s about six-thirty.”
“Thank you.” She sounded surprised, as if she hadn’t expected such an invitation—which was fair, since he hadn’t intended to make it. He would take it back if he possibly could. The last thing he needed was her in his house, sitting at his table three times a day.
But what did it matter whether they ate together when he was going to be spending plenty of other time with her? Lying to her. Pretending to be somebody he wasn’t to her. Deliberately misleading her. Even thinking about it made his stomach queasy.
Opening the silverware drawer, he withdrew the extra key his mother kept in the corner and laid it on the counter halfway between them. “Any questions?”
“Only about a thousand. Starting with—” In the brief silence came the rumble of her stomach, making her blush. “Well, gee, starting with the fact that I haven’t eaten since dinner last night so can I get some lunch?”
“Come on.” She was close on his heels as he left the house, crossed the deck and unlocked the door to his own house. He’d neglected to tell her that the same key that opened Lucinda’s door also opened his, but figured that was something she didn’t need to know. Unlike Lucinda, he hadn’t had the time to lock away anything he might not want a nosy reporter to see.
The layout of his half of the house was identical to his mother’s, but his mudroom/laundry room had been turned into an office. A battered oak desk with a computer was pushed into one corner, Jordan had built shelves into one wall, and two oak file cabinets stood side by side against another. Papers, records, magazines and stacks of mail were piled on most of the flat surfaces, including the old-fashioned desk chair made of hickory. He saw the glint of amusement in Natalie’s gaze as it swept over the mess, and felt his face grow warm. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Actually, it looks like home. This is the Thaddeus Grant Method of Record Keeping.”
“And yours?”
“Uh, no. I’m a bit more…compulsive. You’ll see.” Without waiting for an invitation, she went ahead of him into the kitchen. He stood where he was for a moment, watching her move with a lazy grace as if she had all the time in the world, and enjoying the view, before giving himself a mental shake and starting after her.
His kitchen was just like Lucinda’s, but where she had floral wallpaper and oak-stained cabinets, his walls were painted yellow and his cabinets and all the trim were white. Her appliances were harvest gold and practically antique. His were white and practically new. He wondered how it compared to Senator Chaney’s kitchen, or if any of the Chaneys had ever actually set foot in their kitchen. He also wondered idly if there was any money in winning Pulitzer Prizes, having a school named after you or lecturing students. He assumed there was, since she’d said these days her old man entertained the rich and powerful.
“Sandwiches okay?” he asked as he scrubbed his hands at the double sink.
“Sure. Can I help?”
“Just have a seat.”
With a nod Natalie turned toward the table. It was oval, massive and looked about a hundred years old. She could easily imagine generations of Rawlinses gathered around it, sharing meals and the events of their days. If her memory was good enough, she could probably count on both hands the number of times she and her father had sat down to a cozy dinner together. He’d traveled so much when she was growing up, and even when he was home, it seemed that work just naturally required his attention in the evening. She’d spent so much time alone, wishing for his company and vowing to grow up to be just like him.
She’d tried…and failed miserably.