Together With You (4 page)

“Are you sure about that?”

“Very.”

“You know what I think, Carly Jo?”

She laughed, more out of pain than amusement. “I don't know, but you're dying to tell me. Go right ahead.”

He paused, maybe to take a long draw on his pipe. “I'm sitting here on the porch looking at the clouds. Some of them are thunderheads boiling up right before my eyes. Others are as wispy as feathers. Way in the distance, there's a wall of gray and no blue sky at all because a storm's headed this way. You know what your mother used to say about the Kentucky weather.”

“If you don't like it, wait an hour and it'll change.”

“That's right.”

When it came to beating around the bush, her father was a master. “What are you getting at, Daddy?”

“You used to love storms. You'd press your little nose to the window and watch the lightning as fearless as can be. The thunder didn't bother you a bit. You laughed at it. Now here's the point . . .” He paused as if he were preaching to his whole congregation, not just to Carly. “You've changed, baby girl. You've lost your courage.”

Carly bristled from head to toe. “How can you say that? It took courage to move to Los Angeles.”

“Yes, it did. But it might have taken more courage to stay at Sparrow House and face what happened.”

Guilty as charged.
If she used church lingo, maybe he'd believe her. “I have a new calling now. And the scholarship. God opened that door.”

“I don't doubt it. And that's what troubles me. Maybe the Lord's
opening a new door with this nanny job. I have to wonder if you're slamming it a little too quickly—and a little too hard.”

She jumped to her feet and started to pace. “You know what'll happen if I take this job. Penny will get attached to me.”

“I see the logic, but you've never been one to play it safe. Does this doctor seem like a decent man?”

She thought of the business card in her pocket. “He told me to call his office manager for a character reference. She's known him for years.”

“That's a good sign.”

“I suppose.”

Her father said nothing for several seconds. She imagined him puffing his pipe and staring at the sky, until his deep voice broke the silence. “I know you'll make the right choice, but I wish I were there to look out for you.”

When it came to protecting his family, Paul Mason had a big heart and the sincerity of a shotgun. A sweet smile lifted Carly's lips. “I know, Daddy. I love you lots.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.” A sigh whispered over the phone. “Your mother and I worked hard to give you wings. We just didn't expect you to fly so far away.”

He said
we
as if her mother were sitting next to him; then he changed the subject to news about her brother and sister. Carly ate up every detail until her break ended and they said their usual long good-bye.

The rest of the afternoon slipped by, and at closing time Carly locked up the store and drove to her apartment, a first floor studio in an old neighborhood. A year ago the area had seemed safe, but now gang graffiti and burglaries were on the rise. Just last week, someone broke into Bette's car and stole the phone she had carelessly left on the seat.

Vigilant as always, Carly turned down the alley that led to the carport behind her building. After parking, she gripped her pepper
spray and headed for the gate leading to a courtyard full of overgrown juniper shrubs. Good lighting illuminated the way, but she trembled as she passed through the squeaky gate.

As she stepped onto the raised slab of her porch, Bette, still wearing her Vons bakery uniform, opened her own door and stepped outside. Her bubble of brown hair sagged a bit and her red lipstick was long gone, but a chunky bracelet—she wore them all the time—still dangled on her wrist. Today it was the pink and silver one Carly had given to her for her birthday.

“I've been waiting for you,” Bette said. “You won't believe what I heard at work today.”

Carly braced for bad news. “What happened?”

“There was a murder on Mariel Avenue. It was a home invasion by three men. The poor woman was raped and beaten to death. They didn't take anything, not even her purse.”

Blood drained from Carly's face. Bad things happened everywhere, even in Boomer County, but a home invasion just two blocks away? Strangers beating up a woman for no reason? Carly didn't bother to ask God why. She had stopped asking that question the day her mother died. Instead of fighting what she couldn't understand, Carly had decided to become a doctor and find a cure for cancer. Her career goals had changed but not her ambition to do good in the world.

“I can't believe it,” she muttered. “What's wrong with people?”

“It's the second one around here since April.”

Two murders in two months within a few blocks of her apartment. Her belly clenched with a nauseating mix of fear and fury. “We both need to move.”

“I think about it,” Bette admitted. “But I've lived here twenty-two years. This is my home.”

Dr. Tremaine's offer to live in flitted through Carly's mind. As appealing as that aspect of the job was, she refused to abandon Bette. “We could look for a two-bedroom and share it.”

“Forget that!” Bette flicked her hand to dismiss the idea. “You know how I feel about my privacy. Besides, you're going home to Kentucky.”

Bette's cat, a black male with four white paws, slinked around her ankles and meowed. “Tom's hungry. I better go.”

“Me too.” But first she knelt and gave Tom a chin scratch.

“Keep your door locked,” Bette cautioned.

“Always.”

In unison, they stepped into their matching apartments and shut their matching doors, each alone with her cat and her fears. A lamp cast a warm glow as Carly twisted the lock behind her. Unnerved by Bette's news, she placed her purse on the table holding her laptop and research material, and then sat on the bed and stroked Wild Thing.

Somewhat comforted, she went to the kitchenette to fix Wild Thing's supper. As she opened the lid on the trash to toss the empty can, the smell of yesterday's tuna assaulted her nose. Normally she would have run the bag out to the dumpster in the alley, but the trip would have to wait until morning. No way would she venture outside with a woman's murder fresh in her mind. She needed to move, but where? Rents were high in Los Angeles, and she didn't want roommates, especially fellow students who were as idealistic as she used to be.

She had no choice but to stay here . . . or to interview for the nanny job. Determined to push away the temptation, she plucked the business card from her pocket, moved to toss it in the trash, but stopped with it dangling over the garbage. Somehow tossing the card felt a little like tossing Penny.

At that moment, Carly didn't like herself very much. Her father was right. She'd lost her courage.

“Lord, I can't do it,” she said out loud. “I just can't.”

But neither could she let go of the business card. She was sick of being a coward, sick of the
what ifs
and
if onlys.
Maybe her
father was right, and this was her chance to redeem herself. With shaking fingers, she set the card next to her laptop, then stared at the black letters that read
Ryan Tremaine, MD, General Ophthalmology.
She'd call Fran on Monday to arrange an interview, but not the one Dr. Tremaine expected. Carly would be interviewing him, and if her instincts told her she was making a mistake, she'd run from the job as fast as she could.

N
o one could be as perfect for the nanny job as Carly Mason, but Ryan's hopes soared when he opened the front door on Monday morning and saw Mrs. Harriet Howell, a woman the agency assured him was exemplary. Retired after forty-one years with just two families, Mrs. Howell took short-term assignments like this one when the agency couldn't immediately find a good match.

Ryan was particularly worried about today because Penny's Aunt Denise, a flight attendant based in Florida, was in town for the night and expected to pick her up around five o'clock. Ryan didn't mind Denise as a person, but he objected to the hawk-like way she watched his every move. To keep Denise at bay, he needed to find someone like Carly but older, someone without a mane of blond hair and skin as warm as a sun-ripened peach.

At first glance, Mrs. Howell fit the bill perfectly. Pleasantly plump, she was dressed in loose navy slacks, a white blouse, and a floral-print blazer with all the colors of the rainbow.

Smiling at him, she extended her hand. “Dr. Tremaine, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Harriet Howell. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

They shook like the business partners they were, and he escorted her into the two-story house. It was over seventy years old, recently updated, and a family heirloom. Ryan's grandfather had built it in the 1940s, passed it on to Ryan's father, who bequeathed it to Ryan at his passing three years ago. Having grown up here, he knew every nook and cranny.

Mrs. Howell glanced up the staircase. “Where's Penny?”

“Still asleep.”

“And the boys?”

“Also asleep.” He indicated the hall leading to the back of the house. “We can talk in the kitchen.”

Thump.
Thump. Thump.
The ceiling shook with the force of Penny running down the hall to the front set of stairs that ended in the foyer. A second staircase gave access to the kitchen, a necessity and convenience in such a large house. He had told Penny not to run indoors, but she couldn't remember the rule or resist the impulse.

Ryan was about to say something to Mrs. Howell when Penny hit the landing and skidded to a halt with her pajama top misbuttoned and her feet bare on the plush carpet.

Eyes wide, she stared at Mrs. Howell's colorful jacket with trepidation. “Someone painted your coat. It's messy.”

Mrs. Howell's eyes twinkled. “I think it's pretty. So are your pajamas. Pink is my favorite color.”

Penny trotted the rest of the way down the stairs, then lifted her little chin. “I like purple best.”

“Purple is beautiful,” Mrs. Howell replied. “Every color is pretty in its own way, isn't it?”

“Especially purple.”

Chuckling like a grandma, Mrs. Howell winked at Ryan. “We're going to be just fine.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, officially introduced Penny to Mrs. Howell, then led the way to the kitchen with Penny holding Mrs.
Howell's hand and chattering about her stuffed animals. She attached easily to people, a problem with strangers but an advantage with a new nanny. He needed a word with Mrs. Howell before he left, so he waited while she and Penny fixed a bowl of cereal. When Penny was occupied with breakfast, he showed Mrs. Howell the list of phone numbers and household rules pinned to a corkboard.

“It's all very clear,” she said, skimming it.

“Kyle will take care of himself,” he told her. “And Eric has permission to visit a friend. The boy's mother will pick him up later.”

Mrs. Howell skimmed the list, nodding with approval. “You're very organized.”

“I try.”

“About Penny . . .” She lowered her voice. “The agency explained the situation. We need time to get to know each other, but I'm a firm believer in structure. Children need discipline. I'm sure you agree.”

“Yes, but Penny's a little different from most kids.” And she'd be different her entire life. “It's not always a matter of
won't.
Sometimes she
can't.
”

Mrs. Howell's cheerful expression melted into pity. “Was she adopted from Russia? I've heard about terrible problems with those children.”

“Penny's mine,” he said, claiming both his daughter and the responsibility. “Fetal alcohol happens here, too.” When Mrs. Howell waited for more, he gave his standard reply. “It's complicated.”

“Never mind, then.” She fluttered her hand. “Is there anything in particular I need to know about her?”

Where did he start? Blaring televisions made her screech, so Ryan kept the volume low. Certain smells made her gag, so he'd switched to a milder aftershave. As for impulse control, she didn't have any. Ryan didn't have time to school Mrs. Howell on FASD, so he settled for the obvious. “Just keep an eye on her. If you turn your back for a minute, she'll get into something.”

Kyle walked into the kitchen dressed for baseball practice, saw
Mrs. Howell, and introduced himself. At least one of Ryan's kids had good manners, and he basked in a bit of pride until Eric showed up wearing a frown.

Mrs. Howell took Eric's grunt in stride, then turned back to Ryan. “Go on to work, Dr. Tremaine. We'll be fine.”

“You have my number. Call if you need anything.”

He palmed his keys, then paused to glance at Penny seated at the table. Droplets of milk were splattered around her bowl, but she seemed happy today. As for Kyle, he was on his second bowl of some granola concoction, and the gallon jug of milk—the one Ryan had bought yesterday—was less than a quarter full. When Eric nearly polished it off, Ryan held back a sigh. He'd have to stop at the store on his way home for what seemed like the hundredth time since the boys moved in. How did single parents work and do all the running around? At least he could afford help.

After a quick good-bye to the kids, he drove to Pacific Eye Associates, where he was partnered with four other doctors in a busy practice. Medicine as a science enthralled Ryan's intellect, but he hated the bureaucracy and business end with a passion. In that way, he was a lot like his father. A famed neurosurgeon, Garrett Tremaine had embodied perfection and expected his only son to do the same. Ryan never did tell him about Penny or the affair. As for his mother, she had died of a heart attack shortly before his father. She knew about Penny, and in that gracious way of hers, she'd encouraged him to make his daughter part of his family.

Ryan loved Penny fiercely, but he hated FASD and the challenges it posed. With the need for a permanent nanny heavy on his mind, he went through the Employees Only door and straight to Fran's office. She was seated at a monitor looking at today's appointments.

With her typical good cheer, she smiled a greeting. “How was your weekend?”

“Awful.”

She sat back in the chair. “So what did Penny do this time? Or
was it one of the boys?” With two adult children of her own, Fran was an excellent sounding board.

“Penny got lost at the mall.” He told her everything, including Carly's involvement and how he'd given her the business card in spite of her resistance. “If she calls, tell her I'm not a jerk.”

Fran laughed. “You're not a jerk. In fact, you're the second-best boss I've ever had.” Her best boss being Ryan's sainted father. When Garrett Tremaine died, Ryan had snapped up Fran for his own practice.

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “That'll convince her.”

“I hope so. You need help. If Carly calls, should I set up an interview?”

“Definitely. Anytime. Any place she wants to meet. Just let me know.” Talk of Carly reminded him of Denise's visit and the empty milk jug. “I need to get out of here early. How does my schedule look?”

Fran turned to the monitor. “We had some cancellations. If I move up the Carters, you can be out of here by three.”

“Do it.” He trusted Mrs. Howell, but first days with Penny could be rough. He'd be wise to get home early. He had to stop for milk. Bread too. And more apples and string cheese. It would be just like Denise to open the fridge, see the half-inch of milk in the jug, and wave it under his nose as a sign of parental incompetence.

Fran scribbled on a Post-it. “I'll message you if Carly calls.”

“Thanks.”

Ryan ducked into his office, traded his blazer for a white lab coat, and headed to the exam room for his first patient. He usually lost himself in his work, but today he glanced constantly at the message function on his computer monitor to see if Carly had called. When there was no word from Fran by lunch, he picked up a file and made some notes.

A tap on the door surprised him. Looking up, he saw Fran with a grin on her face. “Carly Mason just called.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She'll be at your house at four o'clock.”

“What did you think?”

“I like her,” Fran said. “We spoke for twenty minutes. She's e-mailing her resume, references, everything you need for a background check, plus she's bringing a hard copy to the interview. If she takes the job, I'll call it an answer to prayer.”

Leave it to Fran to give God credit for a coincidence. It was human nature, pure and simple, that led Penny to the Animal Factory, but he didn't bother to argue with Fran. She knew how he felt, and they agreed to disagree.

“I think she's the one,” Fran remarked.

“I hope so.” Especially with Denise arriving after the interview. If Carly was as qualified as he hoped, he could introduce her to Denise, and Denise could quiz her to her heart's content. On the other hand, if the interview with Carly bombed, Mrs. Howell was his ace in the hole.

Fran reminded him of the lunch with a drug rep in the office kitchen, then left him to finish his notes. He hurried through the routine reports, but his mind was on the interview with Carly. He didn't know very much about her, except she had experience with FASD and was in grad school. It was a good start. A very good start, but he wished she looked like Mrs. Howell, complete with gray hair and baggy pants.

Carly rang the doorbell at the Tremaine house, waited a full minute, and rang it again. When no one answered, she walked back to the street to check the address painted on the curb. She was at the right house, so where was Dr. Tremaine?

If she wanted out of the interview, this was her chance.

Her gaze shifted back to the white stucco house framed by drooping elms and a horseshoe driveway. It was in an affluent area, an old neighborhood with custom homes, mature trees, and quiet,
winding streets. There wasn't a speck of graffiti in sight. Pulled in two directions—to go or to stay—Carly stood by her old Cavalier with the asphalt burning through the soles of her ballet flats. As much as she wanted to flee, she had to be fair. Doctors often ran late, and so did she occasionally. A ten-minute grace period seemed in order.

The minutes crept by until a black Honda coupe zipped into the cul-de-sac, slowed, and veered into the Tremaine driveway. The sporty car looked like something Ryan Tremaine would drive, so she approached with her purse and curriculum vitae in hand. The car door flung wide, the trunk popped, and Dr. Tremaine climbed out of the driver's seat in a rush of energy and motion.

“Sorry I'm late,” he called to her as he lifted four grocery bags from the trunk. “Did you just get here?”

“About five minutes ago. I rang the bell, but no one answered.”

His straight brows snapped together. “The boys are out, but Penny's here with a substitute nanny. She should have heard the doorbell.” With the bags dragging on his arms, he jammed his key in the lock and called out, “Mrs. Howell?”

No answer.

He brushed past Carly and headed down a short hall. Unsure of what to do, she followed him into an airy kitchen that opened into a family room filled with overstuffed furniture, a brick hearth, and a huge television. A red afghan lay in a heap on the sofa, and a hundred colorful blocks were strewn across the floor. Carly turned back to the kitchen, where Dr. Tremaine had left the bags on the counter before approaching a stairwell.

“Penny?” he called. “Mrs. Howell?”

Carly's stomach lurched. With Penny's impulsiveness, anything could have happened.

Dr. Tremaine turned away from the stairs, muttered an oath, and yanked at his tie as if it were choking him. “I have to find her.”

“I'll help.”

His gaze veered to a sliding glass door, slightly ajar with lace curtains askew and the screen pushed back. “What in the world—”

He strode toward it, shoved the glass wider, and walked into the backyard. A sixtyish woman in a colorful jacket was pacing along the wrought-iron fence on the far side of the pool. With her back to them, she was peering down the hill behind the house. Presumably this was Mrs. Howell, and she was looking for Penny.

After dropping her purse on the table, Carly followed Dr. Tremaine into a beautifully landscaped yard. Ten steps ahead of her, he strode to the edge of the turquoise pool, his neck bent as he paced along the edge, searching the bottom.