A Creed in Stone Creek Part 11

"As long as you're not cooking," Tom specified, looking and sounding dead serious.

This was a bet Melissa wanted wanted to lose. "I'll recruit Ashley," she said. "She can do those specially marinated spare ribs you like so much." to lose. "I'll recruit Ashley," she said. "She can do those specially marinated spare ribs you like so much."

"Deal," Tom said, without cracking a smile. Even as a little kid, he'd been a sucker for a bet.

"Wait just a second," Melissa said. "What if I I win? What happens then?" win? What happens then?"

"I'll take over as chairman of the Parade Committee," Tom told her, after some thought.

"Deal," Melissa agreed, putting out her free hand.

They shook on it, then Tom turned and stalked back to the gate, through it and down the sidewalk to his car. "Just remember one thing!" he called back to her.

"What?" Melissa retorted, about to turn around and open her front door.

"Two can play this game," Tom said.

Then he got into the cruiser, slammed his door and ground the engine to life with a twist of the key in the ignition, leaving Melissa to wonder what the h.e.l.l he'd meant by that. that.

He made the siren give one eloquent moan as he drove on past her house and vanished around the corner.

"d.a.m.n," Melissa said, as the answer dawned on her.

Now she'd gone and done it.

Tom would lie awake nights until he came up with a dare for her. And it would be a doozy, knowing him.

But she didn't dwell on the problem too long, because she had things to do. Like go over to Ashley's, thereby braving the wild bunch, who might well be swinging from the chandeliers in their birthday suits, to steal a main course and a dessert from one of the freezers.

"NEXT TIME," Steven told the rearview reflection of a chagrined Matt, as they drove out of town, "it would be a really really good idea to talk it over with me before you go inviting people to our place for supper." good idea to talk it over with me before you go inviting people to our place for supper."

Matt was no pouter, but his lower lip poked out a-ways, and he was blinking real fast, both of which were signs that he might cry.

It killed Steven when he cried.

"I was just trying to be a good neighbor," Matt explained, sounding as wounded as he looked. "Anyhow, I like like Ms. O'Ballivan, don't you?" Ms. O'Ballivan, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel, then relaxing them again. "I understand that your intentions were good," he went on quietly. "But sometimes, if that person happens to have other plans, or some other reason why they need to say no, it puts them on the spot. There's no graceful way for them to turn you down."

Matt listened in silence, sniffling a couple of times.

"Do you know what I'm saying, here?" Steven asked, keeping his voice gentle.

Matt nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I get it. I'm gifted, remember?"

Steven laughed. "There's no forgetting that," he said.

"Are you mad at me?"

An ache went through Steven, like a sharp pole jabbed down through the top of his heart to lodge at the bottom. "No," he said. "If I straighten you out about something, it doesn't mean I'm angry. It just means I want you to think things through a little better the next time."

Matt let out a long sigh, back there in the peanut gallery, one of his arms wrapped around Zeke, who was panting and, incredibly, managing to keep his canine head from blocking the rearview mirror.

"It's kind of weird, calling you Steven," Matt said, after a long time. He was looking out the window by then, but even with just a glance at the boy's reflection to go on, Steven could see the tension he was trying to hide.

"Who says so?" Steven asked carefully. Conversations like this one always made his stomach clench.

"I do," Matt told him. His voice was small.

The turn onto their road was just ahead; Steven flipped the signal lever and slowed to make a dusty left. "What would you like to call me?" he asked.

"Dad," Matt said simply.

Steven's eyes scalded, and his vision blurred.

"But that doesn't seem right, because I used to have another dad," Matt went on. "Do you think it would hurt my first daddy's feelings if I went around calling somebody else 'Dad'?"

"I think your dad would want you to be happy," Steven said. It was almost a croak, that statement, but, fortunately, Matt didn't seem to notice. They'd reached the top of the driveway, so Steven pulled up beside the old two-tone truck and s.h.i.+fted out of gear. Shut the motor off. And just sat there, not knowing what to say. Or do.

"If he was Daddy, Daddy," Matt reasoned, "then I guess it would be all right if you you were were Dad. Dad."

Steven's throat constricted. He literally couldn't speak just then, so he shoved open the truck door and got out. Stood staring off toward the foothills and the mountains beyond for a few moments, until he'd recovered some measure of control.

When he turned around again, both Matt and Zeke had their faces pressed to the window, gumming it up big-time with their breaths.

He laughed and carefully opened the door, so Zeke wouldn't plunge right over Matt and his safety seat and take a header onto the ground.

"I think that's a great idea," Steven said.

"So I can call you Dad? Dad?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," Steven replied, ducking his head slightly while he undid the snaps and buckles. "You can call me Dad. Dad."

"That's good," Matt said. A pause. "Dad?" He said the word softly, like he was trying it on for size.

"What?" Steven ground out, hoisting the little boy to the ground, and then the dog.

"How come your eyes are all red?"

Steven sniffled, ran a forearm across his face. "I guess it's the dust," he said. He pretended to a.s.sess the sky, sprawling blue from horizon to horizon. "A good rain would help."

"h.e.l.lO?" Melissa rapped lightly at her sister's kitchen door, though she'd already opened it and stuck her head inside. "Anybody home?"

There was no answer, but she could hear voices coming from the dining room.

Melissa hadn't seen a car parked outside, so she'd hoped the lively group had gone out, maybe to play miniature golf or take in a movie. She would have loved to raid the freezer and duck out again, unnoticed, but she was afraid one of the oldsters would wander in, be startled and collapse from a ma.s.sive coronary.

So she moved to the middle of the floor and tried again. "h.e.l.lo?"

This time, they heard her. "Melissa, is that you?" a woman's voice called cheerfully.

"Yes," she answered. Then she drew a deep breath, proceeded to the inside door and drew another deep breath before pus.h.i.+ng it open.

The guests were gathered at one end of the formal dining table, playing cards. And they were all wearing clothes.

Melissa was so profoundly relieved that she gave a nervous, high-pitched giggle and put one hand to her heart.

How amused Ashley and Olivia and Brad would be if they could see her now. In her family, she did not not have a reputation for shyness, and her sibs would have gotten a major kick out of her newfound fear of naked croquet players. have a reputation for shyness, and her sibs would have gotten a major kick out of her newfound fear of naked croquet players.

"Come and join us," Mr. Winthrop said, rising from his seat. "We're playing gin rummy, and I'm afraid we've all known each other so well, for so long, that there just aren't any new tricks."

I'll just bet there aren't, Melissa thought, but not with rancor. Initial embarra.s.sment aside, she Melissa thought, but not with rancor. Initial embarra.s.sment aside, she liked liked these people. They had spirit. Imagination. Wrinkles. Lots and lots of wrinkles. these people. They had spirit. Imagination. Wrinkles. Lots and lots of wrinkles.

"I can't stay," she said, and the regret in her tone was only partly feigned. She enjoyed gin rummy and, heck, everybody was dressed, dressed, weren't they? "I'm having company tonight, so I came by to borrow a few things." She waggled her fingers at them, backing toward the swinging door. "Enjoy your game." weren't they? "I'm having company tonight, so I came by to borrow a few things." She waggled her fingers at them, backing toward the swinging door. "Enjoy your game."

"Don't take the roast duck," one of the women sang out, shuffling the deck for another hand of cards. "Your sister promised that to us. It's Herbert's favorite, and he's turning ninety tomorrow."

"Hands off the duck," Melissa promised, palms up and facing the group at the table, and then she slipped out. She was smiling to herself as she headed for the large storage room, off the kitchen, where Ashley had two huge freezers, invariably well-stocked.

One was reserved for desserts, one for main courses.

She selected a container marked Game Hens with Cranberries and Wild Rice, Serves 6, Game Hens with Cranberries and Wild Rice, Serves 6, Ashley's graceful handwriting looping across the label. Melissa hoped that Matt liked chicken, as most kids did, and would therefore accept a reasonable facsimile. Ashley's graceful handwriting looping across the label. Melissa hoped that Matt liked chicken, as most kids did, and would therefore accept a reasonable facsimile.

For dessert, she purloined a lovely blueberry cobbler.

Best with Vanilla Ice Cream, Ashley had written on the sticker. It was almost as if she'd known, somehow, that her twin would be breaking into her frozen-food supply soon and would need guidance. Ashley had written on the sticker. It was almost as if she'd known, somehow, that her twin would be breaking into her frozen-food supply soon and would need guidance.

Melissa set the food on the counter, went back to the inside door to poke her head in and say goodbye.

The card players were still clothed and so normal-looking that she could almost believe she'd imagined imagined the notorious backyard croquet game. Maybe she really the notorious backyard croquet game. Maybe she really was was going nuts. going nuts.

"See you," Melissa said stupidly, her face strangely hot as she backed away from the door.

She turned, grabbed the food containers and boogied out the back door, glad she'd parked her car in the alley, so she wouldn't have to walk around front, where she might have to stop and chat with one of her sister's neighbors. She wasn't feeling very sociable at the moment.

She made a quick stop at the supermarket for ice cream and a premade spinach salad, then hurried home.

When she got there, Byron was working, s.h.i.+rtless, in the front yard, pruning shears in hand, snipping errant branches off the maple tree and stemming its invasion of the sidewalk.

Nathan Carter, a local dropout with a history of misdemeanors to his credit and not much else, sat cross-legged in the as-yet-unmowed gra.s.s, watching him.

"I thought you couldn't come until tomorrow," Melissa said, addressing Byron but shooting a curious glance at Nathan as she spoke, then grappling with Ashley's plastic containers and the stuff she'd bought at the store. "Something about relining the Crocketts' koi pond?"

Nathan returned her look, smirking. She'd never liked the kid; a sort of latter-day James Dean type, he seemed to fancy himself a rebel without a cause.

He was also without a job, a house or a car, as far as she knew. He came and went, turning up every so often to bunk on his cousin Lulu's screened-in side porch and stir up whatever trouble he could.

Byron, sweating, paused and pulled an arm across his forehead. His eyes were wary, and oddly hopeful, as he watched Melissa and nodded once. "Got that done," he said. "Those fish are back in the pond, swimming around like they had good sense. I'll be back in the morning to finish up around here, but I thought I'd whack off some of these branches tonight."

Melissa looked from Byron to Nathan and back to Byron, tempted to take her temporary yard man aside and remind him that he ought to be careful who he hung around with, given that he was on parole.

"Byron, here," Nathan put in helpfully, "is a little short on cash."

"I could advance you a few dollars," Melissa said.

Nathan and Byron responded simultaneously.

"Awesome," Nathan drawled, his tone oily, like his mouse-brown hair and his filthy T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans.

"I wouldn't feel right taking money," said Byron, with a decisive shake of his head. "Not when I haven't finished the job."

Had this kid changed in jail, Melissa wondered, or had she misjudged him, way back when? There had never been any question of his guilt, that was true, but maybe Velda had been right.

Maybe she should have tried for mandatory treatment in a drug and alcohol facility instead of time behind bars.... No. She had considered every angle, consulted experts, lain awake nights. She'd done what she thought was right and there was no use second-guessing the decision now.

She turned her thoughts to her supper guests-Steven and Matt Creed. Nathan dropped off her radar, a nonent.i.ty.

And she immediately felt better.

The containers of frozen food, now beginning to thaw, stung like dry ice through the front of Melissa's top and she still wanted to tidy up the house a little, choose an outfit-nothing too come-hither-do something with her hair, and put on some makeup. A touch of mascara, some lip gloss, that was all.

Maybe a little perfume. a little perfume.

The message she wanted to send was, Welcome to Stone Creek, Welcome to Stone Creek, not, not, Hey, big guy, what do you say we hire a sitter, slip out of here, and go find ourselves a place to get it on? Hey, big guy, what do you say we hire a sitter, slip out of here, and go find ourselves a place to get it on?

She blushed, because the second version wasn't without a certain appeal, then realized she hadn't responded to Byron's last statement. "Okay, then," she told him, ignoring Nathan, tugging open the screen door with a quick motion of one hand and holding it open with her hip. "See you tomorrow."

Byron nodded and went back to snipping branches off the maple tree.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

BY 5:59 5:59 P.M., P.M., M MELISSA WAS ready to serve supper-the game hens, warming in the seldom-used oven, filled her small, bright kitchen with their savory aroma. The cobbler, already thawed and heated through, sat cooling on the counter nearest the stove, covered by a clean dishtowel. The antique table, which too often served as a catchall for newspapers and junk mail, looked like something straight off the cover of ready to serve supper-the game hens, warming in the seldom-used oven, filled her small, bright kitchen with their savory aroma. The cobbler, already thawed and heated through, sat cooling on the counter nearest the stove, covered by a clean dishtowel. The antique table, which too often served as a catchall for newspapers and junk mail, looked like something straight off the cover of Country Living Country Living magazine. magazine.

Melissa took a moment to admire the crisp white tablecloth, the green-tinted gla.s.s jar in the center, spilling over with perfect white peonies from the bushes on either side of the front steps. The plates, purchased on impulse in, of all places, an airport gift shop, were decorated with checks and flowers and polka dots.