Her Unlikely Family. Missy Tippens

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      Besides, Lisa’s generous hugs were a lifetime ago, and so much had changed.

      “What can I getcha?”

      Rings adorned almost every finger—and the thumb—of a hand holding a stubby pencil poised over a pad of paper. Silver charms and beaded bracelets jangled on the woman’s wrist. His gaze moved beyond multiple necklaces and gaudy dangling earrings to her face. A pretty face, once you got past the loud jewelry.

      The petite waitress had what appeared to be pinkish-colored hair. Or was the light giving it that strange cast? He narrowed his eyes, studying the shade.

      She popped her gum, then forced a smile, looking anything but friendly. “Did you want to order?”

      “Bottled water, please.”

      “No bottles. Just tap.”

      He needed to order something. Anything. The latest report from the private investigator led right to this greasy spoon.

      “You know, we scored a hundred percent on our last inspection.” She pointed her pencil at a certificate on the wall by the door.

      Though he was perfectly within his rights as a customer to worry about such things, his face heated. He hadn’t meant to offend with his hesitancy. “Fine. I’ll have a glass of ice water with lemon. And…” He flipped open a menu and ordered the first item that caught his attention. “A grilled chicken sandwich with lettuce and tomato.”

      “Fries with that?”

      “No, thank you.”

      She grinned. “Where’re you from?” Then she snapped her gum again.

      If she would stop that annoying chewing, she’d have a nice mouth.

      Her brown eyes sparked, as if she could read his mind.

      “I’m from Charleston,” he finally answered.

      “So you’re in Gatlinburg on vacation?”

      He nailed her with his oft-used intimidating expression, the one that cowed most people. “Actually, I’m looking for my niece. Lisa Throckmorton.” He showed her the picture. “Have you seen her?”

      “I can’t really say.” She didn’t flinch. The woman was either good at hedging, or she was telling the truth. And she obviously wasn’t easily intimidated.

      “This photo is two years old,” he said. “She threatened to dye her hair green the last time I talked to her. I have no idea whether or not she followed through.”

      “So what did you tell her?”

      “Pardon me?”

      “When she threatened about her hair. What did you say?”

      He ran his hand through his own hair, determined to get the waitress back on track. “Never mind that. She’s a runaway.”

      “Oh, that’s too bad.”

      He scooted the picture across the table. “She’s been missing nearly two weeks, but we think she may be close by. I plan to find her and take her home.”

      “Take her home, huh? How old is she?”

      “Sixteen.”

      The waitress’s eyes filled with suspicion. “Not quite old enough to be off on her own. Why’d she run away?”

      If he didn’t know better, he would think her tone held accusation that he was a poor guardian. But she wouldn’t have any idea he was raising his sister’s daughter.

      “It’s really none of your business,” he said. “She has a family who loves her and wants her back.”

      “So you won’t answer my question, huh?”

      The impertinent waitress had just about frayed his last nerve. Not what he needed while wasting precious time. He glanced at his watch, thinking for a split second of the weekly loan committee meeting he was missing. “No, I won’t answer it.”

      The woman’s gaze bore into his as if she were trying to decipher his thoughts. The air between them crackled with unspoken censure, and for a moment he feared she could see through to his worry that he was failing his sister yet again, even now, after her death.

      He shook off the crazy, morbid thought. “So, have you seen my niece?”

      “She may have passed through.” She stuck the pencil behind her ear. “Gotta put your order in.”

      She walked to the end of the counter, leaned across it and yelled, “Grilled chick, dressed,” to the man with the shiny forehead and five-o’clock shadow. The sweaty cook acknowledged the order with a jerk of his head and then eyed the waitress; some kind of message seemed to pass between them.

      Michael sat back in the booth, crossed his arms and settled in. He wasn’t going anywhere until he found out if the message had anything to do with Lisa. She wasn’t going to spend one more night alone on the streets. He would find her, even if it meant having to eat another meal in this dive.

      

      After Josie delivered Michael’s water, she made a bee-line to the kitchen.

      Lisa stood beside the door, chewing on her fingernail. “What did he say?”

      “He’s searching for one Lisa Throckmorton, sixteen-year-old runaway.” She arched her brow at the supposed recently turned eighteen-year-old. “You showed me a fake driver’s license.”

      “I’m sorry. I was afraid you’d send me back if you knew.”

      “You’re right about that. I could probably go to jail for harboring a minor.”

      Lisa squinched up her nose. “You didn’t tell, did you?”

      “No. But I was tempted. You’d better not lie to me again.”

      “I won’t. I promise.” She held her fingers up in a Girl Scout promise. “Did he leave yet?”

      “No. He ordered a sandwich.”

      “Great. Now I’m stuck here. I was invited to a gallery opening tonight up at the craft school.”

      “This is serious, Lisa. I really should tell him you’re here. He must be worried sick.”

      “Please, please, pleeease don’t. I guarantee you he’s not worried. He’d rather be off counting his money right now.”

      Josie spun her Mickey Mouse watch around—7:00 p.m. “I want you to tell me the truth about your uncle. He didn’t seem like the monster you’ve painted him to be. He came all the way from Charleston looking for you, after all.”

      “I told you before. He doesn’t want me. He shipped me off to boarding school a year ago, only a week after my mom died.”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ