Asking For Trouble. Millie Criswell

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      “I doubt very much if Billy even knows what breast implants are. And you’re not flat-chested, just slower to develop than some girls your age.” He could tell she wasn’t happy or convinced by his explanation, so he added, “In case you haven’t noticed, all the top fashion models are pretty sparse on top. It’s the look these days.”

      “Yeah, it may be the look, but boys still like girls with big boobs.”

      So did men, but Brad wasn’t about to point that out to his impressionable young daughter. “I think you’re going to like the inn where we’ll be staying. It looks very quaint from the postcard.”

      Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she replied, “It’s probably going to smell old and musty, like Grandma Ruth’s house used to.”

      “Grandma was a bit old-fashioned, I guess. But there’s always something to be learned from an older person.”

      “Then how come you’re always telling Gramps how to do stuff? Maybe his way would be better than yours.”

      Before Brad could muster a suitable response about his responsibilities as head of the household, his need to have order and complete control, Stacy had put on her headphones, popped a wad of gum into her mouth and tuned him out, which was probably just as well.

      It would be difficult to explain his need for normalcy and sameness since his wife’s death. He really didn’t understand it himself. He just knew that he needed his routine, his life, to remain uncluttered and uncomplicated.

      Carol’s death had turned his world upside down. He’d never realized, until she was gone, the depth of despair he was capable of, the gut-wrenching emotion, the emptiness inside him. For months after her death, his life had been chaos and confusion. Now that things were almost back to normal he wanted it to stay that way.

      And driving to Pennsylvania in search of his errant father was not what he considered normal, or the way he wanted to spend his free time. And neither was dealing with rude country-inn owners who didn’t return phone calls.

      “I’LL BE IN TOUCH about the loan, Beth. And please thank your aunts for the jam. Mrs. Pickens will be delighted.”

      After the banker disappeared down the front steps, Beth slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief that the inspection was finally over.

      Mr. Pickens’s visit had gone on a lot longer than she’d anticipated. The man had been disgustingly thorough. He’d stuck his head in every oven, freezer and refrigerator, flushed toilets, turned faucets on and off, and she fully expected him to don a pair of white gloves to see if she had dusted the furniture that morning.

      She hadn’t.

      But the worst had come when he’d ventured into the cellar, poking around at every little thing. She’d held her breath, waiting in fear that he would discover the bones and shirt, but fortunately the banker had found nothing amiss.

      The grandfather clock in the foyer gonged four, and Beth knew her aunts would be expecting her to join them shortly for their daily ritual of afternoon tea, and to give them a full accounting of her meeting with the banker.

      She had just turned toward the stairs when a knock sounded at the door. Thinking Mr. Pickens had forgotten something, Beth rushed to answer it.

      Opening the door, she stared at the dark-haired man standing on her porch. He was tall and looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, judging by the crow’s feet appearing at the corner of his eyes. The stranger smiled, and she caught a glimpse of perfect white teeth. The man’s parents had obviously spent a fortune on orthodontics when he was a kid. The money had been well spent. He was very good-looking, but then, he probably knew that. Most handsome men did.

      “Mrs. Randall?”

      “It’s Ms. Randall. Can I help you?” she asked, and it was then she noticed the young girl standing next to him. The dislike in her pretty blue eyes gave Beth pause. Most people waited until after they’d spoken to her before deciding they disliked her.

      “I hope so. I’m Bradley Donovan.”

      She held out her hand. “Welcome to the Two Sisters, Mr. Donovan.” When he clasped her hand, she looked up to find that hundred-watt, hundred-thousand-dollar smile shining down on her and felt its warmth.

      “Actually, it’s Dr. Donovan. I’ve left several messages on your answering machine regarding my father, Robert Donovan. He was a guest here some weeks back and now he’s missing.”

      Beth’s heart began to pound. She remembered Robert Donovan. He’d played cards with her aunts on several occasions. She swallowed. Two gentlemen who’d been in contact with her aunts were now missing? She didn’t like the odds.

      “When I didn’t get a response I decided to come in person to see if you could shed any light as to my father’s whereabouts. My daughter and I are very worried about him.”

      Preoccupied with Mr. Pickens’s visit, Beth hadn’t had time to return his calls. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help, Dr. Donovan. I remember your father, but I have no idea where he’s gone.”

      “I’m not worried about Gramps,” Stacy Donovan blurted. “Just you are, Dad. I figure Gramps has gone off to visit some stupid battlefield. You worry too much. Chill, okay?”

      “I’m sure you’re right,” Beth said, holding out her hand to the girl who responded by smacking her gum loudly, a sound only slightly less irritating than fingernails raking a blackboard. “I’m Beth. And you are?”

      The girl hesitated a moment. “Stacy Donovan. My dad made me come here. I didn’t want to. This place smells really old, like dead people live here or something.”

      The kid had a good nose; she’d give her that.

      “Apologize to Ms. Randall at once, Stacy.”

      “That’s okay. It’s not—”

      “Sorry.” The young girl’s apology lacked conviction.

      “Come in,” Beth said, remembering her manners and leading them into the front parlor. It was a cozy room, decorated in rose-and-green-floral chintz; the walls were painted a warm buttery yellow, with pretty lace curtains hanging at the double-hung windows.

      “Actually, Stacy, this house is really old, over a century old, as a matter of fact. And the smell you’re referring to is probably the incense my aunt is burning upstairs. I’ll speak to her about it. I’m not crazy about the smell, either.”

      Her gaze lifted to the girl’s father, and Beth had the strangest sense of coming home as she stared into Bradley Donovan’s warm, comforting eyes. She shook her head to dispel the notion. “I’m very sorry about not returning your phone calls, Dr. Donovan. I’m not usually so inconsiderate, but I had several pressing business matters to attend to and forgot to check my answering machine.” Not to mention, there’s a pile of buried bones in my basement, which may or may not belong to Lyle McMurtry. And for all I know, your father might be down there, too.

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