The Third Twin - Ken Follett [123]
The shower made her feel better. As she was toweling her hair, the phone rang. She picked up the bedside extension. “Yeah.”
“Jeannie, it’s Patty.”
“Hi, sis, what’s happening?”
“Daddy showed up.”
Jeannie sat on the bed. “How is he?”
“Broke, but healthy.”
“He came to me first,” Jeannie said. “He arrived on Monday. Tuesday he got a little ticked off because I didn’t cook him dinner. Wednesday he took off, with my computer and my TV and my stereo. He must have already spent or gambled whatever he got for them.”
Patty gasped. “Oh, Jeannie, that’s awful!”
“Ain’t it just. So lock up your valuables.”
“To steal from his own family! Oh, God, if Zip finds out he’ll throw him out.”
“Patty, I have even worse problems, I may be fired from my job today.”
“Jeannie, why?”
“I don’t have time to explain now, but I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.”
“Have you talked to Mom?”
“Every day.”
“Oh, good, that makes me feel better. I talked to her once, then the next time I called she was at lunch.”
“The people who answer the phone are really unhelpful. We have to get Mom out of there soon.”
She’ll be there a lot longer if I get fired today. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Good luck!”
Jeannie hung up. She noticed there was a steaming mug of coffee on the bedside table. She shook her head in amazement. It was only a cup of coffee, but what astonished her was the way Steve knew what she needed. It seemed to come naturally to him to be supportive. And he didn’t want anything in return. In her experience, on the rare occasions when a man put a woman’s needs ahead of his own, he expected her to act like a geisha for a month in gratitude.
Steve was different. If I’d known men came in this version, I would have ordered one years ago.
She had done everything alone, all her adult life. Her father had never been around to support her. Mom had always been strong, but in the end her strength had become almost as much a problem as Daddy’s weakness. Mom had plans for Jeannie, and she was not willing to give them up. She wanted Jeannie to be a hairdresser. She had even got Jeannie a job, two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, washing hair and sweeping the floor at the Salon Alexis in Adams-Morgan. Jeannie’s desire to be a scientist was utterly incomprehensible to her. “You could be a qualified stylist before the other girls have graduated college!” Mom had said. She never understood why Jeannie threw a tantrum and refused even to take a look at the salon.
She was not alone today. She had Steve to support her. It did not matter to her that he was not qualified—a hotshot Washington lawyer was not necessarily the best choice to impress five professors. The important thing was that he would be there.
She put on her bathrobe and called to him. “You want the shower?”
“Sure.” He came into the bedroom. “I wish I had a clean shirt.”
“I don’t have a man’s shirt—wait a minute, I do.” She had remembered the white-Ralph Lauren button-down Lisa had borrowed after the fire. It belonged to someone in the math department. Jeannie had sent it to the laundry and now it was in the closet, wrapped in cellophane. She gave it to Steve.
“My size, seventeen thirty-six,” he said. “Perfect.”
“Don’t ask me where it came from, it’s a long story,” she said. “I think I have a tie here somewhere, too.” She opened a drawer and took out a blue silk spotted tie she sometimes wore with a white blouse, for a snappy mannish look. “Here.”
“Thanks.” He went into the tiny bathroom.
She felt a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to seeing him take off his shirt. Men, she thought; the creeps expose themselves