Really Something Page 10

He nodded, knowing that wasn’t likely to happen. Katie’s drinking was spiraling out of control. The chances of his sister seeing the light and getting on the wagon were slimmer than a one-dollar bill. “I will,” he promised.

  “Do you want me to call one of the neighbors to help you?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll take a few days off of work, take care of Katie while I’m looking for a private-duty nurse. I could use the time off anyway.”

  Mrs. Loman’s aged face softened and she laid her opposite hand on top of his. “You do, dear. You’ve done more than any one man should have to.”

  Duncan cleared his throat. “Before I go, can I get you anything?”

  “No, but thank you for offering, dear. My sister is coming into town to help me.” Mrs. Loman laughed a little. “Imagine that. The caretaker needing care. But I appreciate the offer.”

  He rose, pressed a quick kiss to her L’air du Temps—scented cheek, then said good-bye. In the hall, he checked with the doctor one more time, directing the hospital to send all of Mrs. Loman’s medical bills direct to Duncan. It was the least he could do.

  On his way back to his car, his cell phone rang. For a moment, he froze, not in the mood to deal with Katie. Not now.

  Then he saw the Caller ID displaying Steve’s office number, drew in a breath that didn’t have stress all over it, and answered the call.

  “Dunk, you got your chance,” Steve said.

  “My chance at what?”

  “To be my lead anchor. Klein’s mother or mother-in-law or someone died and he has to go out of town for a few days.”

  “What about Jane?” Duncan asked.

  “She’s going out on maternity leave next week and says she’s not sure she’s coming back. So, the job is all yours, if you want it.”

  Excitement surged in Duncan’s chest. Finally, the chance he had been waiting for. “Sure, I’d love to,” he said. “Do you want me to get started on some stories or—”

  “Klein has left plenty of taped pieces in the hopper. You just look show up, look pretty, and read the teleprompter.”

  “Steve, I can—”

  “I bet the ratings go through the roof this week. Klein’s okay, and the owners love him, but he hasn’t got your sex appeal. The man’s too serious, like he thinks he’s the next Dan Rather or something. Always after the story, not thinking about what the viewers really want.”

  Duncan bristled. “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Sex, of course. Hell, the whole world revolves around it.” Steve chuckled. “And I have Indiana’s best sex symbol at my station.”

  “Steve, I don’t want to be the station’s sex symbol. I want to do serious news.”

  Steve snorted his opinion of serious news. “You’re working on that one piece, aren’t you? The movie thing?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Though he hadn’t done much work at all tonight on anything other than trying to figure out what made Allie Dean tick. Hell, who was he kidding? If he didn’t start taking his own career seriously, how could he expect anyone else to?

  “All righty then. Do a bang-up job on that and maybe I’ll throw a criminal probe or two your way.” Steve snorted. “Assuming anything more exciting than a tractor pull ever happens around here.”

  It would have to do. Duncan resolved to be the best damned anchor Tempest had ever seen. He’d show Steve, and all the naysayers in Tempest and everywhere else in southern Indiana that he was more than just a former football captain. More than a pretty face.

  That he had more going for him than his damned S-factor and a blue shirt.

  Then his gaze turned back to the hospital and he realized he had a massive problem on his hands. Without Mrs. Loman, he had no one to sit with Katie. It would take at least a couple days to find a nurse with the right combination of sternness and a thick hide.

  That meant he needed help. A favor, really.

  He could think of only one person who needed something desperately from him. Duncan Henry was about to find out exactly how desperate Allie Dean was.

  And how far she’d go to get what she wanted.

  Lunch at her parents’ house had been a bad idea. Allie had intended to avoid her family as much as possible, especially when Ma was armed with apple pies and mashed potatoes. She needed to resist temptation, not show up on its doorstep.

  Yeah, and she’d done such a good job of that with Duncan Henry last night.

  So far, she had about as much control over her willpower as a ninety-pound guard trying to hold back the tide of bargain-hunting brides-to-be at the annual Filene’s wedding gown sale.

  She’d already disappointed her mother by first refusing a meal. Then not giving her mother the opportunity to tell the entire town that her daughter was here representing a movie company—the biggest deal to hit Tempest since the media invasion surrounding the Henry/Whiteside Tire Company debacle—had made Ma petulant and sulky all weekend, which finally made Allie cave and agree to this meal.

  “I had to bite my tongue—twice—at Joe’s Sav-a-Lot,” Ma sighed as she sank onto one of the green vinyl and chrome kitchen chairs. “And you know how I hate to let that Eloise Connelly get the upper hand in a conversation. She was going on and on, blabbing her skinny little chicken head off. She heard from Pauline Clemens, who heard from Linda Crowell, who heard from Margene Whitfield that there was some federal-type in town, looking for illegal aliens at the gas station. They think you’re with the government, Allison.”

  “Must be those shoes,” Carlene said.

  “What am I supposed to tell people?”

  “Nothing, Ma. Just let them think what they want to think.”

  “Allison Jean, this is Tempest. You can’t let people actually think in this town or all hell breaks loose.” Her mother grabbed up a serving spoon and dug into the first dish on her right.

  Allie inhaled some of the summer breeze that wafted in through the white eyelet kitchen curtains, trying not to inhale the tempting scents of dinner with it. “So, Ma, what’s in this green bean casserole?” she said, trying to deflect the conversation.

  “Oh, you know, the usual.” Her mother smiled, then cupped her hand beside her mouth. “And my secret ingredient.”

  The never-divulged secret ingredient was, Allie suspected, sugar. Her mother had always said you couldn’t add too much sweet to a dish, and given the way she went through the Domino, her theory applied to everything from cake to carrots.

  “Tell us more about this movie thing,” Dad said, dishing up another scoop of potatoes. Carlene shoveled her food into her mouth, fast as a driver in the final laps at the Indy 500. “Why are you shooting it here anyway? Tempest isn’t exactly a tourist trap.”

  “That’s what makes it perfect. It’s remote, off-the-beaten-path, and it has that empty quality about it.” Allie tried to roll off the thick cream-of-mushroom soup coating on the green beans, but it stuck like Elmer’s glue. She opted instead for a small bite of fried chicken.

  “Tempest is about as exciting as a barium enema except without the neon green,” Carlene said. “It’s where bad towns come to die.”

  Allie didn’t bother to point out that Carlene had yet to change her own zip code. “I found this farmhouse that would be a perfect setting for the movie, but so far, the owner’s been…resistant.”

  “Who’s the owner?” Dad asked. “Maybe I know him from the factory. I could talk to him for you.”

  Allie swallowed. “Uh…Duncan Henry.”

  Silence suffocated the table.

  “Duncan Henry. Gee, isn’t he the same guy you had a crush on in high school?” Carlene’s voice ranged into high and innocent, as if she didn’t know her words danced on a hornet’s nest.

  “Why you’d ever like a Henry, I’ll never know,” Ma said.

  “Bunch of bastards,” her father grumbled. “I hope John Henry rots in hell for what he did to us. What he did to Tempest. Steer clear of Duncan. Any son of a Henry comes with trouble in his genes.”

  Ma patted Dad’s h
and. “Larry, don’t get yourself worked up. Here,” she said, reaching for the dish of fried chicken, “have some more dinner. You’ll feel better.”

  Dad waved off the Crisco-laden heart-attack-on-a-wishbone. “If it hadn’t been for that John Henry, I’d be collecting retirement instead of asking for extra hours at the Dollar Market.”

  “And we wouldn’t be spending Allie’s ‘gifts’ at the grocery,” Carlene said. Ma smacked Carlene’s hand and shushed her.

  Heat invaded Allie’s cheeks. She’d sent the money once a month for five years, increasing the amount in the envelope as her income did, knowing things at home were tight, had been ever since the factory had shut its doors.

  And yet, she knew, even as she’d signed the checks, that she’d sent the money not to help her parents cover the bills, not to repay their help with her college tuition, but to assuage her guilt at staying away from this town. From Duncan Henry and all the pumpkin pies that came with him and this place.

  “Allison means well,” Ma said, giving her eldest daughter’s hand a squeeze, but the notes in her voice didn’t ring true.

  “Doesn’t matter what you do or say,” Carlene said. “Duncan Henry isn’t going to let you into that farmhouse. Nobody’s been in that place for years. It’s where the accident happened.”

  Ma and Dad’s heads both swiveled in Carlene’s direction. “It is?” Ma said. “But I thought…didn’t the paper say it was out near State Road 89 or something like that?”

  Carlene colored. “Yeah, well, that’s where the farmhouse is. I heard it was, like, a family place or something. Katie had a party there.”

  Ma sighed and shook her head. “Such a tragedy that was, too.”

  “Damned parties,” Dad said. “Nothing but trouble.”

  Ma leaned forward. She’d taken out her rollers ten minutes ago and her hair bounced as she talked, little gray ringlets dancing like poppies in a breeze. “I always warned you girls to stay away from parties. Nothing good ever comes from boys and rum.”

  “The twins of sin—men and mai tais,” Carlene muttered under her breath.

  Allie bit back a giggle and shared a conspiratorial smile with her sister. The words brought back a memory of the two of them, in the back bedroom of the trailer. Carlene, home late from a date, and a comeuppance from Ma for her tardiness, whispering the details of a party at Darla’s house to the envious Allison, who had, as usual, stayed behind with a bowl of extra-buttery popcorn and a rented movie. She’d lived vicariously through Carlene in those days, hearing all about the men and mai tais that Carlene had experienced, wishing just once it could be her at those parties, her getting those kisses.

  “I heard,” at this, Ma lowered her voice, “Mr. Henry funded the whole thing. That man always did try to buy his kids’ love. They wore only the best, lived in the best house.”

  “He bought the whole damned town.” Dad snorted, then leaned back in his chair, his gaze going to a photo on the wall of himself and his buddies outside the Whiteside Tire factory, a month before John Henry bought the business, three months before it shut its doors and Tempest nearly imploded. “But we all have our price, don’t we?”

  Ma pursed her lips, then buttered a roll and handed it to her husband. “All those kids, drunker than skunks. The sheriff said the place was a mess.”

  “Lenny Dunne wheeled in a couple of kegs through the backdoor and drank half the Bud himself,” Carlene said to Allie. “He ended up passed out in his own puke on the front lawn. One of his finer moments.”

  Allie laughed. For a moment, she was transported back to those days, her and Carlene laying in the dark, their beds pushed together, whispering about the kids at school, daydreaming about boys.

  “But Katie and her friends,” Ma added, shooting both girls a glare as if they were about to do that very thing, “got in a car, is what I heard. Poor things, they probably didn’t even know how drunk they were.”

  “Where were they going?”

  “Katie got upset,” Carlene said, her attention on her food, the words slipping out so quietly, it was almost as if Carlene didn’t realize she’d said them. “Drank too much and got into a fight with someone about something they said about her father. So she got the keys to her car, grabbed her friends, and said they’d decided to leave.”

  Allie glanced at her sister. “How do you know so much?”

  Carlene’s head jerked up and she scowled, the moment of connection broken. “I read the friggin’ paper.” She grabbed her plate and utensils, then rose. “Jeopardy! is on. I’m going to eat in front of the TV.”

  “Carlene, your sister is here—”

  “And this table is too damned small for four.” Carlene stomped off to the sofa, winging out a cornucopia-decorated TV tray with one hand. She plopped onto the floral couch and flicked on the television, thumbing the volume upward.

  Dad looked over at Carlene’s position with clear longing.

  “Don’t you even think about it,” Ma said. “Our daughter is here and we will eat with her, not on the sofa like a bunch of heathens.”

  As long as Allie could remember, they’d always eaten on the sofa. Even Thanksgiving dinner had usually migrated to the cushy seats, so they could have the game and their turkey, too.

  “You tell the rest of the story, Larry,” Ma said, probably to distract him from his clear remote-control envy.

  “There isn’t much to tell.” Dad shrugged. “And really, no one knows much. All I remember is what I read in the paper. Katie’s car hit a tree, it snapped a branch that landed on her side. Crushed the thing, too.”

  Allie thought of Duncan, and a shiver of sympathy went through her. How hard it had to have been on him to see his sister like that. The Katie she remembered had been a vivacious, energetic girl. A cheerleader and a softball player, always friendly and perky. Whether Duncan had broken her heart or not, she wouldn’t wish a tragedy like that on anyone.

  “That Whitmore girl died, poor thing,” Ma said, apparently forgetting who was supposed to be telling the rest. “Katie broke her back, ended up paralyzed, is what I heard. But that Darla Reynolds came out without a scratch, like she had a guardian angel looking over her.”

  “Or a seat belt across her lap,” Dad said.

  “Duncan’s sister was paralyzed?” Allie sat back in her chair, stunned. Vanessa had said hurt, not paralyzed. Once again, sympathy for Duncan crowded against the old feelings of betrayal, pushing aside her resolve to hurt him as he had once hurt her. “Forever?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Who knows? We only have rumor to go on. John Henry kept most of it out of the papers. I swear, he had the Levine family in his pocket. Ever since the accident, no one ever sees Katie. She’s a recluse,” she added, whispering the last word.

  “You know how those Henrys are,” Carlene said from the sofa. She stuck out her pinkie finger, imitating what their mother called “uppity” people.

  Dad reached for another biscuit, slathering on some butter. “Old Man Henry died pretty soon after that. I think it broke his heart to see his little girl like that.”

  Her mother harrumphed. “You give him too much credit. He was always a mean old bastard. Wouldn’t have given a naked man the shirt off his back in a blizzard.”

  “Ma, you didn’t finish telling Allison about your grocery store encounter.” A smirk played on Carlene’s lips.

  Dread sank to the pit of Allison’s stomach. This couldn’t be good. Already, everything that could possibly go wrong with the location scouting had gone wrong, from Ira to Duncan’s refusal to sign over the property. She’d come here with determination, and yet it seemed like every time she turned around, another roadblock had been thrown in her way. Allie glanced at her mother, whose face had gone red.

  Ma rose suddenly, clearing plates in a quick swoop. “I should get these dishes. Food needs to go in the fridge—”

  “Beatrice,” Dad said, trying to grab back his plate, “I’m not finished.”

  “Ma, what did you do?”
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  “I’ve got to wrap up this chicken. I’d hate for it to spoil.”

  Allie caught her mother’s hand before it got tangled up in Saran Wrap. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Really. Just idle chitchat in the Ten Items or Less lane.”

  “With Lisa Connelly’s mother,” Carlene put in.

  “Ma?”

  “I tried to tell you but we got distracted by the conversation about that party. And it’s nothing, really. I just told her you were home, that’s all. I didn’t mention the movie or—”

  “You told her that I was in town? I asked you not to say anything to anyone.”

  Her mother spun around, her curls doing a little jig. “I didn’t give her specifics. Besides, why don’t you want anyone to know you’re here? Are you ashamed of us?”

  Her mother’s voice broke on the last words and Allie wanted to take it all back, to rewind her life. The times when she had wanted to pretend she was anyone else but a Gray. The daughter of a well-meaning mother who had embarrassed her a hundred times with her overprotective, worried visits to school, her hand-wrapped bologna sandwiches and slices of chocolate cake, when all Allie wanted was to buy the school lunch like the rest of the kids, or better yet, to skip lunch all together. “No, of course not.”

  But she was and she knew it showed on her face. There were only so many things that CoverGirl could cover.

  “I’m glad you went and got yourself all pretty, Allison Jean,” her mother said, but her makeup wasn’t hiding much either. “But let me tell you one thing. You can dye your hair blond. Put on a smaller size. Even change your last name. None of that changes who you are on the inside. And if you aren’t happy with that, none of this”—she waved a hand over her daughter’s form—“is gonna matter more than a hill of beans.”

  Then she left the kitchen, leaving the chicken to spoil. The relationship between mother and daughter had already gone bad.

  Allie, who had dreamed up Hollywood endings all her life, knew she wasn’t going to be able to write her way out of the mess she’d just created in this trailer.

  Before Allie could make amends, her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse, noticing how her father and Carlene suddenly found Alex Trebek intensely interesting. “Hello?”