Natural Born Charmer (13 page)

“Don’t!” Her intensity stopped him. “You saw the way she was looking at you. It’s easy to see what she wants. Stay away, Dean. It’s cruel to raise her hopes. Blue and I’ll handle this. Don’t do anything to let her get attached to you unless you’re going to see it through.”

He couldn’t hide his bitterness. “The April Robillard school of child rearing. How could I have forgotten?”

His mother could be a real hard-ass when she wanted to, and her chin shot up. “You turned out all right.”

He threw her a disgusted look and left by the side door. But halfway across the yard he slowed. She was right. Riley’s needy eyes said she wanted everything from him that she knew she wouldn’t get from her father. The fact that Jack had abandoned the kid so soon after her mother’s funeral spelled out her future in big capital letters—an expensive boarding school and vacations spent with a series of glorified babysitters.

She’d still have it better than him. His vacations had taken place in luxury villas, fleabag hotels, or seedy apartments, depending on where April had been with her men and her addictions. Over time he’d been offered everything from marijuana to booze to hookers and generally had accepted it all. In fairness, April hadn’t known about most of it, but she should have. She should have known about a lot of things.

Now Riley had come after him, and unless he grossly misread the yearning on her face, she wanted him to be her family. But he couldn’t do that. He’d kept his connection with Jack Patriot secret for too long to have it blown now. Yes, he felt sorry for her, and he hoped like hell things got better, but that was as far as it went. She was Jack’s problem, not his.

He ducked inside the gypsy caravan. Blue and Riley sat on the unmade bed in the back. Blue was her customary fashion disaster, her pointy nursery rhyme face at odds with a pair of tie-dyed purple pants that had to be somebody’s idea of a joke, and an orange T-shirt big enough to house a circus. The kid gazed up at him, a world of misery inscribed on her round little face. Her clothes were too tight, too fussy, and the script
FOXY
on her T-shirt looked obscene over the innocent buds of her breasts. She wouldn’t believe him if he tried to convince her she was wrong about his connection to Jack.

Seeing so much desperate need in Riley’s expression brought back too many bad memories, and he spoke more harshly than he meant to. “How did you find out about me?”

She glanced at Blue, afraid to reveal more than she already had. Blue patted Riley’s knee. “It’s okay.”

The kid poked at the lavender wales on her corduroy pants. “My—my mom’s boyfriend told her about you last year. I sort of heard them talking. He used to work for my dad. But he made her swear not to tell anybody, not even Aunt Gayle.”

He braced his hand on one of the caravan’s ribs. “I’m surprised your mom knew about the farm.”

“I don’t think she did. I heard my dad talking to somebody on the phone about it.”

Riley seemed to overhear a lot of things. Dean wondered how his father had found out about the farm. “Give me your phone number,” he said, “so I can call your house and tell them you’re all right.”

“There’s only Ava, and she doesn’t like when the phone wakes her
up too early. It makes Peter mad.” Riley picked at the blue nail polish on her thumb. “Peter’s Ava’s boyfriend.”

“So Ava must be your au pair?” he said.
Nice work, Jack.

Riley nodded. “She’s pretty nice.”

“And incredibly competent,” Blue drawled.

“I didn’t tell anybody about—you know,” she said in earnest. “I know it’s a big secret. And I don’t think Mom did, either.”

Secrets.
Dean had spent his early childhood years believing Bruce Springsteen was his father. April had even invented an elaborate story about Bruce writing “Candy’s Room” about her. But it had all been wishful thinking. When Dean was thirteen and April had been high on God-knew-what, she’d blurted out the truth, and his already chaotic world had turned upside down.

Eventually, he’d found the name of Jack’s lawyer in April’s stuff, along with a collection of photos of April and Jack together, plus evidence of the support money Jack was paying out. He’d called the lawyer without telling April. The guy had tried to stonewall him, but Dean had been as stubborn then as he was now, and finally, Jack had called him. It was a brief, uncomfortable conversation. When April found out, she went on a weeklong bender.

Dean and Jack had their first face-to-face encounter, a secretive, awkward meeting in a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont, during the L.A. segment of the Mud and Madness tour. Jack had tried to act like Dean’s best friend, but Dean hadn’t bought it. After that, Jack had insisted on seeing him a couple of times a year, and each secretive visit was more miserable than the last. At sixteen, Dean rebelled.

Jack left him alone until Dean’s sophomore year at USC, when his face started popping up in
Sports Illustrated.
Jack had started calling again, but Dean had frozen him out. Still, Jack occasionally ran him to ground, and Dean sometimes heard that Jack Patriot had been spotted at a Stars game.

He got down to business. “I need a phone number, Riley.”

“I…kind of forget.”

“You forgot your own phone number?”

She nodded, a quick jerk of her head.

“You look like a pretty smart kid to me.”

“I am…but…” She gulped. “I know a lot about football. Last year, you completed three hundred forty-six passes, and you only got sacked twelve times, and you threw seventeen interceptions.”

Dean usually requested that people not use the
i
-word around him, but he didn’t want to agitate her more than necessary. “I’m impressed. It’s interesting you can remember all that and not remember your phone number.”

She pulled her backpack into her lap. “I’ve got something for you. I made it.” She opened the zipper and removed a blue scrapbook. The pit of his stomach contracted as he gazed down at the cover, which had been painstakingly hand decorated. Using puffy paint and marking pens, she’d drawn the Stars’ aqua and gold logo and an elaborate 10, his jersey number. Hearts with wings and banners that said “The Boo” decorated the border. He was glad Blue spoke because he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

“That’s some pretty good artwork.”

“Trinity’s better,” Riley replied. “She’s neat.”

“Neatness doesn’t always count so much in art,” Blue said.

“My mom says neatness is important. Or…she used to say that.”

“I’m so sorry about your mom,” Blue said quietly. “This is a really hard time for you, isn’t it?”

Riley rubbed one of the puffy hearts on the scrapbook cover. “Trinity’s my cousin. She’s eleven, too, and she’s very beautiful. Aunt Gayle is her mom.”

“I’ll bet Trinity’s going to be worried when she finds out you’re missing,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she replied. “Trinity’ll be glad. She hates me. She thinks I’m a weirdo.”

“Are you?” Blue asked.

He didn’t see the point of rubbing it in, but Blue ignored his dirty look.

“I guess,” Riley said.

Blue beamed. “Me, too. Isn’t that wild? Weirdos are the only truly interesting people, don’t you think? Everybody else is so boring. Trinity, for example. She might be beautiful, but she’s boring, right?”

Riley blinked. “She is. All she wants to talk about is boys.”

“Yuck.” Blue screwed up her face way more than she needed to.

“Or clothes.”

“Double yuck.”

“Look who’s talking,” he muttered.

But Riley was totally tuned in to Blue. “Or puking so you don’t get fat.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Blue wrinkled her small, sharp nose. “How does she know about that?”

“Puking’s real important to Aunt Gayle.”

“Gotcha.” Blue shot Dean a quick look. “So I’m guessing Aunt Gayle is pretty boring, too.”

“Totally. She always says ‘huggy huggy’ when she sees me and makes me kiss her, but it’s fake. She thinks I’m a fat weirdo, too.” Riley tugged on the hem of her T-shirt, trying to pull it over the little roll of flesh showing above the waistband of her cords.

“I feel sorry for people like that,” Blue said earnestly. “People who are always judging. My mother, who’s a very, very powerful woman, taught me that you can’t do extraordinary things in the world if you’re spending your time criticizing others because they don’t look or behave the way you think they should.”

“Is your mom…like…alive?”

“Yes. She’s in South America helping protect some girls from getting hurt.” Blue’s expression turned grim.

“That doesn’t sound boring,” Riley said.

“She’s a pretty great woman.”

A great woman, Dean thought, who’d abandoned her only kid to be raised by strangers. But at least Virginia Bailey hadn’t spent her nights getting high and fucking rock stars.

Blue rose and stepped around him to retrieve her cell from the table. “I need you to do something for me, Riley. I can see you don’t want to give Dean your phone number, and privacy’s okay up to a point. But you have to call Ava yourself and tell her you’re okay.” She held out her phone.

Riley gazed at it but didn’t take it.

“Do it.” Blue might look like an escapee from the Magic Kingdom, but she could be a drill sergeant when she wanted, and Dean wasn’t surprised to see Riley take the phone and punch in a number.

Blue sat next to her. Several seconds ticked by. “Hi, Ava, it’s me. Riley. I’m okay. I’m with grown-ups, so you don’t have to worry about me. Say hi to Peter.” She disconnected and gave the phone back to Blue. Her eyes, bottomless pools of need, returned to Dean. “Would you…like to see my scrapbook?”

He did not want to hurt this fragile kid by raising false hopes. “Maybe later,” he said brusquely. “I’ve got some work to do.” He looked at Blue. “Give me a hug before I go, sweetheart.”

She got up, compliant for the first time since he’d met her. Riley’s appearance had put a crimp in his plan to deal with her lie about April, but only temporarily. He moved to the middle of the caravan so he didn’t bump his head. She wrapped her arms around his waist. He considered copping a feel, but she must have read his mind because she pinched him hard through his T-shirt.
“Ouch.”

She smiled up at him as she pulled away. “Miss me, dreamboat.”

He glared at her, rubbed his side, and left the caravan.

As soon as he was out of sight, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the cell she’d transferred over to him. He flicked through the menus, redialed the last call, and got voice mail for a Chattanooga insurance company.

The kid was no dummy.

While he had Blue’s phone, he thumbed through the log until he found the date he wanted. He dialed up her voice mail and entered the password he’d watched her punch in a couple of days earlier. She hadn’t gotten around to clearing out her mailbox, and he listened to her mother’s message with interest.

Inside the caravan, Blue watched Riley slowly return the scrapbook to her backpack. “I didn’t know he was your boyfriend,” she said. “I thought you were like the cleaning lady or somebody.”

Blue sighed. Even at eleven, this child knew the Blue Baileys of the world weren’t in the same league with the Dean Robillards.

“He likes you a lot,” Riley said wistfully.

“He’s just bored.”

April poked her head in. “I have something I forgot at the cottage. Would the two of you like to come with me while I get it? It’s a nice walk.”

Blue still hadn’t made it to the shower, but keeping Riley away from Dean for a while seemed like a good idea, and she suspected that was April’s intention. Besides, she wanted to see this cottage. “Sure. We weirdos like new adventures.”

April lifted an eyebrow. “Weirdos?”

“Don’t worry,” Riley said politely. “You’re too pretty to be a weirdo.”

“Stop right there,” Blue said. “We can’t be prejudiced against people just because they’re pretty. Being a weirdo is a state of mind. April has a lot of imagination. She’s kind of a weirdo, too.”

“I’m honored,” April said dryly. And then she gave Riley a stiff smile. “Do you want to see my secret pond?”

“You have a secret pond?”

“I’ll show you.”

Riley grabbed her backpack, and they both followed April from the caravan.

The small, weathered cottage sat behind a
dilapidated picket fence. Pine needles dusted the tin roof, and four spindly candlestick posts held up the rickety porch. The once white paint had grayed, and the shutters had faded to a dull green.

“You live here all by yourself?” Riley said.

“Only for the past couple of months,” April replied. “I have a condo in L.A.”

As Blue took in the silver Saab with California plates parked in the shade at the side of the house, she decided the fashion stylist business was good.

“Don’t you get scared at night?” Riley said. “Like what if a kidnapper or serial killer tries to get you?”

April led them up onto a creaky wooden porch. “There are enough real things in life to worry about. The chances of a serial killer making his way here are pretty slim.”

A flap of screening had come loose from the door. April hadn’t locked it, and they walked into the living area, which had bare wooden floors and two windows draped with shabby lace curtains. Bright rectangular patches on the blue and pink cabbage rose wallpa
per showed where pictures had once hung. The room had little furniture: an overstuffed sofa topped with a quilt, a painted three-drawer chest, and a table holding an old brass table lamp, an empty water bottle, a book, and a stack of fashion magazines.

“Renters lived here until about six months ago,” April said. “I moved in as soon as I got the place cleaned up.” She headed for the kitchen, just visible at the back. “Feel free to look around while I find my notebook.”

There wasn’t a lot to see, but Blue and Riley peeked into the two bedrooms. The larger one had a charming bed with a curlicue iron headboard covered in chipped white paint. A pair of old-fashioned pink ribbon-glass boudoir lamps sat on mismatched tables. April had spruced up the bed with an assortment of pillows and a lavender bedspread that matched the nosegays splashed over the faded aqua wallpaper. With a rug and a few more furnishings, the room could have been a magazine layout for flea market chic.

The bathroom with its sea foam green fixtures wasn’t as charming, nor the kitchen, which had worn counters and fake red-brick linoleum. Still, a wicker basket of pears and the earthenware vase of flowers sitting on the out-of-date butcher-block table provided a homey touch.

April came into the kitchen behind them. “I can’t find my notebook anywhere. I must have left it at the house after all. Riley, there’s a blanket in the bedroom closet. Bring it out, will you? We might as well enjoy the pond before we go back. I’ll pour us some iced tea.”

Riley dutifully fetched the blanket while April poured iced tea into three blue glasses. They carried them outside. Behind the cottage, the pond glistened in the sunshine, and the willows lining the banks trailed their leafy fringe in the water. Dragonflies buzzed through the cattails, and a family of baby ducks swam near a fallen tree that formed a natural pier. April directed them toward two dented red metal lawn chairs with scalloped backs that faced the water. Riley studied the pond warily. “Are there snakes?”

“I’ve seen a couple sunning themselves on that tree that’s fallen into the water.” April settled in one chair while Blue took the other. “They seem pretty content. Did you know snakes are soft?”

“You
touched
them?”

“Not those exact snakes.”

“I would
never
touch a snake.” Riley dropped her backpack and the blanket next to the chairs. “I like dogs. When I grow up, I’m going to have a puppy farm.”

April smiled. “That sounds nice.”

It sounded nice to Blue, too. She imagined blue skies, puffy white clouds, and a grassy meadow filled with scampering puppies.

Riley began spreading out the blanket. Without looking up, she said, “You’re Dean’s mom, aren’t you?”

The tea glass stilled in April’s hand. “How do you know that?”

“I know his mom’s name is April. That’s what Blue called you.”

April took a slow sip before she answered. “Yes, I’m his mother.” She didn’t try to lie to Riley but simply stated that she and Dean had a difficult relationship and briefly explained the Susan O’Hara charade. Riley understood celebrity privacy issues and seemed satisfied.

All these secrets, Blue thought. She tugged on her
BODY BY BEER
T-shirt. “I haven’t made it to the shower yet. Although you won’t see that much difference after I do. I don’t care about clothes.”

“You care in your own way,” April said.

“What do you mean?”

“Clothes are great camouflage.”

“With me, it’s not so much camouflage as comfort.” Not exactly true, but she was only willing to reveal so much.

April’s cell rang. She glanced at the screen and excused herself. Riley lay on the blanket and rested her head on her backpack. Blue watched a pair of ducks go bottoms-up looking for food. “I wish I’d brought my sketch pad,” she said when April returned. “It’s so pretty here.”

“Are you formally trained?”

“Yes and no.” Blue briefly outlined her academic career and the highlights of her less than satisfactory experience with the college art department. A soft wheezy sound drifted their way. Riley had fallen asleep on the blanket.

“I reached her father’s manager,” April said. “He promised someone would be here by the end of the day to pick her up.”

Blue couldn’t believe she was sitting with a person who knew how to reach Jack Patriot’s manager. April nudged a dandelion with the toe of her raffia sandal. “Have you and Dean set a date?”

Blue wouldn’t perpetuate Dean’s lie, but she also didn’t intend to clean up after him. “It hasn’t gotten nearly to that point.”

“As far as I know, you’re the only woman he’s ever asked to marry him.”

“He’s only attracted to me because I’m different. Once the newness wears off, he’ll find a way out.”

“You believe that?”

“I hardly know anything about him,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t even know for sure who his father was until today.”

“He hates talking about his childhood, or at least the parts of it that involve me and Jack. I don’t blame him. I lived a totally irresponsible life.”

Riley sighed in her sleep. Blue cocked her head. “Was it really so bad?”

“Yeah, it was. I never called myself a groupie because I didn’t put out for everybody. But I put out for way too many of them, and there are only so many rockers you can take on before you cross the line.”

Blue would have loved asking exactly who those rockers had been. Fortunately, she still had some self-restraint left. But the double standard behind what April had just said bothered her. “How come nobody wags a finger at the rockers who were doing the groupies? Why is it always the women?”

“Because that’s the way the world’s made. Some women embrace their groupie past. Pamela Des Barres has written books about it. But
it was wrong for me. I let them use my body like a garbage can. I
let
them. Nobody forced me. I didn’t respect myself, and that’s what shamed me.” She tilted her face into the sun. “I fed off the lifestyle. The music, the men, the drugs. I let it imprison me. I loved dancing in the clubs all night, then blowing off my modeling assignment the next day to hop on a private plane and fly across the country, conveniently forgetting I’d also promised to visit my son at school.” She gazed at Blue. “You should have seen Dean’s face when I actually kept one of my promises. He’d drag me from one friend to the next, showing me off to everyone, talking so fast he’d get red in the face. It was like he had to prove to his friends that I really existed. That stopped somewhere around thirteen. A little kid will forgive his mother just about anything, but once he gets older, you’ve pretty much lost your chance at redemption.”

Blue thought of her own mother. “You straightened your life out. You have to feel good about that.”

“It was a long journey.”

“I think it would be good for Dean to forgive you.”

“Don’t, Blue. You can’t imagine what I put him through.”

Blue could imagine it. Maybe not in the way April meant, but she knew what it felt like not being able to count on a parent. “Still…At some point he has to see you’re not that same person. He should at least give you a chance.”

“Stay out of it. I know you mean well, but Dean has every reason to feel the way he does. If he hadn’t figured out how to protect himself, he’d never have become the man he is now.” She checked her watch, then rose from the chair. “I need to talk to the painters.”

Blue glanced down at Riley, who’d curled into a comma on the blanket. “Let’s let her sleep. I’ll stay.”

“You don’t mind?”

“I’ll sketch for a while, if you have some paper.”

“Sure. I’ll get it for you.”

“And maybe use your bathtub while I’m at it. If you don’t mind.”

“Take whatever you need from the medicine cabinet. Deodorant, toothpaste.” She paused. “Makeup.”

Blue smiled.

April smiled back. “I’ll put out some clothes you can change into.”

Blue couldn’t imagine anything designed for April’s willowy body fitting her, but she appreciated the offer.

“My car keys are on the counter,” April said. “There’s a twenty in the drawer next to my bed. When Riley wakes up, would you mind driving her into town for lunch?”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“I’ll bill it to Dean. Please, Blue. I want to keep her away from him until Jack’s people get here.”

Blue wasn’t sure that keeping the eleven-year-old away was the best thing for either Riley or Dean, but she’d already been called to task for meddling, so she reluctantly nodded. “All right.”

April had laid out a delicate pink camisole and a frothy little afterthought of a ruffled skirt. She’d hastily modified both garments with some kind of double-sided tape to make them smaller. Blue knew she’d look adorable in the outfit. Way too adorable. The fluff-ball who wore those clothes might as well be wearing a
SCREW ME OVER
sign. This was the problem Blue always faced whenever she got around to fixing herself up, the main reason she’d stopped doing it.

Instead of the clothes on the bed, Blue appropriated a navy T-shirt. It did little to improve her purple tie-dyed yoga pants, but even she couldn’t stomach appearing in public in her orange
BODY BY BEER
sleeping T-shirt. Vanity reared its ugly head, and she dipped into April’s makeup—a swipe of soft pink tint on her cheeks, a little lip stain, and enough mascara to make it apparent exactly how long her lashes were. Just once, she wanted Dean to see that she was perfectly capable of looking decent. She simply didn’t care to.

“You look nice with makeup,” Riley said from the passenger seat of April’s Saab as she and Blue headed into town. “Not so washed out.”

“You’ve spent too much time around that awful Trinity.”

“You’re the only person who thinks she’s awful. Everybody else loves her.”

“No, they don’t. Okay, probably her mom. The rest are just pretending.”

Riley gave a faint, guilty smile. “I like it when you talk bad about Trinity.”

Blue laughed.

Since Garrison lacked a Pizza Hut, they picked Josie’s, the restaurant across from the pharmacy. Josie’s was short on charm, the food was lousy, and it lacked employment opportunities—Blue asked about a job first thing—but Riley liked it. “I never ate anyplace like this. It’s different.”

“It definitely has character.” Blue had settled on a BLT, which turned out to be more L than B or T.

Riley pulled a translucent sliver of tomato off her burger. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s only like itself.”

Riley thought it over. “Sort of like you.”

“Thanks. You, too.”

Riley stuffed a French fry in her mouth. “I’d rather be pretty.”

Riley had left on her
FOXY
T-shirt, but exchanged the dirty lavender cords for a pair of too-tight denim shorts that squeezed her stomach. They’d settled into a cracked brown vinyl booth that afforded a good view of a bad collection of western landscape art displayed on nauseating pastel blue walls along with some dusty ballerina figurines resting in shadow box frames. A pair of blond, fake wood ceiling fans stirred the smell of fried food.

The door opened and the lunchtime buzz stilled as a formidable-looking older woman limped in, supporting herself with a cane. She
was overweight, overpowdered, and overdressed in bright watermelon pink slacks and a matching tunic. Multiple gold chains accented a plunging V-neck, and the stones in her dangling earrings looked as though they might be real diamonds. She’d probably once been beautiful, but she hadn’t permitted herself to age gracefully. The sprayed mass of teased platinum hair that curled, waved, and swooped around her face had to be a wig. She’d drawn in her eyebrows with a light brown pencil but abandoned restraint with thick black mascara and frosted blue eye shadow. A small mole, which might once have been seductive, sagged at the corner of her bright pink lips. Tan orthopedic oxfords supporting badly swollen ankles were the only concession she’d made to her age.

None of the lunch crowd seemed happy to see her, but Blue regarded her with interest. The woman surveyed the crowded restaurant, her disdainful gaze flicking over the regulars, then settling on Blue and Riley. Seconds ticked by as she openly studied them. Finally, she bore down, her pink tunic molding to a formidable set of breasts held high by an excellent bra.

“Who,” she said, when she reached their table, “are you?”

“I’m Blue Bailey. And this is my friend Riley.”

“What are you doing here?” The faintest trace of Brooklyn colored her speech.

“We’re enjoying a little lunch. How about you?”

“I have a bad hip, in case you haven’t noticed. Were you planning to ask me to sit?”

Her imperious manner amused Blue. “Sure.”

Riley’s panicky expression suggested she didn’t want the woman anywhere near her, so Blue slid over to make a place on her side of the booth. But the woman shooed Riley aside with her fingers. “Move over.” She placed a big straw purse on the table and lowered herself slowly into the booth. Riley plastered her body against her backpack, sliding as far away as she could.