No Matter What

His phone rang, and he had to go looking. He’d set it down on the kitchen counter when he started work on dinner. He didn’t recognize the caller’s number, which surprised him, but it was a local one.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Mr. Ward?”

He knew who this was. “Ms. Callahan?” he said in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trevor turn slowly from the dishwasher, a dirty plate in his hand.

“That’s right.” She sounded all buttoned-down, not pissed but not friendly, either. “Are you aware that Caitlyn has been trying to reach Trevor?”

“Yes, actually I am. I passed on a message this afternoon.”

“Since he’s refusing to speak to her, I have to ask if we can meet.” There was a pause. “At my home. And I’d appreciate it if you could bring Trevor.”

Oh, shit. This couldn’t be good. His eyes were locked with his son’s. Trevor couldn’t possibly hear what she was saying, but he was braced for something, and it wasn’t good.

“Yes, Ms. Callahan. When?”

“Is Trevor home now?”

“Yes.”

“This evening would work for us.” So Caitlyn was to be included in this showdown. Oh, shit, he thought again. “If tonight’s not good…”

“Tonight’s good,” Richard said. “Where do you live?”

She gave him her address and he told her he didn’t need directions. He’d lived here his entire life, and had worked on what seemed like half the houses in town. Given the address, he knew exactly where she lived—a neighborhood of upscale town houses built…oh, five or six years ago. Ward Electrical had done the wiring, so he even knew the layout options. Each had a pocket front yard and a not much bigger backyard. They were nice places, though—two story, with clean styling he liked, the garages off alleys that were as wide as some city streets.

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said, still not looking away from Trevor, who was shaking his head frantically. Richard pocketed the phone. “You got the gist of that.”

“Us?” He let loose some obscenities, followed by, “What’s this about? Is Mommy the vice principal going to chew me out because I broke her little girl’s heart?”

“I really doubt that’s what Mommy the vice principal has to say,” Richard said grimly. “Trevor, did you have sex with this girl?”

He had his answer in the panic on his son’s face.

“How old is she?”

“She’s… She wanted it, too!”

“How old?” he ground out.

Trevor swallowed. “Uh…fifteen. I think.”

Richard closed his eyes. “Goddamn it, Trevor.” As if all this would be any better if the girl had passed her sixteenth birthday. Was this a nightmare? Had Trevor just ruined his life, the same way his dad had ruined his?

“Forget the dishes,” he said. “We’re going over there right now to find out what this is about.”

Trevor tried to say no. Vehemently, profanely, even physically. Richard all but dragged him out to the pickup, thrust him in the passenger side. “You will come with me. For the first time since you got off that airplane, you will behave like a decent human being. Do you hear me?”

Breathing hard, eyes black with fear, Trevor finally nodded. Richard went around and got in. Neither said another word, not while the garage door rose, not during the short drive. Not even when he parked at the curb in front of one of the town houses, painted a warm gold with darker gold-and-brown trim.

Molly opened the door, and studied Trevor with slightly narrowed eyes. “Thank you for coming,” she said, and stood back to let them in.

For a moment, despite his tension, she was all Richard saw. Her hair was loose, a cloud of wavy, wayward fire. It was the first time he’d seen it that way. Brown cords emphasized those long legs and hips he fantasized getting his hands on—when he’d had enough of touching her hair. A cowl-necked sweater in something soft bared enough throat and collarbone to jolt him. No freckles. Why didn’t she have freckles?

He gave his libido a good yank and deliberately looked around. Away from Molly.

She led them into a living room that surprised him. Cream walls were hung with textile art, everything from an antique crib-size quilt to a weaving that he guessed was South American. The rugs scattered on the hardwood floor were all interesting, too, some likely vintage if not antique. Bookcases were mostly full of books, but held some art that he thought might be African or South or Central American, too. Different. The coffee table looked Shaker, the sofa was a dark red plush fabric and the two easy chairs were covered in a dark blue and sage green, respectively. Somehow the colors of furniture, rugs and wall hangings all worked together. He saw it all quickly; it was only an impression, but he was impressed.

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