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  Then the room filtered in, its shabby, cramped interior both claustrophobic and oddly comforting, like an old blanket. Overstuffed furniture, dusty, kitchy knickknacks, shag carpet, and above it all, the words BLESS THIS MESSY HOME in die-cut wooden blocks curving across the paneling on the far wall. Beneath that, a smaller plaque read FEED THE ONES YOU LOVE AND LOVE WILL FEED YOUR SOUL.

  Carlene lounged across the sofa, a bag of Doritos against her ample chest. “What are you doing here, anyway? We don’t see you for years and then poof, you show up. What’s up with that?”

  “Carlene!” Ma would have swatted Carlene if she could have reached from the kitchen. “Be nice.”

  “Be nice? She’s gone for like seven years and you don’t even ask her about where she’s been? Why she skipped Mother’s Day, Easter, even freakin’ Christmas? All she did for the holiday was send a big honkin’ box from Williams-Sonoma.” Carlene popped a chip into her mouth.

  Silence rolled over the room while everyone waited for Allie’s explanation.

  “It’s expensive,” Ma said after a moment, her voice a little shaky, and Allie wanted to rush over, apologize, immediately soothe the waters. “California is very far away.”

  Carlene let out a snort. “Ma, it isn’t that far.”

  How could she tell them the truth? That her deepest fears had kept her away? She hadn’t known, not until she’d stood in front of that sign, whether seeing this town again would send her reaching for the nearest Hershey bar or not.

  But she hadn’t. Allie had faced the sign and Duncan Henry and done just fine, no need for M&M Mars reinforcements. Allie Dean, it turned out, hadn’t just slimmed down—

  She’d toughened up. A lot.

  In every area but her hormones, it seemed. Her body had yet to get the message that Duncan Henry was bad news. She’d been unprepared to see him so soon and that had left her on edge.

  Duncan Henry. When would that man, heck, even the thought of his name, stop turning her upside down?

  “So why are you back at the old homestead?” Carlene asked, voicing the words that resided in Ma and Dad’s eyes.

  “Work,” Allie said, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. “The company I work for is making a movie and they’re thinking of using Tempest for filming.”

  “Wonderful to hear,” Dad said, beaming at his daughter. “That’d put us on the map. About time, too. Been a long time since Tempest has had some good news.”

  “I need you to keep the fact that I’m here quiet, though. It’s part of the…” She paused a second, formulating an excuse they’d go for and keep her from revealing her true identity too soon. “The confidentiality clause. The company will pull production if word gets out that this is my hometown. Conflict of interest and all that. Plus the director is a little…quirky.”

  “Wouldn’t want him to do that,” Dad said, nodding. “This might be just the payday ticket Tempest needs. Lord knows we could use it since those damned Henrys ran the town into the ground.”

  “I’m also here to visit all of you,” Allie added, avoiding the subject of the Henrys and the demise of Tempest, knowing her father would pontificate for hours. “To catch up.”

  “Of course you are.” Her mother bustled over to her daughter, putting a cookie in Allie’s hands, as if she’d given the right Pavlovian response. “I always knew you’d be back. Why, when you left for California, I told your father, ‘Larry, you don’t worry one bit, our girl will be back.’ Didn’t I say that, Larry?” She didn’t wait for her husband’s answer. “Girls don’t like to stay too far from their mamas. There’s a connection between us.”

  “Yeah, it’s called an umbilical cord,” Carlene muttered. “The doctor’s supposed to cut it.”

  “Maybe he forgot yours,” Dad said, shooting Carlene a “get off the couch and get a job” look.

  “Hey, I’m trying to get back on my feet, Dad. Once I get a job—”

  But he’d already stopped listening, his thumb on the remote, increasing the volume on ESPN until the commentators sounded like they’d joined in the conversation. Carlene got off the sofa, padded into the kitchen, and exchanged her Doritos for a bag of cheese curls. Ma smacked her hand. “Save room for dinner. Your sister’s here and we’re going to do something special.”

  “Ma, I can’t stay for dinner,” Allie said, knowing that if she did, there was always the temptation of slipping into those old bad habits. Plus, she had a hundred things to do before Jerry arrived. The sooner she got started, the better. “I have—”

  “Oh, now,” her mother cut in, waving a hand. “You always have time for dinner. Here, sit down at the table. I’ll get you a plate.”

  Allie glanced at the refrigerator. There’d been days when she’d wanted to throw that Whirlpool out the window and days when the appliance could dispense a hug better than her clingy Aunt Tilda. Shoved among the pictures of cousins and their babies, recipes cut out of magazines and magnets shaped like each of the four food groups, was a small news item, torn from the front page of the Tempest Weekly: GET THE SCOOP AT THE ANNUAL LITTER BOX DANCE!

  The date on the ad was tonight. Undoubtedly, the majority of Tempest would be there, given this was the biggest event the town held. A great opportunity to find potential extras.

  And to see if anyone recognized her. Allie had never attended a dance in Tempest, though she remembered watching one once from behind a chain-link fence, wondering what it would have been like if a boy had asked her to be his date. Heck if she’d been asked back then, she would have gone to a dance centered around sewer systems.

  But that had never happened. Except once, with Duncan. And that disaster rivaled anything that could happen in a Kitty Kleen box.

  “I can’t stay because I’m going to the dance.” Allie Dean didn’t need to wait for anyone to ask her. For a man to make her decision. She made her own rules.

  Allie pivoted toward Carlene, who had again retreated to the sofa and flung herself across the floral fabric, popping cheese curls into her mouth machine-gun style. “Why don’t you come with me, Carlene?”

  “To what?”

  “The Litter Box Dance. Scoop Till You’re Pooped, it says.”

  Carlene snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  Allie looked at her younger sister and saw herself, ten years ago. Self-conscious about her weight, she’d locked herself in this house, quadrupling the problem with snack foods and sofa-cruising. Before Allie had left for California, Carlene had been the thinner, prettier, and more social of the two, dating Doug Wilkins, heading off for parties every weekend.

  Something had happened since Allie left. Turning her social butterfly sister into a caterpillar.

  “Come on, Carlene,” Allie said. “Go with me.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to go. You come back and instantly think you can run my friggin’ life. So screw you.” Carlene’s curse merited a sharp glance from their mother.

  Carlene heaved herself off the couch, padded down the hall to her bedroom, and slammed the door so hard, the bag of cheese curls tumbled to the floor.

  Allie sighed and bent over, picking up the scattered orange puffs. Her mother called her to the table for a meal worthy of Henry VIII, but Allie begged off again.

  That dinner table held a one-way ticket back to who she used to be. No way would she take that well-intentioned, meatball-laden train again.

  Chapter 5

  Duncan stood on the sidelines of the Litter Box Dance and sipped at a warm, flat beer, waiting for something interesting to happen. Esther Dunne’s oldest boy had screwed with the keg order again. Judging by the temperature of the brew, Lenny had left the silver cask in the back of his truck all day, probably swigging samples at every stop sign.

  Lenny Dunne’s only claim to fame was being able to simultaneously stand on his head and pour a gallon of beer down his gullet. Last year, after he’d been fired from his job as “pump expert” at the local BP, he’d gone around proclaiming himself the area’s “beer expert.”<
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  Not exactly the best makings for an epitaph—or a career—but it seemed to suit Lenny just fine.

  Jim, WTMT-TV’s cameraman, sidled up beside him, handing him a replacement beer. “Here. Howie Lassiter brought in his own keg. Guaranteed not to have Lenny’s saliva on the spout.”

  Duncan laughed and took the cup, tossing his nearly full one into the trash. “Thanks.”

  “How long are we planning on torturing ourselves?” Jim asked.

  “We need to tape a segment, interview a few people, then we can leave. Not too many people are here yet, though.”

  Jim chuckled. “So you can make it look like Tempest is some hotbed of activity, huh?”

  “No, so I can get the hell out of weather and onto something real,” Duncan said. Klein had developed a sudden case of indigestion after returning from dinner at an Indian restaurant two towns over. With Jane busy at her kid’s recital, Steve, in a panic, had asked Duncan to cover the dance. Slow news day meant coverage of the scads of county fairs and tractor pulls throughout Indiana. Last summer, Phil’s Pickle Festival had been the lead story, the summer before that, it had been the Porta-Potti plunging contest at the Indiana State Fair. That one hadn’t been repeated, not after some guy got a little too aggressive with his plunger. Turned out the yellow DO NOT USE caution tape wrapping the potties had been ignored by a few desperate elephant-ear fans.

  The Porta-Potti had spewed its contents over the contestants and the reporters. Klein, always ready for his close-up, had gotten the worst of it.

  Ever since, Klein kept his tetanus shot updated and did his best to avoid anything with even a hint of eau de toilette.

  Covering the Litter Box Dance wasn’t the hard news Duncan wanted, but it was a beginning. And it would look a lot better on his resume than covering cloud patterns.

  And maybe, if Steve saw Duncan could do a good job with this tiny event, he’d throw more such work Duncan’s way.

  Hopefully, that would provide that unquantifiable something that would make him charge out of bed, ready to get to work in the morning. And would give him credentials based on more than his damned S-factor. At the top of Duncan’s Christmas list was the desire to be taken seriously.

  He never had been, not by his father, not by this town. Not by anyone who saw him as the indulged only son of John Henry.

  His cell phone vibrated against his hip, but Jim was setting up the camera equipment as more people filed in, and Duncan let the call go unanswered. In a few seconds, he’d have to tape his segment and he didn’t have time to get into another debate with Katie.

  Besides, Mrs. Loman had stayed late, to take care of Katie, as she’d done for the past five years. Katie would be fine for the couple of hours Duncan needed. He’d be home soon enough, relieving tired Mrs. Loman, whose patience was undoubtedly already stretched as thin as floss.

  He started to tell Jim they might be stuck filming Lenny’s gulping at the keg when things got interesting.

  His rock-thrower showed up.

  She lingered at the entrance, beneath the huge Kitty Kleen banner with its sparkling litter box and weird, scrawny black cat logo. Rock-thrower looked momentarily shy and unsure about whether to enter the dance.

  His pulse ratcheted up again, taking in every inch of her. All curves and blond hair, she seemed to be an artist’s rendition of the perfect woman. A real-life Barbie doll.

  Duncan told Jim to give him a minute, then made his way through the cluster of teens standing by the punch bowl.

  Her gaze darted around the room, skipping over him, then she turned as if to leave. Duncan picked up his pace, weaving past Esther Dunne, who was telling Lenny to go find himself a girl while he still had almost all his teeth.

  “Tell me you’re not armed,” he said when he reached her side.

  She looked at him. A Mona Lisa smile curved across her face. “You again.”

  “Guilty as charged.” A few people were trying to get past them, so Duncan took a few steps back, to stand by the long table holding the scooping competition.

  Every year, Kitty Kleen Litter Company sponsored the annual race to clean out the clumps. This year, thank God, they’d finally gotten smart and filled the boxes with Tootsie Rolls.

  Rock-thrower slid in beside him, upwind from the mint-scented litter. “You never told me your name,” he said.

  That smile again. “You’ll live without it.”

  He clutched at his heart. “I don’t know about that. I’m already having palpitations.”

  She rolled her eyes, not impressed by his bad attempt at flirting. He’d been out of the game way too long.

  “I’m going to get a beer.” And then she was gone.

  “Wait,” Duncan said, catching up to her. Behind him, he heard Esther tell Lenny, “See? That’s how you go after a girl.”

  “I’m not nearly as awful as you think,” Duncan said.

  “And I’m not nearly as interested in you as you think.”

  He put a hand to his chest again. “You hit a man where it hurts.”

  She arched a brow, indifferent to his pain.

  “At least tell me your name. Then I can add you to the list of women who have rejected me.”

  “And I bet I’d be what, number two?”

  He chuckled. The odd feeling that he knew her nagged in his brain. Duncan would have never forgotten a woman this beautiful. Still, she seemed to have some kind of inside knowledge about him. “Would it help if I said you’d be number one?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Excuse me. I need a drink. Not another guy who thinks he’s all that.”

  He knew he should let her go. Whatever interest he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes had evaporated. Behind them, the band hired by Kitty Kleen started up with a tinny rendition of “Stray Cat Strut.”

  “Dunk,” Jim said, touching him on the shoulder, “let’s get that shot and get out of here.”

  Rock-thrower turned back to him, taking in the camera, the sound equipment. “Shot?”

  He nodded. “I’m, ah, covering the dance.”

  “Covering it? As in for the news?”

  “WTMT-TV in Tempest.”

  If she was impressed, she didn’t show it. Apparently there were regions where his S-factor didn’t reach. Steve would be disappointed. “Well then, Mr. Henry, perhaps you can be…beneficial to me.”

  “Beneficial?” He arched a brow. Then it hit him. How did she know his name?

  Beside them, Jim flicked a questioning glance from one to the other, but didn’t say anything. His cell rang and he stepped away to answer it.

  “Yes.” She grinned. “As in a little quid for my quo. That is, if you’re interested.”

  Oh, he was interested, all right. In whatever quid, or quo, she was offering.

  She thrust out her hand. “I’m Allie Dean, and I work for Chicken Flicks, a movie production company in L.A. I’m scouting a location for our next film as well as for extras. I could use some media coverage. Which means I could use you.”

  “Well, I’m not—” Duncan cut off the words, knowing if he said he was the weatherman, he’d lose this shot to talk to her. “Sure, I’d be glad to do a story on you. But why are you working on the location instead of starring? With looks like that, you could be the next Reese Witherspoon.”

  “Flattery won’t get you into my bed.”

  “Then what will?” he asked, taking a half step closer.

  She laughed, a deep throaty sound that awoke something hot in Duncan’s chest. “You’re one determined man, aren’t you? You really want to know what will get you into my bed?”

  She leaned forward. Duncan held his breath. Damn. He hadn’t been this turned on in—

  Forever.

  “Uh, I hate to interrupt,” Jim said, “but that was Steve. He wants to go live in three. A quick promo for the eleven o’clock news.”

  “Oh, too bad. Duty calls.” Allie slipped him a business card that had an address in L.A. and a cell phone number. “We’ll catch up later,
Mr. Henry. And maybe I’ll give you that answer, Mr. Henry. Or maybe I won’t.”

  “Do you promise? Or will you stand me up again?”

  She tiptoed a finger up his chest. “Make me a better offer than Margie’s and we’ll see.”

  Then she spun on her heel and walked away. Jim tugged on Duncan’s sleeve, heading toward the camera and lights he’d rigged up earlier. The scooping competition was about to start, and Jim moved to train his camera on the six contestants ready to get at that litter.

  Lenny stumbled by, nearly crashing into Duncan. He belched out a beer-scented cloud of air. “Dude, that chick is, like, totally hot. You gonna go for her?”

  “Maybe.” Definitely. But he wasn’t going to share the details with a guy who spent his days swimming in Budweiser.

  “Not if I beat you to it.” Lenny lurched off in the general direction Allie had gone.

  Duncan watched over his shoulder as Allie strode toward the food table, her hips an enticing swing. The feeling that he knew her returned—

  He just had to figure out how and where they’d met before. And how to get to know her again.

  Allie made it to the refreshments table without losing her cool or showing Duncan Henry that being around him had affected her one bit. She walked through the crowd, seeing dozens of people she remembered, but not one showed a spark of recognition. Her step faltered when she saw Lisa Connelly—former head cheerleader and president of the Torture Allison Gray club.

  But then Allie straightened. The days when Lisa and her ilk could bother Allie were over. She had grown up and moved past them. Way past.

  Lisa flicked a gaze over Allie as she tried to pass. Disdain filled her eyes, but not recollection. “Nice skirt.” But the implied tone said “not.”

  Allie was tempted to return a scathing comment that could make up for all the “wearing your mother’s quilt today?” and “I didn’t think bras came in mega-cups” comments from years before. She took two steps away, then doubled back. “I like your hair,” she said to Lisa. “Not many people can pull off a blond that white without looking dead.”