LITMIR.BIZ

      Melissa broke two more eggs into the bowl and began to beat the mixture. The big bay window overlooking the circular driveway let the morning light into the large rectangular kitchen. Blue-and-white French tiles blended with the white appliances and pine cabinets to create an elegant yet calming work area. If she added the eating nook and laundry room off to the side, she was pretty sure it was bigger than her whole apartment. Melissa shook her head in disgust and continued to hum along with the rock station playing in the background.

      She set the bowl on the counter and headed down the hall. “How many strips of bacon do you want?” she asked as she entered Logan’s bedroom.

      Sitting in one of the wing chairs, staring sightlessly at the television, Logan wore a dark blue robe she’d found in his closet.

      “Damn fool economists,” he muttered. “Thinking that we’re heading into a recession. Three, please. Extra crisp.”

      “Coming right up.” Melissa returned to the kitchen. But before she could begin working, she heard the sound of a key in the front door. She glanced at the clock; it was barely past eight. Logan had said that Wendi wouldn’t be home until noon. Did he give keys to the women in his life? She looked out the window. Hers was the only car in the driveway. Why hadn’t she bothered to get dressed? She moved into the foyer. It was too late now.

      “Hi.” Wendi walked in and shut the door behind her. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Smudges under her bright green eyes told of a restless night. Her expression was troubled, and traces of tears clung to her smooth cheeks. “Is my dad…” Her voice broke.

      Melissa stepped forward and smiled. “He’s fine, Wendi. He was up a couple of times in the night, but he’s doing great.”

      “Really?” She sniffed, fresh tears ran down her face. “I was so worried. I should have stayed home, but I was scared.”

      “He’ll be back to normal before you know it.” Melissa gave her an impulsive hug. They were the same height, but Wendi was all long lines and lean limbs. The girl returned her embrace, then stepped back and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

      “Can I go see him?”

      “Sure. He’s drinking coffee and arguing with the morning news show.”

      Wendi looked at Melissa, her eyebrows raised in outrage. “You went in my dad’s bedroom dressed like that?”

      Melissa glanced down at the long robe covering her oversize pink T-shirt she’d worn to bed and laughed. “Wendi, he’s got bandages over his eyes. He can’t see me.”

      “Oh.” Logan’s daughter dropped her overnight case onto the floor. “Then I guess it’s okay. I’m going to check on him. I’ll be right back.”

      She shot off down the hall and Melissa went back into the kitchen. The girl returned in about five minutes.

      Melissa looked up from the oranges she was squeezing and smiled. “I’m making French toast and bacon for breakfast. Do you want some?”

      “Yeah.” Wendi walked into the kitchen. “I didn’t feel like eating any dinner. Wow, you can really cook.”

      “Most people can. Why are you surprised?”

      She shrugged. “My dad barbecues about once a year and we usually have to call the fire department. Mrs. Dupuis does all our cooking. She’s the housekeeper.”

      Melissa peeled off three more strips of bacon. “Where is she now?”

      Wendi sat on the stool in the corner and started braiding her long hair. “France. She’s got a ton of relatives. I went with her last year, but this summer Dad’s sending me to some dumb day camp. Don’t you think I’m way too mature for camp?”

      Melissa glanced at the preteen; the path of the tears was clearly defined on her face. Despite her height and air of sophistication, she looked like a scared little girl. “Sounds like fun to me. Do you go every day?”

      “Nah. Three days a week. It’s computers and math and stuff. Dad wants me to be an architect or an engineer.”

      “And what do you want to be?”

      Wendi shrugged. “Maybe a model, or an astronaut. I haven’t decided. Wanna see my room?”

      The swift shift in conversation caused Melissa to stop squeezing the juice. If Wendi wanted to be friends, who was she to argue? “Ah, sure. I haven’t started cooking yet.”

      Melissa followed the girl out of the kitchen. She hadn’t had a chance to explore the rest of the house. Logan’s room was to the right of the living room. Wendi moved toward a door on the left side of the kitchen. They passed through the formal dining room, complete with a built-in hutch and buffet and a pair of French doors that looked out onto the patio and pool. A vague sense of unease began to nibble at her confidence. Melissa tugged on the belt of her robe. She suddenly felt dowdy and underdressed.

      Wendi pointed down the short hall. “That’s Mrs. Dupuis’s room. Normally she keeps an eye on me, but this summer I get to play my music really loud.”

      Her grin eased Melissa’s feeling of apprehension. But when Wendi pushed open her bedroom door, the knot returned to Melissa’s stomach.

      She had a vague impression of delicate furniture and lace draperies, but her attention was caught by a stunning portrait hanging on the opposite wall. The woman in the painting was young, not quite thirty, and dressed in a formfitting gown. Dark hair fell in a smooth line of satin all the way to the middle of her back. Wide almond-shaped eyes, the exact color of the emeralds clinging to her neck, seemed to stare into Melissa’s soul and find her wanting. The high cheekbones and haughty curve of her mouth were familiar…and incredibly beautiful.

      “What a lovely picture,” Melissa said. “But I can’t help thinking I’ve seen her before. Who is she?”

      “She’s the spokesperson for Fire perfume and the star of the daytime soap, The Proud and the Powerful.” The pride in her voice was evident.

      “I don’t watch much TV, but I’m sure I’ve caught her a few times.” She moved closer. There was something about the eyes that…

      Wendi began to giggle. “Didn’t Dad tell you?”

      Melissa swallowed, guessing what the girl was going to say. “No.”

      “Fiona Phillips is my mom.”