Chapter Thirty

Scott

Hot water is never a given in my line of work. In fact, it’s a rarity, so I’ve been seizing every opportunity to have long, steamy showers. This morning I’m pretty well puckered when I hear the iPhone ring. Normally I wouldn’t bother rushing to get it…but it’s got a weird ring going on, and when I stick my head out to have a look-see, a picture of Jameson is staring back at me from the screen. I recall the feeling of her hand in mine, little Jackson up on my shoulders, and I smile. I turn the water off and get out, grabbing a towel as I do. Then I hit the button to put it on speaker so I can dry off and place the phone up onto the toothbrush holder cemented into the tile above the sink.

“Hey, you…” I call out a little too loudly, I’m sure. “I was just thinking about you. Are you okay? Is Jackson all right?”

“Yeah,” she begins a little distractedly. “Um, yes, he’s fine. We’re all fine. Thanks for everything yesterday…”

“Oh, no need. I love…the little guy.”

“He loves you, too. Ummm, Scott…”

“I mean, I was frantic, you know? But the minute he was back in your arms, I knew everything was going to be okay.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, but Scott—”

“No. I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right. I’ve lived away from my family for too long. Now that I’m home, I want to—no, I need to be a part of all the insanity. The good, the bad, and the ugly. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I think so…” she says hesitantly.

I use the towel to buff the wetness from my back while I’m talking.

“So, I’m going to get dressed here in a sec and head over to see my father at the hospital. It’s like I can’t get there fast enough, you know? We have so much to talk about. So much time to make up for.”

“Scott…”

“I know, I know. We spent all these years apart and suddenly, it’s as if I can’t manage without him—”

“Scott!” she hollers so loud that I’m forced to stop babbling and listen to her. “For God’s sake! Stop. Bending. Over!”

“What? Oh geez… I’m sorry—” I stop short, feeling my blood turn icy in my veins. How did she know I was bending over?

I straighten myself slowly and turn my head so that I can see the phone over my shoulder. Where I’ve left it, sitting upright on the toothbrush holder, facing me. While I bend over. With no clothes on. When my eyes finally land on it, a small image of Jameson fills the screen. She’s waving at me.

Holy. Crap.

I scramble to get the towel up and around my waist. Unfortunately, I turn around in the process, giving Jameson O’Halloran Clarke a full frontal view.

“Okay,” she calls out from her end of the line. “Closing my eyes now…”

“Oh! Oh, jeez! I’m sorry, Jameson…” I blabber as I throw on a pair of jeans and yank the fly up—trying not to catch anything in the process. “All right. It’s okay. You can open them now.” She does, and I feel a blush of crimson creeping up from my chest to my face. It reminds me of the time in the kitchen when I made her blush. “So, I, uh, suppose this is FaceTime, huh?”

A big, beautiful grin alights on her face as she throws her head back and laughs that beautiful laugh of hers.

“Yeah, well, I did warn you about that.”

“I suppose I should’ve listened.”

“Well, I’m not sorry you didn’t.”

She says this last sentence quickly but unapologetically. Before either of us can clarify, she waves her hands at me. “Listen, finish getting dressed and go see Big Win. I’ll be over there a little later, myself. And you and I, well…we should maybe take a little time to talk today.”

“Okay. Call me later then?”

“Absolutely. But do me a favor.”

“Of course, anything,” I say a little too quickly.

She smiles but doesn’t comment.

“When you hang up, go look at the paper. I think there’s something there you’ll appreciate.”

“Yeah…okay…”

Before I can say anything else, her grinning face is gone, leaving me with nothing but a blank black screen to taunt me. Following her suggestion, I open the front door—fully clothed—and pick up the Sunday paper that’s there on the welcome mat. The image on the front page makes me stop, one foot out, one foot in.

There, in bright color, is a picture of Maddie Jenilecki, seated on her throne atop the Midwestern Brew parade float, soaking wet, tiara dangling from a tangle of hair to the side of her head. Her dress, which apparently became see-through once it got wet, shows the clear presence of several female figure enhancements. I have no idea what they’re called, but one looks a whole lot like the girdle my grandmother used to wear. Oh. And there would appear to be a good amount of…er…padding…poking out from her bra in soggy, white tufts.

I snort loudly at the picture of the girl who looks not so much like a princess as a drowned rat. But it’s the headline that really grabs my attention:

“Princess Drew Dethroned After Assaulting Driver with Giant Beer Bottle.”

I’m still laughing when I hear the phone ring. It’s probably Jameson teasing me about my butt. Or, God forbid, one of her sisters. She wouldn’t tell them, would she? Oh, who am I kidding? Walker O’Halloran is going to be calling it “ButtTime” from now on—in my honor. Upon closer inspection, I see that the screen says “Private caller.”

“Hello?” I ask tentatively.

“Hello…I’m trying to reach Scott Clarke. Is this Scott?”

“Uhhh, yes…” I acknowledge, wondering how this person got my father’s cell phone number.

“Scott, my name is Miriam Wentworth. I’m the Director of South and Central American Operations for Project Peace. I hope you don’t mind—I made a few calls and managed to track down this contact information for you…”

Ah, so that’s how. I left the number with regional HQ. Jeez. This lady is pretty high up on the food chain. So why has she been looking for me?

“Uh…No, that’s okay,” I assure her. “What can I do for you, Ms. Wentworth?”

“Well, before I get to that, may I ask how your father is doing?”

“Much better, thank you. He’s out of the woods without too much permanent damage.”

“Oh, that is good news! How wonderful. Please send him our best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

“I will, thank you.”

“So, Scott, the reason I’m calling is because something’s come up rather suddenly, and I need to fill a post as soon as possible. Your name has been put forward a number of times from multiple people, and the consensus is that you’re the man for the job.”

I stiffen. Normally this kind of news would have me hanging on every word this woman is speaking. So why do I have the sudden impulse to hang up now before she can tempt me with whatever it is she’s got up her sleeve?

“And, uh, what job is that?”

“Central Coordinator for South America. Essentially, you’d be traveling from country to country, assessing our outposts, training staff, and making recommendations on the best use of manpower and resources. You’d have a chance to really make a difference, Scott. And, just so you’re aware, this is very much a stepping stone to coordinator positions in other parts of the world. If you live up to expectations, you could be writing your own ticket in a few years.”

Holy. Crap. This is my dream job…and it doesn’t even involve digging ditches.

“Well, that’s all very flattering, Ms. Wentworth. And very enticing. When would you want to do an interview?”

“Well, here’s the thing, the person who was in the position left us high and dry with several projects unfinished and dozens of people waiting for their placements. I’m proposing we bring you in on an interim basis and see if it’s a good fit. So…I really must have your answer by the end of the week. And, if you’re interested, I’d need you to meet me at the Project Peace national headquarters in Washington, D.C., by Monday morning.”

Oh my God. I open my mouth to decline—to tell Miriam Wentworth that I’ve just reconnected with my long-estranged father, that I want to be here to see my nephew grow up. That I think I might be just a tiny bit in love with my brother’s ex-wife—but I don’t say any of those things. I just can’t bring myself to rule out this opportunity.

“All right then. Let me give it some thought, and I’ll call you with a decision as soon as possible.”

“Excellent! I do hope you’ll be joining my team, Scott.”

Thirty minutes ago, I was as happy as I’ve ever been, but now, in the time it would’ve taken me to shave, I’m overwhelmed by the weight of my options…and what they mean for my future. And my heart.

This axis-tilting thing is starting to get old.