Blue Heron: The Perfect Match Part 11

His unofficial stepson slumped to the floor of the mat and took out his phone, which began emitting irritating little burps and beeps. Tom went over and squatted in front of him. "Charlie? Pay attention, mate."

"Why?"

"You might learn something."

"It's stupid," Charlie muttered, going back to his game.

It was hard not to slap the stupid thing out of his hand. "Right," Tom said. "So you move like this, always keeping your feet going. In, out, in, out. Just a little movement, very controlled, hands up by your temples, weight forward."

Charlie wasn't listening. And it was b.l.o.o.d.y embarra.s.sing, talking to a kid who was clearly ignoring him, the eyes of the cop on them more than once. But they were here, and a boxing ring was one of the few places Tom knew what he was doing. "Jab, turning your hand, put your shoulder into it, and then, snap, back again to protect yourself."

The computer game continued to chirp and beep.

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

The clock slowed to a crawl, but that was the thing with kids, right? You couldn't let them dictate everything. Or something.

After a lifetime, the endless hour pa.s.sed, and Tom pulled on his sweatshirt.

"Let me know if you want a sparring partner sometime," the cop called.

"Will do," Tom said, raising a hand. "Thanks. Come on, Charlie. Off we go."

The boy remained barely conscious, for all that he interacted with Tom, as they drove the short distance to Tom's place. He unlocked the door and stood back as the kid went in.

"So I decorated a bit, tried to make it a little more homey than the last time you were here," Tom said. "I bought some things for your room." Was that a mistake, to call it Charlie's room? He'd wanted him to feel like he had an option to Janice and Walter's, that any time he wanted a place to go, he could come here.

Hadn't happened yet. Despite the Tuesday afternoons, when Janice forced the lad to spend time with him more for her sake than his, Charlie hadn't taken him up on the offer.

But now, to his surprise, the boy went upstairs, his feet thudding heavily on the stairs. Tom followed. Charlie glanced in at Tom's room, which was bare bones at best, then went into the room across from it. This was the room Tom had worked to make appealing, and he said a silent prayer that Charlie would like it.

The walls were white; the bed was covered in a black comforter (Charlie's favorite color, after all). A bureau from IKEA, which had taken seven hours to a.s.semble, and him a mechanical engineer.

On one wall hung a Manchester United poster; once upon a time, Charlie had watched matches with him on the rare occasions that American television carried British football. On the bureau was the Stearman PT-17, the last model airplane he and Charlie had worked on together, still waiting to be finished. A bookcase filled with half of the young adult and science fiction novels the small bookstore in town had stocked, because Tom didn't know what Charlie was reading these days. A collector's edition of Lord of the Rings, just in case. The complete Harry Potter series, once beloved by the boy.

And then there were the photos. A shot of Charlie-his school picture from last year, one of those ghastly photos set against a gray background, Charlie's face unsmiling and hard. Another of a younger Charlie, standing in front of a stream. Tom had taken him fishing-they'd caught nothing, but had a fantastic time throwing rocks into the water.

And on the nightstand, a photo of Charlie and Melissa, both of them smiling.

She'd had her flaws, absolutely, but she had certainly loved her son.

Charlie stared at the photo.

Then he turned and shut the door in Tom's face without a word.

LATER THAT NIGHT, after the agonizing visit had ended and Charlie had been returned to his grandparents', Tom was considering a trip to O'Rourke's, which had a magnificently stocked collection of single malt whiskey and Scotch in addition to eighteen types of beer. Perhaps Droog was up for a drink and some darts.

Then again, it was past ten.

Perhaps Tom should get a dog. Or a cat. Or a fish.

But chances were he'd be leaving America soon. He'd had emails from both of the companies he'd applied to, informing him they'd hired another candidate, as Tom had expected they would. No work visa meant he'd have to go home.

It would be all right, he told himself, ignoring that flash of pain in his chest. It wasn't like he was doing any good here, anyway.

The bleat of his cell phone startled him. He looked at the screen. "Charlie?" It was a first, the boy calling him.

"Can you come get me?" The words were muttered, barely audible over the background din.

Tom paused. "Yeah. Of course. Where are you?"

Charlie mumbled an address and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Tom turned onto a grungy street in Bryer, two towns over from Manningsport. His heart pulled the second he saw Charlie, a small, dark smudge sitting on the curb.

"Hey," Tom said, rolling down the window. "Hop in."

Charlie did, walking faster than his usual shuffle. He slumped in the seat.

"Buckle up, m-"

"Just get out of here," Charlie said, pulling the seat belt across him.

Tom obeyed. It was hard to tell in the dark, but by Charlie's careful breathing, he thought the boy might be crying. A block down from where Charlie had been waiting, people streamed and yelled from the porch of a dilapidated two-family house. Most were wearing similar clothes to Charlie's-black, torn, adorned with chains and metal. A thunking ba.s.s rhythm slammed into the car, making it reverberate.

Charlie sat low in the seat, looking at his lap.

When they left the neighborhood, Tom glanced over. "Bad time?"

Charlie shrugged. There was a trickle of blood coming from his ear, where the safety pin pierced the cartilage, and for a second, Tom's vision flashed red. He turned his eyes back to the road and loosened his death grip on the steering wheel.

"Did someone hurt you, mate?" he asked softly.

"No."

"Your ear's bleeding."

Charlie reached up and touched it. "It got caught."

Bulls.h.i.t. Someone had roughed up his little boy. Again, he had to force his hands to relax. "Want to stay at my place tonight?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Okay." Charlie looked out his window, his face away from Tom. "Don't tell my grandparents the party was so...whatever. They'll freak."

"Right. I'll call them when we get home and let them know you're with me."

When they got to Tom's, Charlie headed straight upstairs. "Do you need anything?" Tom asked.

"No."

"Make sure you clean that cut, all right? There's hydrogen peroxide in the cabinet." He nodded toward the loo.

"Okay." Much to his surprise, Charlie turned and almost managed to make eye contact. "Thanks," he mumbled to the region of Tom's collarbone.

Despite the black eye makeup and piercings, Charlie's face was still that of a little boy, his skin unroughened by beard, his jawline still soft, reminding Tom of the kid who'd never run out of things to talk about at bedtime.

"You're welcome," he said, then cleared his throat. "Any time."

Then Charlie closed the door, and Tom felt a rush of love so deep and fast and helpless that it felt like he'd been punched in the chest.

What kind of a gobs.h.i.te picked on a kid who still didn't weigh a hundred pounds? And just who would Charlie have called tonight if Tom went back to England?

No matter what it took, he was staying.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

AT 4:45 ON Friday afternoon, Honor was contemplating another cruise through eCommitment or OnYourOwn.com and wondering if four was too many times to see the latest Bond movie. But Dad and Mrs. Johnson had an in-house date, since Mrs. J. thought it was too soon to go out in public, so Honor wanted to make herself scarce. Because, my G.o.d! What if an in-house date meant she had to overhear something? Then she and Spike would have to kill themselves.

However, once again making the trek to the theater and power-eating popcorn and Sour Patch Kids (the ugly face of addiction...or the ugly hips, as the case may be) held little appeal, even if she could look at Bond, James Bond, for two hours. Plus, the low-bellied clouds looked like they were about to birth some snow. The lake was black from here, and the grapevines were dark and twisted. The air was raw with cold.

Maybe she'd just stay here and work, despite her pledge to be different. The Black and White Ball wasn't far off, and it was Honor's pet project of all the charity events Blue Heron partic.i.p.ated in or hosted. The ball raised money for the parks and recreation services in town. In years past, the ball proceeds had funded a new playground, replacing the rusting equipment Honor herself had played on, a skateboard park and the munic.i.p.al pool.

This year, the funds would go toward making a hiking and bike trail through some of Ellis Farm. Everyone could use it, of course, not just kids, but it was special to Honor's heart. Manningsport, while as beautiful a town as America made, had pockets of need. Kids who grew up in the squat brick houses at the edge of town, or the trailer park, didn't have what Honor had growing up-woods and fields to romp in. Orchards and sledding hills, a shallow pond for skating. In her mind's eye, she envisioned buying a small herd of Scottish cattle for the 4-H program, a flock of chickens, maybe a few rescued horses. The land would be for those kids, so that they could enjoy the riches of the area, get away from their televisions and Nintendos and feel the connection to the land the way she did.

The ball would be held in the Barn at Blue Heron, the s.p.a.ce that Faith had converted last fall-once a crumbling stone barn, now a stunning, bright s.p.a.ce overlooking the rest of the vineyard. Her sister had quite a talent. And red hair. And the cutie cop.

Okay, none of that. She ran her hand over her own hair. She had good hair now, too. The rude Brit had been right: it had been a little sister-wife.

So yes. While Jessica Dunn and Ned were doing just fine, the Black and White Ball was Honor's. And lists needed to be made. Or remade. Or color-coded.

Just then, her phone rang, making Spike leap up from her beauty rest and bark four times. Honor lunged for the phone before Jessica could answer it. "Honor Holland," she said, using her smooth, Blue Heron voice.

"It's your father speaking," Dad said. "Reminding you that you have a life and need to leave the office."

"Dad, no one leaves work at five."

"Get out. Go to O'Rourke's with one of your friends."

Honor winced. Unluckily, no one in town had died since the catfight...no one had even been arrested or had s.e.x in a public place (except maybe Pru and Carl, though they hadn't been caught). In other words, she was still the hot gossip. O'Rourke's was out.

"And, um, don't be home before ten," Dad added, his voice sheepish.

"Why? Wait, scratch that, I don't want to know." Honor sighed. "Okay. Maybe I'll swing by Pru's and stay over."

"Oh, honey, that'd be great."

"Dad, please."

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just...well, you do what you want, Petunia. Just give me a call if you do decide to come home. Let the phone ring twice. That'll be our code."

"Got it. Code, as in don't you dare be doing anything in the living room that would cause emotional scars for your spinster daughter."

"You're not a spinster. Go out. Have fun. Meet some young people."

"I hate young people." She paused. "Can I at least come home to change and feed my dog?"

"Of course. Just, um, make it quick, okay? Oops, I have to go. Mrs. Johnson's glaring at me. Love you!"

"You should probably start calling her by her first name," Honor said, but her father had already hung up. She sighed. It'd be nice to be able to tell her sisters about this (it might be fatal to Jack), but Mrs. Johnson had made her swear not to tell yet.

Honor scooped up Spike and kissed the dog's little head, getting a joyful snuzzle in return. "Let's run away, just us two," she said. Spike wagged in agreement.

Young people and friends. Outside of her relatives, no one leaped to mind. Maybe Jack would want to watch Top Ten Tumors, a show dear to both their hearts. She could go to Rushing Creek and talk about artificial hips, or she could go to her grandparents' house and do the same thing. Maybe get rid of some of their stuff. Help Goggy clean out the pantry, which held canned goods from the 1980s.

A knock came on her door frame. "Hey. Sorry to interrupt," Jessica Dunn said. "I took a whack at the press release for the tourism magazine."

"Great! Let's take a look." Delegation, delegation. It was supposed to be a good thing.

Jessica handed her the paper. "I also posted a picture of the cask room on Facebook and Twitter and asked everyone what wine was in their fridge. And I made a list of some potential blog topics for you, too. Oh, and here's your calendar for next week."

"Thanks," Honor said, her heart sinking a little.

Jessica had worked here for two weeks now, and Honor was a little intimidated by how terrifyingly efficient she was. Didn't smile much, did everything from empty the trash to bring Honor coffee to write copy (pretty d.a.m.n well, too).

Jess stood there a minute as Honor read what she'd done. It was friendly, informative and seemed to be missing all of one comma. Honor looked up. Jess was frowning.

Honor knew this was her first job outside of waitressing; the girl (woman) had acknowledged that on her first day. So far, she'd been quiet, hardworking and a little tense, almost as if she was worried she'd be fired. It was kind of endearing. Faith had mentioned that she'd always been a little scared of Jessica Dunn; Honor didn't see why.

"This is great," she said. "I almost can't remember what I did before you came." You worked sixteen hours a day, the eggs told her.

Jessica smiled a little. "Thank you."

"Hey, Jess, do you want to get a drink? Since it's time to go?"

"Shoot, I can't. I have to work. I'm on at Hugo's."

"Right." c.r.a.p. "Another time, I hope."

"I'd really like to. I just...I still need the other job. Student loans, you know?"

"No, no, it's fine." Maybe she shouldn't have asked. Maybe that was inappropriate. Maybe Jessica didn't want to have a drink with her boss.