A Creed in Stone Creek - Linda Lael Miller [44]
“I could advance you a few dollars,” Melissa said.
Nathan and Byron responded simultaneously.
“Awesome,” Nathan drawled, his tone oily, like his mouse-brown hair and his filthy T-shirt and jeans.
“I wouldn’t feel right taking money,” said Byron, with a decisive shake of his head. “Not when I haven’t finished the job.”
Had this kid changed in jail, Melissa wondered, or had she misjudged him, way back when? There had never been any question of his guilt, that was true, but maybe Velda had been right.
Maybe she should have tried for mandatory treatment in a drug and alcohol facility instead of time behind bars…. No. She had considered every angle, consulted experts, lain awake nights. She’d done what she thought was right and there was no use second-guessing the decision now.
She turned her thoughts to her supper guests—Steven and Matt Creed. Nathan dropped off her radar, a nonentity.
And she immediately felt better.
The containers of frozen food, now beginning to thaw, stung like dry ice through the front of Melissa’s top and she still wanted to tidy up the house a little, choose an outfit—nothing too come-hither—do something with her hair, and put on some makeup. A touch of mascara, some lip gloss, that was all.
Maybe a little perfume.
The message she wanted to send was, Welcome to Stone Creek, not, Hey, big guy, what do you say we hire a sitter, slip out of here, and go find ourselves a place to get it on?
She blushed, because the second version wasn’t without a certain appeal, then realized she hadn’t responded to Byron’s last statement. “Okay, then,” she told him, ignoring Nathan, tugging open the screen door with a quick motion of one hand and holding it open with her hip. “See you tomorrow.”
Byron nodded and went back to snipping branches off the maple tree.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BY 5:59 P.M., MELISSA WAS ready to serve supper—the game hens, warming in the seldom-used oven, filled her small, bright kitchen with their savory aroma. The cobbler, already thawed and heated through, sat cooling on the counter nearest the stove, covered by a clean dishtowel. The antique table, which too often served as a catchall for newspapers and junk mail, looked like something straight off the cover of Country Living magazine.
Melissa took a moment to admire the crisp white tablecloth, the green-tinted glass jar in the center, spilling over with perfect white peonies from the bushes on either side of the front steps. The plates, purchased on impulse in, of all places, an airport gift shop, were decorated with checks and flowers and polka dots.
She tilted her head to one side, considering the look. Fussy, yes. Feminine, definitely. Cheerful, to the max.
But was it too fussy, feminine and cheerful?
After all, this wasn’t a reunion of her high school cheerleading squad; she was entertaining a little boy and a grown man.
And what a man. There should have been a law.
Melissa chewed briefly on one fingernail, fretting. With the exception of the flowers in the jar, none of this was at all like her—the fancy dishes had been gathering dust in the cupboard above the refrigerator for a couple of years, she hadn’t cooked the food and she had exactly one tablecloth to her name—this one. It didn’t even have any sentimental value, that tablecloth—it hadn’t been passed down through generations of O’Ballivans, like the various linens Ashley and Olivia so prized. No, Melissa had bought it on clearance at a discount store, just in case she might need it someday—her share of the heirlooms were stored in a chest, out on the ranch. Did she have time to drive out there and grab some?
Deep breath, she instructed herself silently.
Just as she drew in air, a rap sounded at the front door. They’re here.
No time to tone down—or tone up—the decorations now, obviously.
Melissa, feeling especially womanly in her summery dress, a multicolored Southwestern print with touches of turquoise and magenta, gold and black, went to greet her company.
Matt stood on the porch with his nose pressed