LITMIR.BIZ

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I was preparing dinner, and I panicked.”

      Officer Denny studied her for a long moment. “That’s it?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “I’m certain.”

      Denny refocused on Mead. “Why are you here?”

      “I was walking.”

      “Maybe you should go home, sir.” The cop glanced down at Mead’s wet shoes and jeans. “Do you need me to call for someone to help—uh, escort you?”

      Devan winced and wrapped her arms around her waist. At another time, Mead would have turned the guy into a stuttering fool with a mere look…or sent him off laughing, depending what mood he was in. Now all she heard behind her was the sound of footsteps, splashing water and more footsteps. It was all she could do not to go after him and apologize for her part in causing him this humiliation.

      “Mrs. Anderson?”

      Accepting she had to play out what she’d started, Devan nodded and led the way back to her house. To her chagrin, at the alley, Officer Denny bent to pick up the Barbie doll Blakeley had dropped. Devan accepted it with shaking hands; she hadn’t seen it when charging into the woods. It was the one Blakeley had received for Christmas.

      Clearing her throat, she asked, “What happens now? You won’t press charges, will you?”

      “It’s not up to me, but as you said, it was a misunderstanding.”

      “Your report, though…these things get out onto the radio and into the newspaper.” As she regained her composure, she was thinking of the repercussions that could occur from this—for him as well as her.

      “Nothing happened to where names need be used, ma’am.”

      Devan could see he was thinking, too, concerned about Pamela Regan’s attorney breathing down the neck of the department for declaring her military hero son a public nuisance.

      “Thank you for your timely response and sensitivity, Officer.”

      “You take care, ma’am. Keep your little girl in sight.”

      Devan all but gritted her teeth. “I will.”

      Officer Denny motioned to another cop in the kitchen doorway. Belatedly, Devan recognized petite Sarah White with her spontaneous smile. Sarah’s reputation with kids prompted her to wave, albeit wearily. As the two cops left, Blakeley came running and Devan scooped up the only child she expected to ever have to hug her close.

      “I’m sorry, Mommy. “

      “I know. It’s over.”

      “The man was scary.”

      It was hard not to defend him. “He’s been sick, sweetheart.”

      “Like flu sick or worst?”

      “Worse. And I can’t answer that question because Mommy isn’t a doctor. In any case, you’re the one who needs to do some explaining, young lady. What were you doing going out of the yard without telling me?”

      “I heard a kitty.”

      This wasn’t a reassuring answer whether it was the truth or not. “Blakeley, you’re allergic to cats. If anything, you should run in the opposite direction of a mewing kitten.”

      “But she was an orphan and in trouble.”

      Although “orphan” was a new word in her daughter’s vocabulary, and “trouble” sounded adorable as “twubble,” Devan studied her for a third reason, wondering if Blakeley had inherited another undesirable gene of hers. The one that could shift one’s fantasy world and imagination into overdrive, and fabricate stories way too well? Terrific if you were a writer. Potentially problematic when you were trying to teach your preschooler to always tell you the truth.

      “We are going to talk. In the meantime, you don’t do anything like this again, understood?”

      Blakeley hugged her tighter and added a kiss on her cheek. “I love you.”

      Devan’s heart swelled. “I love you, too, but you’re still going to bed tonight without TV.”

      The child dropped her head limply onto her shoulder. “I figgered as much.”

      Pressing her lips together so as not to smile, Devan replied, “Can you figger it’s past time to wash up? Dinner will be ready in a minute…what hasn’t turned into bedrock.”

      “What’s bedrock?”

      Setting her on her feet, Devan pointed her toward the house. “Get going before I haul you into court and change your name to Jabberwocky.”

      Giggling, Blakeley ran inside and straight to the bathroom.

      Devan followed, shutting and locking the back door, preparing herself for Connie. She adored her late husband’s mother and was glad she’d arrived in the nick of time to help, but Mead Regan was the last person she wanted to discuss with her.

      “What happened?” the youthful-looking, sixty-two-year-old asked.

      With her short frosted hair and hopeful gray eyes, she still turned heads whether cheering for Blakeley at her gymnastics class or mowing the lawn in her size four Capri pants. Devan had been blessed to call her “friend” as well as mom-in-law; however, there was no way this friend could ever understand her connection to Mead.

      “Nothing,” she replied, slipping off her jacket. “An embarrassing misunderstanding, that’s all.” Her gaze fell on the loaf pan that Connie had placed on a cooling rack. “Thanks for your timing—and your help.”

      “Don’t mention it, dear. I’m glad I was on schedule. But do you mean you didn’t see anyone out there?”

      “Blakeley ran into Mead Regan,” Devan admitted reluctantly. That much would get around town fast enough; to keep it from her would only make her wonder.

      “He tried to get her?”

      Devan quickly shook her head. “No one threatened Blakeley, Mom. He was just walking and—” she gestured, groping for the most concise explanation possible “—you’ve heard the gossip. He’s still recovering.”

      “Yes, I have heard. Bev Greenbriar says he’s downright spooky and if it wasn’t for the Regan fortune, he would be locked away in a you-know-what.”

      “I’d bet anything that big-mouthed Beverly hasn’t been within a mile of Mead. For the record, he was extremely polite to me.” Devan tried not to think about how she continued to feel his strong hand around her arm. “Let’s look at the positive—Blakeley is fine and she learned a good lesson out of this.”

      “Yes, but—”

      “It’s over.” Devan quickly hung her jacket and rushed to the cabinet where she stocked the aluminum foil. She was grateful Connie had been here to help, but she didn’t want to discuss Mead with her another second. “Let me wrap some of this bread for you, and get you some lasagna. With all of your running for the sale, you’ll be too tired to cook dinner for Dad.”

      Connie glanced at her watch. “Are you sure you have enough to spare? It does smell yummy.”

      “Thanks. No problem. I always make a full batch to portion and freeze anyway.”

      Devan continued her mindless chatting until she escorted Connie out the door and waved her down the street. Then she called to Blakeley, who she could hear had detoured from the bathroom to her bedroom—probably to delay that conversation that was promised.

      As she waited for Blakeley, she glanced out the back door again. It was almost dusk. Had Mead made it back home? Was he all right?

      The questions barely started in her mind before she thrust them away. She wouldn’t let him turn her head again. The first time had cost her too

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