Chapter 6

 

Paul watched Tara-Lynn draw a double line under the number she’d written. Her explanation made a lot more sense than their teacher’s. “I get it now.”

Tara-Lynn looked up, smiling. “I knew you would. We’ve got time, why not do the next problem to make it stick?”

“Slave driver.” He pulled the math textbook across the library table, frowned at the open pages, and began working out the answer.

Beside him, Tara-Lynn jotted tidy numbers in her binder, her pencil moving twice as fast as his. Ignoring the motion of her hand, the faint squeak of lead against paper, Paul followed the question to its end.

He checked his answer against hers and gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. The school librarian cleared her throat in warning. Paul rolled his eyes and mimed wiping his brow.

Tara-Lynn grinned and closed her binder. “I’ll do the rest at home.”

“Hey, thanks for giving up your lunch break to help me.” Paul had picked the most approachable of the class brains and made a desperate plea for help. Bonus for him she was female. Kind of cute, too, now that he stopped to notice.

Tara-Lynn stuck her pencil and eraser into her purse. “It’s a heavy course load this year. Do you have a job?”

“A couple of evenings and most weekends. And I’m in a new band.”

She studied him for a minute. “Don’t tell me. Keyboard?”

“Lead guitar and vocals.”

Tara-Lynn didn’t go gushy like the girls who shadowed Paul’s friends, but she didn’t treat it like a joke, either. She tipped her head to one side and seemed to re-evaluate him. “Rock band?”

“Yeah. We play Nickelback, Red Hot Chili Peppers and groups like that. But there’s some great classic rock we do too. Have you ever listened to the Beatles or the Eagles?”

She gave him a wry grin. “Mom’s all about tenors and opera. I’m into Christian music, but I like some of the Beatles’ stuff. Maybe I’ll catch your act sometime.”

“Maybe.” If they ever landed a gig. Paul stuffed his books into his backpack and pushed away from the table.

Tara-Lynn rose too, hooked her purse over her shoulder and picked up her binders. “Have you been playing long?”

“Every time I got my hands on a guitar. My dad was a musician, and I’ve wanted to play as long as I can remember.”

They walked out into the hallway. Tara-Lynn’s sleeve brushed Paul’s arm as they stepped around a knot of students at a locker bank, and he eased away. Would she think he’d gotten close on purpose?

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You said your dad was. Did he die?”

“Five years ago.”

“That’s hard. Mine’s alive, just out of the picture. He phones at Christmas and my birthday.” Tara-Lynn shifted her armload of books. “If I hurry I can dump the math in my locker before English.”

“Thanks again.”

“See you later.” Tara-Lynn ducked into the right-hand corridor and hurried away.

Paul paused to watch her go. He liked the way her shiny, light brown hair brushed her shoulder blades, the way her jeans outlined the right amount of curve without being skin-tight. She was pretty, all right, but she didn’t flaunt it like the blond rent-a-chick with the locker next to his.

Locker. Class. Paul put on a burst of speed and slid into the science lab just before the door closed.

 

~~~

 

Shortly after eight that evening, the taxi Patrick had sent to collect Carol turned into an exclusive subdivision. She tried to settle the butterflies in her stomach. So much for Patrick’s words of concern that she’d be too tired after work to find her way. She took in the double driveways with their gleaming BMWs and Porsches. A car as old as hers wouldn’t be permitted on their turf.

The houses stood tall and narrow, a runway of fashion models in designer brick and stonework, accessorized with immaculate lawns and shrubbery. Patrick’s was a semi-formal affair of a bluish stone with pristine white trim. The taxi driver opened Carol’s door and followed her across the paving stones.

She blinked when Patrick himself answered the door. No butler or white-aproned maid? He paid the driver and ushered her inside.

The home gave off an aura of serene beauty, like an art gallery. Patrick’s easy patter soothed her as he led the way to a compact but well-appointed kitchen. Finished in gleaming white with stainless steel appliances, it was saved from starkness by frosted glass cabinet doors and a faint blue motif in the ceramic tile-work.

Carol nodded her approval as Patrick gave her a whirlwind tour of the room. She’d need to rent some extra cake pans and pick up some groceries, but working in this kitchen would be a dream. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I baked at home and delivered?”

Patrick shook his head. “I have a chef who comes in twice a month to prepare my dinners, and she has a penchant for expensive culinary gadgets. I’d like to see them get more use.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to oblige. You’re okay with me being here while you’re out?”

“Perfectly. I’ll send a taxi for you at seven thirty. That way you can set up before I leave.”

Carol nodded. It had been hard to coax her boss into giving her a half-day off, but her usual midnight baking wouldn’t work in someone else’s home.

“I don’t mind driving —”

Patrick’s offer of wine dismissed her protest. His silk shirt stretched taut against his shoulders as he reached for two cut crystal glasses. He fit so well in this beautiful home.

Carol swallowed her “no thanks” and nodded acceptance. Why not?

He carried their drinks into a sitting room — she couldn’t think of a room this elegant as a living room — and set the tray on a glossy cherry-wood coffee table. Carol tried to absorb the room’s beauty without being obvious. Patrick sank into the embrace of a cream leather recliner, and waved her toward the matching couch. When she chose the wooden rocker, his mouth tightened.

She smiled. “Is this okay? I love rocking chairs. The motion’s so soothing.”

“Of course.” Patrick picked up his glass and slid the tray nearer to her seat.

The effortlessness of his conversation and the gentle rock of her chair blended with the mellow wine. Carol relaxed in a glow of contentment.

To think Joey was so suspicious of this man. He should see them now. She finished her drink and placed the glass back on its tray. What did it matter what Joey thought? But the spell weakened.

Patrick offered to refill her glass, but Carol shook her head. “No, thanks. I should be going. I’ve taken up enough of your time this evening. And I don’t imagine your work allows you much of it.”

His slow smile was noncommittal. “Not a lot, but enough for a single man. Please. Stay, if your son’s not expecting you.”

“I’d better go.”

As Patrick pulled his cell from his pocket, a slender Siamese cat paraded into the room and positioned itself in front of the rocking chair like a guard. Its stare turned Carol’s admiration to unease.

“Patrick?”

He looked up, and the question on his face turned to resignation as he saw the cat. He set the phone on the table in front of him. “I know, Isis. It’s all right. Go find something else to do.”

Carol risked another glance. The cat’s blue eyes glowed, irises narrowed in the equivalent of a scowl. A low rumble vibrated its throat. Carol shivered. “Patrick?”

Muttering a curse, he pushed up from his chair. The cat swivelled one ear in his direction and crouched to spring. The unblinking blue eyes targeted Carol’s face. The rumbling growl deepened to a snarl.

Carol bolted from the rocker. She caught at the door frame to steady herself, her feet sliding on the hardwood floor. She checked for pursuit, but the cat was sitting straight and tall in the rocking chair, staring at her.

She looked at Patrick. What would he be thinking?

He stood frozen, one hand extended, whether to stop her or the maniac cat Carol couldn’t be sure. Her gaze seemed to wake him, and he lowered his arm. Patrick shook his head and stepped toward her, ignoring the cat.

“I am so sorry about this. Are you all right?” He reached for her, and Carol backed away. Patrick’s hand dropped again. “Can I get you another drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. But I’d like to go home.”

“Of course. Shall we phone from the kitchen?” Patrick retrieved his cell from the coffee table, glaring at the cat. “Isis won’t leave the chair until you’ve gone, but she’ll fill the whole room with her attitude.”

As soon as the taxi had been called, Carol headed for the entranceway. “Will the cat be around when I come to bake?”

“I can shut her in one of the bedrooms if you would feel better.”

“I would. Why... does she do that often?”

Patrick focused on removing invisible flecks from the cuff of his silk shirt. “Isis considers humans to be lower life forms, with the exception of my wife. She and Rita had a special bond, and she is somewhat... protective. That rocker was Rita’s favourite chair. I usually put it away before I have guests.” He looked up, a rare flash of uncertainty in his eyes.

“I wish you’d said something! No wonder the cat hates me.”

His expression cleared. “Thank you.”

Carol’s hand went to the doorknob as the taxi pulled into the drive. “I had another son, Keith. My only link with him now is a dog he brought home as a stray.” She forced a laugh. “He named him Chance, said they’d both take the chance at a fresh start. But only one of them made it.”

She fled to the taxi. Why did she tell Patrick that? To let him know he wasn’t alone?

Patrick followed with slower steps, and paid the driver. He didn’t meet Carol’s eyes, but there was a new warmth in his goodbye.