Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [59]
“No, it’s perfect. I guess I’m just beat. Hell of a day. By the way, I made myself a stiff drink while you were putting the finishing touches on dinner. I think it took the edge off my appetite. I’m sorry, honey.” Eric had no sooner finished speaking than the doorbell chimed.
Suddenly he was off his chair and running to the front door. His gorge rose. He fully expected it to be someone coming to tell him that Timberwoods Mall had just blown. He realized that unconsciously he had been listening for a thunderous boom in the distance. But if anything had happened, he would have been notified by phone. Still, he couldn’t help it—the nightmare scenario lingered in his mind. It wasn’t over yet.
Amy stared at her dinner, then attacked it with gusto. After all, she was eating for two. Eric was back in a few minutes, his face blank. “Stay in the kitchen, Amy.”
“Stay in the kitchen? What are you talking about? Hey—” she said, getting up from the chair, her dinner forgotten, “haven’t you heard of the Emancipation Proclamation? What’s in the living room you don’t want me to see?”
“Amy, this is mall business. Now, stay out here in the kitchen. I mean it,” he said firmly.
“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, Eric. I’ve never interfered in your business before, but this time it’s different. There’s something strange going on, and I want to see for myself. This is my house, too, you know.”
“Amy, honey . . .”
“Don’t you ‘Amy honey’ me,” she said, going through the swinging door.
“What—who is she?” she snapped at her husband before she made eye contact with the frightened girl and the officer who had her by one thin, handcuffed wrist. Her tone softened. “You two better tell me right this minute what’s going on. And take off those cuffs,” she demanded. “Right now.”
Amy waddled over to Angela. “Be gentle with her. It’s okay, honey,” she soothed as eight long years of suppressed motherhood rose to the surface. “No one in this house is going to hurt you, and certainly not this big ox I’m married to. I’m Amy Summers. You’d better work faster than that, Mr. Policeman,” she said sharply. “What if you cut off her circulation?”
“She’s fine, Mrs. Summers. I had to do it this way,” the cop said defensively. “She almost escaped.”
The handcuffs removed, Angela massaged her wrists then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. What was she doing here, she wondered as she looked around warily. Why had the cop brought her here?
Don’t ask, she told herself. Keep cool and let them talk. The pregnant lady was glaring at them. Amy Summers seemed genuinely concerned.
“Are you all right, honey?” Amy asked anxiously.
Angela nodded.
“Would you like a soft drink?” Again Angela nodded as she licked her dry lips.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I’m starved.”
“Oh my God,” Amy said, wringing her hands together. “She’s starved. You come with me right now. I’ll fix you some dinner.” She fixed a bright, brown gaze on her husband and said sharply, “Just look at this poor child. How could you? Grown men! They didn’t hurt you, did they?” she asked worriedly.
“No.”
“Come on, Amy, we’ve only had her for half an hour,” Eric muttered.
“Half an hour! Then why is she starved and why is she so filthy?” she hissed. “You’re not telling me everything. Come on, honey, I’m going to feed you and then you’re going to take a nice herbal bath. I grow the herbs myself,” she chatted as she led the docile Angela into the kitchen. “You sit right there and I’ll make you a nice plateful of supper. Do you like roast beef?”
“I love roast beef.”
Within minutes Amy put a heaped plate before the girl. Angela wolfed it down and sat back in her chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers. I think that was the best dinner I ever ate.”
“Why, thank you, honey. Would you like some peach cobbler and a glass of milk?”
Angela nodded. Amy watched her devour the rich cobbler and felt sad. The girl looked so defenseless.
“Everything was delicious, Mrs. Summers. I really enjoyed it. Thanks again.”
“I don’t know why you’re here