Right Brother (11 page)

“Wide receiver. And end on defense.”

He seemed too thin for either position, but then Trent was used to pros. “Yeah? You got the hands for receiver?”

“Wouldn't be first-string, but I'm not bad.”

“Why wouldn't you be first-string?”

“Because Jonas is the best player on the team. Everybody says he's the best player around here since—”

With color climbing his neck, he stopped abruptly, clearly feeling that having his foot firmly wedged in his mouth left no room for words.

“Since my brother,” Trent filled in. “Must be pretty good then. Eric was the best high school player I ever saw.”

The boy's gaze flicked at him, and Trent knew the message had been received. Being the best in high school was no guarantee beyond.

“Tell you what. You keep working like you have been and when you find out about your practice and class schedule, we'll work something out.”

“You mean it, Mr. Stenner?”

“I mean it.” He stifled a sigh as he levered himself up.

“Gee thanks, Mr. Stenner.”

Trent lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

He felt Jennifer's gaze pick him up as soon as he emerged into the open.

Their gazes locked. He saw her excitement and pleasure at the cookout's success, sternly damped down. He sent back recognition of her achievement, pleasure at her pleasure.

And then it changed.

The cookout, the dealership, the crowd all faded. She was seeing him as himself, as a man. And she was accepting his looking back at her as a woman.

Then it was gone.

His first instinct was to move toward her, to make her admit what had just happened. To confront what he'd been facing alone.

Second thought prevailed.

Even if he didn't succeed in driving Jennifer's emotions deeper into hiding, there was gossipy Mildred Magnus right there, ready to drink in every nuance. And he suspected there would be enough nuances sparking between him and Jennifer if they got within five yards of each other right now to rival tonight's upcoming fireworks display.

Then he remembered the message the kid had delivered.

Mingle.

He scanned the area. Ahhh. He'd spotted his solution to mingling.

“H
ey, Coach. Hey, Darcie.” As Trent greeted them and smiled at the two other men who formed the group he'd spotted, he shot Jennifer a triumphant grin. She gave the barest hint of rolling her eyes before turning with a charming smile to Mildred.

“Trent, you might remember Zeke,” Darcie said. “Anton Zeekowsky.”

He extended his hand to the tall man, who once had been skinny but sometime since high school had grown into his height and added a proportionate amount of muscle. “I remember him, but I doubt you remember me, Zeke. I was a runt of a freshman when you were a senior and already full-blown brilliant.”

“Sorry,” Zeke said with a half smile as he shook Trent's hand. “I'm not the best at remembering people.”

“He's getting better,” Darcie added, slanting a smile at
him. All the talk about their getting married suddenly made a whole lot of sense.

“And this is Josh Kincannon,” Coach said. “He's our principal at the high school. Best one we've ever had.”

“And people wonder why I won't let you retire, Coach,” Josh said.

He moved like an athlete. He was about Trent's age, a little taller, a little slimmer. Built more like a— “Kincannon! Quarterback for Pepton.”

The other man grinned. “You've got a good memory, Trent.”

“You're the only team that beat us senior year.”

“But you'd beaten us every other year, and that was our homecoming game. And I still remember the blindside sack you laid on me.”

“Oh, God. If you're going to do a play-by-play recreation, I'm leaving,” Darcie said. “See you at the fireworks. Trent, you're coming with us.”

“Fireworks? Us?” Trent asked.

But Darcie had already threaded through the crowd and out of sight.

Beside him, Zeke Zeekowsky laughed. “My best advice is to just relax and follow Darcie's orders. It'll be easier. Even if you end up in handcuffs.”

And one of technology's best minds, not to mention one very rich man, lapsed into a reminiscent grin.

“I was telling the boys here a bit ago,” Coach said, “that the Bears should do better this season, barring injuries. That new cornerback they traded for—you used to play with him, right, Trent?”

“Yeah. Nobody'll play harder than Ben. He's a good get for the Bears.”

“Just a shame you never played for the Bears, near home so folks could come and see you.”

Trent bit back the retort that the only “folks” from Drago who would have made the trip to Chicago to see him play would have been Coach.

After more discussion of the Bears' prospects, talk slid to the upcoming high school season.

“Graduated most of the starters,” Josh Kincannon said. “So Coach has a lot of teaching to do this year.”

“Darcie says there's one hot player,” Zeke said, half with pride, half tentatively. “A receiver?”

“Jonas Meltini,” Kincannon said. “He's only going to be a sophomore, but he does have good speed. He also has a bad attitude.”

“We've got a team with a lot of heart,” Coach said. “Lot of young ones. They'll shape up fine. With time.” Then he sighed.

Trent was caught by an expression on Josh's face that blended concern and resignation. He saw Zeke also spot it. Then, Zeke looked at Coach. With a reluctance he didn't examine too closely, Trent made himself turn toward his former coach, too.

The man looked tired. Pale under his heat-induced ruddiness. And old.

“Well, I'd best be collecting Mary Jane and getting home,” Coach said.

They exchanged goodbyes, then watched him move off slowly.

Josh sighed. “He hates to admit how much the season takes out of him. I wish… Well, no use wishing.”

Trent felt discomfort edging in. Not wanting to pinpoint its cause, he changed the subject to the planned fireworks.

He didn't get much detail, since Zeke, looking thrilled at the prospect, said all he knew was he was sticking with Darcie.

 

“I just want to sit for a minute.”

Jennifer sank down on the first horizontal surface inside the showroom, a bench by the door to the service area, pushed the
slingback strap down off one heel, then the other, and stepped out of her shoes. Even on the hard linoleum it felt marvelous.

“Ohhh,” she moaned, wiggling her toes and propping the back of her head against the wall.

“Tired?” Trent asked.

His voice, like that look he'd sent her across the lot this afternoon, was warm and smoky, filled with communication, connection.

For an instant, another kind of warmth and fire had seeped into her. Just for an instant. Then the clink of the ice cubes in Mildred's glass of iced tea had jerked her back to reality.

It had sounded exactly like ice cracking under her feet.

Thank heavens he had treated her as usual the rest of the day.

“Exhausted.”

Exhausted not only from waking at the crack of dawn—and dawn came early in July in northern Illinois—but also from the days and weeks since Trent Stenner left a message on the real estate office's machine.

“Who knew success could be so exhausting, huh?” Leaning against the door frame, Trent rubbed the familiar spot on his shoulder. Trash bags awaited collection, everyone else had left and the place was back to normal inside and out. “You were so worried about nobody coming, there was one thing you overlooked.”

She opened her eyes. “What?”

“How it would feel if everybody came.”

She chuckled. So many people had taken flyers that she'd had to dispatch Barry to run off a batch of black-and-white copies on the office printer. If a quarter of the people who'd said they'd bring their car in for service actually did, they'd be getting off to a good start. She wouldn't even let herself think of the glorious possibility of half becoming real jobs.

Laboriously, she shrugged off the jacket that topped her halter dress.

“Oh, God, I've been sweltering all day.”

“Why didn't you take your jacket off before?”

“I wouldn't have looked professional.”

“And I do?”

He bent his head, looking down at his polo shirt, now sporting a smear of ketchup, and cutoff jeans, with beat-up athletic shoes on his feet.

She smiled slightly. He looked like Trent. Powerful and relaxed. “You don't have to be professional-looking.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You're the owner. And a Stenner. You're measured by a different standard.”

She'd heard about Franklin calling the café. And that Trent had shut him down. Heard about it from a dozen people. But not from Trent.

“Thank God for that if it means I can dress how I want,” he said now. “But, if I don't want to attract flies at the fireworks, I'd better go change clothes. Then I'll come pick you and Ashley up.”

“Oh, that's not necessary. I can—”

“It is necessary. I expect you to run interference, because Darcie scares me to death.”

 

Jennifer dashed home for a quick shower before Trent arrived, and found Ashley primping in the bathroom.

A knee-jerk wave of insecurity washed over Jennifer. She didn't have time or energy to do more than sluice off the sweat and grime and put on fresh clothes. She sucked in a breath and reminded herself that her appearance wasn't that important, as long as she was presentable.

Jennifer firmly declared that she needed the bathroom, and
Ashley left for the primitive conditions of three carefully angled mirrors in her bedroom with a martyrdom that would have done a saint proud.

From the doorway, she told Ashley that Trent was giving them a ride, then braced herself.

Ashley cut her a sharp look, but said nothing.

Ashley had been distant and preoccupied lately. Jennifer knew it was part of growing up, part of separating from her mother to keep her thoughts and feelings private. And if Ashley had otherwise remained the sunny girl she'd once been, Jennifer wouldn't have been so concerned. But these past few months…

Then again, wishing Ashley was still the sunny child she'd been was the equivalent of wishing her daughter hadn't been hit by the volatile cocktail of adolescent hormones. Which was all part of Ashley's growing up. Or so Jennifer reminded herself fifteen times a day.

Trent, blast him, was early. She'd barely had time to brush her hair and add some lipstick.

“You okay?” Trent asked when he opened the car door for her, having parked down the street from Lilac Commons Park.

As they joined streams of people heading to the park, she called up the smile that had long served her well, that had won her crowns as homecoming, prom and Lilac Festival queen, that so few bothered to look beyond. “Of course. I love fireworks.”

Trent frowned. “You should be at home with your feet up and a bottle of aspirin beside you.”

She stammered out a protest. God, that smile wasn't supposed to make someone think she needed her feet up and painkillers.

Ashley saved Jennifer from giving herself away more with the first words she'd spoken since Trent's arrival at the apartment. “See you later.”

“What?” Jennifer spun around to her daughter, already five yards away. “Wait. Ashley.”

Ashley stopped, but remained at a distance. “What?” she demanded impatiently. “I've got to meet Courtney and Sarah by the statue.”

“I…” Jennifer's mind raced. She'd assumed Ashley would be with her, as she always had been at Fourth of July celebrations. But it had been a couple years since Drago had fireworks, and Ashley had truly been a child then. Was she overreacting? How old had she been when she'd watched with a group of friends instead of with her family? Just about Ashley's age, she thought. “I thought you'd want to be with all of us.”

“Like a little kid? No way. Don't make a big deal of everything, Mom.”

Something plucked at Jennifer's nerves. But then again everything Ashley said could pluck at her nerves these days. She suspected that was her daughter's entire purpose in speaking most times.

“Okay. We'll meet you here at the car as soon as the fireworks end.”

“Everyone's going to Jessica's to listen to music.”

“Ashley. You know the rules about parties. You ask ahead of time and I talk to the parents first.”

“This isn't a party, it's—you know—impromptu. You said there could be exceptions for impromptu—”

“It's not impromptu if you knew about it ahead of time. The answer is no. You come to Trent's car when the fireworks end, or you stay with us.”

“Fine,” she snapped, spinning away and starting to stomp off.

“Ashley.”

“Now what?”

“Have a good time.”

A flicker crossed her daughter's face, as if the old Ashley resurfaced for an instant. Then it was gone. “Yeah. Bye.”

“Jennifer, do you want to—”

“Jennifer! Trent!” Darcie hurried up to them. “We've got a spot saved by the pond. C'mon.”

Darcie swept them into the park, congratulating them on the cookout's success and filling them in on the fireworks and who would be part of their group.

“But Mom and the Chief said no thanks when I asked if they wanted to join us.”

“The chief?” Trent asked.

“Yeah, my mom's living with the chief of police. I think they want to make out in the dark.”

“Darcie,” Jennifer protested, laughing. She following Darcie's lead weaving among clots of people on blankets and clusters of chairs.

“Well, I do. You would not believe— Oh, there they are. See Zeke? You know, that's a benefit I never thought about when I said I'd marry him—he's so tall I'm always going to be able to find the guy in a crowd.”

Josh Kincannon was there with his three kids when they arrived. Among the greetings, Jennifer heard him say, “Trent, stop by the high school some day next week. Give us a chance to rehash some old games.”

Xena Kincannon, Josh's oldest, declared that if they didn't find seats now, there wouldn't be any more left and they'd have to stand. “Again,” she added. Josh waved goodbye and headed after his kids.

While Darcie introduced Trent to Zeke's mother, who beamed at her daughter-in-law-to-be and at Trent, Jennifer said hello to Peter Quincy.

Darcie finished the introductions with, “This is Quince—Peter Quincy. He's Zeke's best friend and VP for PR at Zeke
Tech. Don't you love the way I've learned corporate speak? I sound just like a native.”

“One of many vice presidents,” the tall, slender man said with a winning smile and a warm handshake.

“And this,” Darcie concluded, “is Trent Stenner. He's just bought his family's car dealership.”

“Trent Stenner? As in
Trent Stenner?
” Quince interrupted. “As in football.”

“Now it's ‘as in cars,'” Trent said dryly.

“Oh, yeah,” Zeke said. “Coach Brookenheimer said something this afternoon about you playing football.”

“Damn right he played football,” Quince said. “I saw you against the Redskins a couple years back. If I weren't a Redskins fan, I'd say you played one hell of a game. It never looked like you were going to get to the receiver, but you always did.”

“That's why they call me sneaky slow,” Trent said.

“I'd say sneaky smart,” Quince objected. “A lot of people thought you could have played a couple more seasons.”

Trent shook his head. “There's a point when you're getting slower faster than you're getting smarter. I didn't want to be flattened by those Mack trucks they're drafting these days.”

Quince nodded slowly. “I can see that. But I'll miss seeing you play. Except against the Redskins.”

“Thanks. I suppose I'll miss some things about it, too.”

“I'll bet. It's got to be strange with training camp coming up.”