Almost Perfect (5 page)

Window washing wasn't enough. She'd have Gene
scrubbing floors—with his nose—for getting them both into this.

“Hug your mommy, and we'll be off, sugar,” Maya called from the driveway.

Sitting cross-legged on the porch, Cleo opened her arms to hug her seven-year-old son. Weekends simply weren't long enough. For Matty's sake, she was getting better at hiding her tears with each of these departures. One of these days, she might even figure out how to hide them and still be as sloppy sentimental as her sister. Then she could whisper foolish love words in Matty's ear as he slobbered sloppy kisses across her cheek.

Probably not, though. Squeezing the boy tight, she kissed his forehead, then set him away from her as she always did. She despised tears and sentimentality. They were a weakness she couldn't afford. Matty had enough problems without learning of her weaknesses. He needed to be happy and comfortable going off with his aunt.

“Iggy really liked that lettuce you brought him, so grow some more, okay?” She brushed the hair out of his eyes and smiled at his earnest expression. Matty loved taking care of animals, and he was good at it. Maya had taught her to encourage him in the things he excelled at instead of dwelling on the things he couldn't do well— like reading and writing. She supposed his father must
have had dyslexia as well, and maybe if someone had taken the time to teach her late ex-husband, the bastard wouldn't be dead right now. But that was an old story beyond her control. Matty was the important part.

“I'll draw a picture of Petey, too,” her son declared stoutly.

Matty wasn't quite so good at drawing, especially peacocks, but Cleo grinned in appreciation of his offer. “You do that, kiddo. Now hurry and get in the car before Alexa crawls out of her seat.”

She bit her lip as Matty ran to entertain his baby cousin, then finally faced her sister, who stood waiting for her turn.

“Come December, he'll be all yours again,” Maya reminded her, as she always did.

“I don't want anything less than the best for Matty, and you're the best.” Cleo had been over this a dozen times a day and always reached the same conclusion. She could have had Matty placed closer to home, but she wanted him where he was happy, even if the distance made
her
miserable. If she kept her head on straight, she could suffer a few more months for his sake.

Maya looked skeptical, but Maya never argued. “What happened to the new tenant you told me about? Is he really the guy who does
Scapegrace
?”

“Says he is. As long as he's paying the bills, I'll take his word for it.” Cleo read the look of interest on her sister's face, but she sure as hell wasn't supplying her with more ammunition. Now that she was happily married and settled, Maya meddled.

“I read about him. The article said he's a real playboy. What's a playboy doing out here?”

Cleo shrugged. “Working on some project, if you can call drawing cartoons working.”

“Those animated things he does for TV have to be
work, but they're a bit too childishly snide for me. I bet he was a sociopathic teenager.” Maya gathered up Matty's collection of backpacks and sneakers. “Maybe you could introduce us next time I'm down.”

Cleo couldn't picture the happy-go-lucky idiot currently occupying her beach house as a sociopathic anything, but Maya's assessments tended to be right on when it came to people. She hadn't even realized he worked in TV. If she had time to be suspicious … She didn't. She stood and helped with the assortment of kid litter. “Bring Axell and the kids, have a cookout, and introduce yourselves.”

“That sounds like a great idea.” Blithely ignoring the sarcasm behind Cleo's suggestion, Maya heaved the baggage into the back of the SUV. “Now that Axell has a manager who's on top of things, we can get about more. If you don't mind all the kids invading your territory …”

Cleo threw in Matty's jacket, hamster cage, and bag of books. Maya knew every one of Cleo's buttons, but she never pressed them. She just discreetly buzzed around them. “The kids are fine. Bring sleeping bags and they can camp in Matty's room. I just don't think Axell will appreciate roughing it.”

“It'll be good for him, and he'd love to meet Jared McCloud. Call and give us a date.”

With a blizzard of last-minute admonitions, questions, and reminders, Maya had the car loaded, the children settled, and the engine running. Cleo hated to see them go and wished her sister would just get on with it, before the tears stinging her eyes started to leak.

“I love you, sis!” Maya called out the window as she eased the car down the drive.

Cleo waved and smiled until she thought her face would crack. It was nice that her otherworldly sister had found happiness and love and the good life. Cleo
didn't think she possessed what it took to even define happiness.

As the car disappeared past the pines, she swiped at an errant trace of moisture on her cheek, kicked a clamshell, and wandered in the direction of the brush on the other side of the drive. Matty's tiny menagerie had grown to a regular zoo with Gene's aid. Feeding and watering the critters would give her time to pull herself together. Then she'd check the freezer to see what she could defrost for dinner. She hated eating alone, without Matty's cheerful chatter.

“Hey, Cleo,” Gene greeted her as she pushed through the shrubbery. “I've got 'em fed. What did Matty think of the baby bird?”

“You could have asked him yourself.” Cleo checked the water in the bird's box and fed it a mealworm. Gene tended to disappear when Matty was home, but she figured thirteen-year-olds and seven-year-olds didn't mix.

“He's just a kid.” Gene shrugged it off. “That new guy sure is building a palace down there, ain't he? Reckon he's rich?”

“Reckon he's got more money than brains anyway.” She didn't want to talk about Jared. She'd rather pretend her tenant didn't exist than admit she was curious about what he was doing. He'd had a phone installed before he'd bought a Jeep, and all she ever heard of him was from the end of the telephone wire.

“I'm gonna be rich someday,” Gene declared. “I'm gonna have me a fancy car and house.”

“You gonna let me come visit?” Sitting on a rotten log, Cleo fed Matty's pet iguana while Petey the Peacock screamed a complaint behind her. She'd never been much of a dreamer, but she could remember her fierce determination to escape the horrors of her life at Gene's age. She knew where he was coming from and all the pitfalls
ahead. She wouldn't tell him how difficult it was to climb out of the hole. She didn't think Gene had a respectable grandfather who would pop off and leave him old buildings as hers had—for what little good the man had done her growing up.

“Sure,” he said confidently. “You and Matty can come live with me, if you want.”

“And how are you planning on earning these riches?” At least they didn't live in a slum, or his first choice would probably be dealing drugs, given his mother's predilections. She shouldn't be so cynical. Linda had been doing well lately. She'd held on to her typist's job for almost six months this time.

“I'm gonna be a wrestler,” Gene said with satisfaction. “I don't have to be tall to be a wrestler.”

It would probably help, but she wouldn't burst his bubble. “Then you'd better go to school more often and learn how to invest all that money you'll be making. You don't want them thinking you're a dumb jock.”

“I'll hire people,” he declared airily. “That's what Jared does, I bet. I don't see him studying no books.”

“You've met Jared?”

“Nah, I just watched him. He's on the phone or the 'puter all the time. I didn't see him moving in no books, no way.”

“That's spying. You ought to go down and introduce yourself. That's the neighborly thing to do.”

He gave her that teenager-to-adult look of incredulity. “Right, like he's got time for
me
,” he scoffed. “Maybe he'd want me to shine his shoes.”

“Boots,” she corrected. “He was wearing cowboy boots last time I saw him.” She wouldn't correct Gene's cynicism any more than she'd burst his fantasies. The kid could very well be right. Neither white nor black, Gene inhabited none of the local racial microcosms. Mother a
crack addict, father AWOL, he and his sister lived in a run-down house his mother had inherited, usurped, or stolen from some relative. Some people wouldn't trust him to shine their shoes.

“Cowboy boots!” He rolled his eyes and fed the iguana a lettuce leaf. “Man, all that money, and he's a redneck.”

“Don't think so. Sounded Yankee to me. Go on down and say hi sometime when he's not working. Can't hurt.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I can get his autograph. Kids at school would get all bent if they knew I got his autograph.”

Cleo wished she had the power to help him with the kids at school, but it was all she could manage to help herself. Maybe she'd go talk to his mother. Again.

“Forty-nine, fifty.” Jared dropped to the floor and contemplated another round of push-ups, but the laptop under his desk shot baleful explosions from its screen protector. He figured he'd either have to move the laptop or attempt something productive. He wanted that screen credit and all the success it represented, but the idea of dealing with those Hollywood production committees freaked him out after the TV ordeal. The moguls were already making suggestions that had nothing to do with his characters.

His family would tell him to grow up. It would have been more useful if they'd shown him how. With a professor father who lived inside his books and a socialite mother bent on reforming the world to her taste, he didn't have much of a clue.

Figuring the hammers pounding on the floor above didn't help his thought processes, Jared switched off the laptop. Maybe he could get some business done if he couldn't do anything creative. Vaulting to his feet, he grabbed the cordless and jogged from the house, out to the sand dune and the limit of his phone reception. He'd
already discovered his cellular was next to useless on the island.

The sand slipped and slid beneath his sandals as he climbed upward. Maybe his agent could get another extension on the contract. He'd never get the script done on time, and he could no longer give the movie people their option money back as he'd threatened before. The insurance company was giving him grief about the damned Jag.

Besides, his family would rail him out of town if he gave up. Bad enough that he was a useless cartoonist whose last TV show had flopped. To give up on a lucrative film career would brand him forever as a loser, even if he had enough to live on for life.

He just needed to get his head past that last failure. He'd never failed in his life, and he damned well didn't want it happening again. He had to come up with the perfect script, the perfect characters, ones that would stand up to the test of time and audience.

Broom-riding witches and laughing skeletons were cute, but they didn't have muscle. He needed depth, layers the audience could sink their teeth into.

Why in hell did he think he could do layers? He wasn't Dostoevsky. He was a
cartoonist
. He thrived on shallow, as his siblings lost no chance in pointing out.

The phone rang, relieving him of that particular introspective agony. Life was too short to waste worrying. Hitting the “talk” button, he grimaced at his brother's announcement on the other end that he intended to drop in for a visit.

“Look, Tim, the house is a wreck,” Jared protested. “Take the Miami place if you're looking for a cheap vacation.” He rolled his eyes at Tim's response, then let his gaze rest on the peaceful lap of surf below. “I did Mom's charity bachelor auction last year. It's your turn. You
know what kind of women will pay to date cartoonists? Crazy ones. But if you're going to shirk your responsibility, take Miami.”

He knew better than to bother arguing with Tim. His brothers always walked all over him, but Tim had a way of doing it that made it seem Jared's fault for lying down in front of him in the first place. Hell, maybe it was.

“You'll be sorry,” he warned. “They've driven me out of the house with the hammering. I'll make certain they bring in a buzz saw before you arrive.”

As he hit the “off ” button, Jared grinned at the thought of studious, socially handicapped Tim driving through the maze of witches and warning signs. Maybe he could persuade his landlady to rig a skeleton at the beach house door.

The thought of his entertaining landlady sent him sliding back down the dune. As long as he wasn't getting any work done, he might as well shake the envelope a little. Miss Cleo hadn't bothered to check the progress of the repairs or to offer a neighborly hello. He'd particularly hoped she'd resort to that charming feminine custom of stopping by with a pie or cake to welcome him to the neighborhood.

Well, he didn't write comedy without reason.

Maybe she'd rigged up something new and even more entertaining just for him. He didn't like being ignored. He wasn't used to it.

Okay, take that back. If he was truly honest with himself, he grew up used to being ignored, and somewhere along the line had decided he wouldn't put up with it. As a teenager, he'd been damned obnoxious in his pursuit of attention. He'd learned a little finesse since then.