"It smells good in here. What'd you have for supper?"
"A crock pot of beef stew and some homemade bread. We had Marge up for supper."
"Who's Marge?"
"The elderly woman you also threw out of work today. You're on a roll."
"It's my favorite hobby," he sarcastically replied, "throwing people out of work."
"I can tell that about you. Are you as horrid as your brother, Lucas? Do you both have an obnoxious streak woven through your DNA? If I met him, would I hate him as much as I hate you?"
"You don't hate me."
"Wanna bet?"
The main room of the apartment was a combination kitchen-living area. He wandered to the refrigerator and opened it. There wasn't much inside: a carton of milk, some juice, some yogurt. Were they starving on top of all her other problems?
"You don't have much food," he said.
"I go grocery shopping on Friday after I get my paycheck. That's in two days. Come over then. Maybe I'll have enough to share with you. But don't come the following week. I'm pretty sure I'll be broke, and we'll have a bit less."
"You know, I feel like crap over what happened. Why don't you just stab me so you can twist the knife?"
"The knives are there on the counter. Hand me one and I'll be happy to grant you your wish."
"I'm hungry."
He pulled out a plastic container that looked as if it contained the leftovers. As he removed the lid, she huffed over and yanked it away from him.
"Sit down," she ordered, "and leave my things alone."
He shrugged out of his jacket and seated himself at the kitchen table. Apparently, her sisters had been doing homework before they went to bed. The table was scattered with notebooks and crayons. He scooped them up and set them aside, while she banged around, grabbing a pan, turning on the burner.
They dawdled in a strained silence as she laid out dishes and silverware, bread and butter, as she stirred the stew. Her back was to him, so he had a lengthy interval to study her great ass.
When he found himself speculating on how he'd like to clasp hold and press himself against it, he was positive he'd lost his mind.
"Amy?" A little girl spoke from across the room.
They both spun to stare. A petite Amy-replica was peeking out from behind a curtain. It was a doorway to a bedroom, but there wasn't a door. Just a flowered sheet.
"Did we wake you up?" Amy asked.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry we were so loud."
The girl frowned at Dustin. "Who's that?"
"It's Mr. Merriweather."
"Don't we hate him?"
"Yes, we hate him."
Dustin winced. In this household, where even the children loathed him, he'd reached a new low.
"Why is he here?" the girl asked.
"I don't have any idea. He's having a snack, then he's leaving." She hurried over to her sister. "Let's get you back to bed."
She disappeared for a few minutes, and when she returned, she ignored him and headed straight for the stove. The stew was ready, and she dumped it into his bowl, buttered some slices of bread—as if he was an invalid and couldn't do it himself—then she sat across from him.
She watched him eat, but didn't speak, and it occurred to him that he was enjoying himself very much. He'd never had anybody cook for him. Not when he was growing up and farmed out to various boarding schools. Not on the rare occasions he'd been allowed to come home and heaven forbid that his mother, Jacquelyn, engage in domestic chores.
As an adult, he could have afforded to hire a chef, but it was silly to bother when he was the only one to be fed. In his sterile, solitary world in LA, he dined out all the time, so sitting at a kitchen table and diving into a delicious, home-cooked meal was a novel and welcome experience.
He envied her her simple, satisfying life. She was poor, but she seemed to be richer than he was in many, many ways.
He finished, shoved the bowl away and leaned back.
"Have you had enough?" she asked, meaning the food.
He didn't think he'd ever have
enough
of her. She humored and frustrated him in equal measure, and when he was constantly ground down by tedium, she was a refreshing change.
"Yes, I'm stuffed."
"Then you can go. I'm sure the beautiful and glamorous Chantal must be wondering where you are."
He grinned. "You're jealous."
"Oh please." She drew out the word
please
to about eight syllables as she picked up his dirty dishes and tossed them in the sink. She sat again. "What do you see in a woman like her?"
"Like you said: She's beautiful and glamorous."
"Is that all that matters to you?"
He shrugged. "I'm a man. Why would I need more than that?"
"If I'm lucky, you'll end up married to her and she'll make you miserable forever."
"I feel like you've put a curse on me."
"I certainly hope so."
"What about you and Chad?" He was amused by her furious scowl.
"What about us?"
"I had dinner with him and your sister, Pamela. She tells me you dated him."
"Only four times—and I wouldn't necessarily place much credence in any of Pamela's stories. She's prone to exaggeration."
"But
Chad
." He shuddered with mock horror. "That seems a tad extreme even by your weird standards."
"There aren't a lot of choices in Gold Creek."
"So you chose Chad?"
"He and you are the only two single men who've stumbled into town in the past year. Other than you guys, there's Bobby down at the gas station, but he quit school after the eighth grade. I've set my sights a littler higher."
He chuckled and scooted back his chair. He patted his thigh.
"Come here," he told her.
"Where? Onto your lap?"
"Yes."
An expression of revulsion crossed her face that was so hilarious he laughed and laughed.
"Would you be quiet?" she snapped. "I don't want to wake Jessica again."
"Come here," he said more softly.
"No."
She went to the window seat and snuggled herself onto the cushion. As if he wasn't present, as if he was invisible, she began assessing her bills.
For a long while, he observed her, intrigued by how the light shone on her hair. He couldn't get over the fact that he couldn't charm her, and the more she resisted, the more intent he was on wearing her down.
"I've decided," he advised her, "to let you and Marge Beasley keep the newspaper open."
"Why?"
"Because I feel bad about your jobs."
"You do not."
"You're correct," he facetiously retorted. "I don't feel bad, at all. I'm thrilled to have hurt you."
"That sounds more plausible."
He snorted with disgust. She was a tough customer. What would it take to earn a bit of forgiveness?
"When I proceeded," he contritely and sincerely said, "I didn't consider the consequences, but I'm considering them now. I don't want you out of work. I don't want you struggling so hard."
"You don't have to be kind to me. It won't make me like you."
"I'm not trying to get you to like me." She scoffed with derision. "Well, maybe a little, but when you start writing for the paper again, could you not harp on my family quite so much?"
"Maybe if your family behaved better, I wouldn't have to complain."
"What are we doing that's so terrible? I'm simply selling some old property."
"No, you're not. You're selling
your
history and
our
community. After you're finished with us, and Chad builds all his remodeled condos, no one will be able to afford to live here anymore."
"I'm not responsible for the whole world, Amy."
"No, but you are responsible for this small corner of it." She gazed at him, her green eyes poignant and solemn. "Don't wreck the town I love, Dustin. Don't sell my home out from under me."
They stared and stared, and he hated that she was so far away. He walked over, grabbed her papers and pitched them on the floor. Then he lifted her, settled himself onto the cushion, and dragged her down so she was stretched out on top of him.
She spit and hissed and wrestled—which he enjoyed immensely—but he kept his arms locked around her so she couldn't escape.
"You're insane," she finally muttered, giving up the fight.
"Hush, or you'll wake your sisters."
"They can't find us together like this."
"Be quiet, and they won't."
She scowled, dropping her body weight so she was nestled to him, her breasts resting on his chest, her hip on his crotch, her cheek at his nape. Her wild curls tickled his nose.
She was soft and sexy and curvaceous, and she smelled like soap and woman. No expensive lotions or perfumes. Just soap and woman, and he inhaled deeply, relishing the simplicity of holding her.
In all of his twenty-eight years, he'd never spent time with a female like her. He chose models or actresses, so he wound up with high-maintenance complainers like Chantal who was never satisfied, who never felt that anything was good enough.
It was exhausting to be around her, but he put up with her because he was pompously full of himself and eager to show the world that she'd pant after him—no matter how he acted. She was so enamored of his money and name that she would never tell him to go screw himself.
But it was gradually dawning on him that he might be selecting his dating companions for all the wrong reasons. When he picked a snotty, driven, egotistical woman, there was never a chance for friendship or tranquility, no chance for peace and quiet. It was all lofty drama, emotional scenes, and fatiguing quarrels—on their end, at least. He refused to bicker with any of them.
How easy it would be to attach himself to someone like Amy. She didn't expect the moon so she was never disappointed when she didn't receive it.
"Why are you and your sister, Pamela, so different?" he asked.
"Do you mean, why is she a lunatic?"
"I guess that's what I mean."
"Because she's not my sister. She's my mother." She sucked in a sharp breath and rose up to look him in the eye. "I can't believe I told you that. It's been our secret for twenty years."
"She's your mother?"
"Yes."
"And she pretends to be your sister? She has you claim she's your sister?"
"Yes, again."
He'd stepped into a minefield. What could possibly be an appropriate reply?
"That's…too weird."
"You're much too polite in your assessment of the situation."
"No wonder you're so messed up."
His comment earned him a jab in the ribs as she collapsed down on his chest.
"I'm not the one who's crazy," she insisted.
"No, of course not."
"She's absolutely insane. I try to avoid getting sucked into her asylum."
He glanced over at the curtain that walled off her sisters' bedroom. "Is she their mother, too?"
"Yes."
"Over supper, I distinctly heard her mention that she's thirty. Why would she say she's thirty if she's not?"
He didn't have to ask. He lived in LA; he knew why women lied about their age.
"She likes to hook up with guys like you who are vain and fickle, and forty-two is too old."
"You're not comparing me to Chad, are you?"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
A thousand questions flooded his mind—what had happened to Pamela that shoved her down this road, why did Amy have custody of her sisters, why would she participate in Pamela's charade—but she didn't seem inclined to discuss her family, and Dustin couldn't blame her. He never discussed his, either.
They were silent again, and she was so still that he assumed she'd fallen asleep, when she said, "Pam grew up in Nebraska, but she felt as if she was dropped in the wrong spot. She was in foster care and never had a clue of who her parents were. But she had these plans to be an actress or a model. She ran away as fast as she could."
"How did she get away?"
"This creep came through town when she was fifteen, but he abandoned her when he found out she was pregnant with me."
"Ooh, that's low," he murmured.
"She was stranded in Gold Creek when I was three. She was antsy, so she asked Marge Beasley to babysit for a few hours, but actually, she hitchhiked to Vegas."
"She left you here?"
"Yes, but it was better for me after she split. She wasn't much of a mother, and Marge was great. Pamela sent money when she could, so we were okay."
"Did Pamela give you the twins to raise? Or did you take them from her?"
"A little of both, which was for the best, don't you think? I was only sixteen when she brought them to me. Marge kept them—she wasn't about to let Pamela have them—and we just stumbled along." She lifted up to look at him again. "Until you shut down the place where we worked. Don't you feel like a royal jerk?"