Missionary Daddy (9 page)

Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe exchanged glances before sitting side by side in a pair of blue-gray padded guest chairs. Sam chose a chair across from them. Eric dragged Caleb’s computer chair around the desk to sit closer to the couple. As a missionary, he’d always been the hands-on type, believing that proximity denoted personal interest. He not only wanted the Sharpes to feel comfortable but also to believe his sincerity.

“Ed. Janet. Thanks for meeting with us.”

“You said it was about Gina,” Mrs. Sharpe said, her expression tense. “Is something wrong?”

No use beating around the bush. He’d known the Sharpes since first attending Chestnut Grove Community Church a year ago and knew them to be decent, hardworking people. Ed was a diesel mechanic who worked long hours and Janet worked part-time in one of the area museums.

“We think there is. Are you familiar with anorexia?”

“The eating disorder movie stars get?”

“Not just movie stars, Mrs. Sharpe,” Sam said, leaning forward. Her long blond hair tumbled over one shoulder. “Unfortunately, a lot of teenage girls get it, too.”

Ed frowned. “Are you saying Gina has anorexia?”

“We think so. Eric and I have both spent a lot of time with Gina lately. Something is definitely not right. She seldom eats and when she does it’s salad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with salad. It’s good for her. We encourage her to eat lots of vegetables.”

“What my wife means is Gina has always been thin. She’s allergic to a lot of things. Heavy foods upset her stomach, so she’s a picky eater. I’m sure there’s nothing here to worry about.”

Eric could sense Sam’s anxiety rising.

“I have to disagree,” she said. “In my business I’ve encountered plenty of eating disorders and Gina has all the symptoms.”

Janet Sharpe bristled. “At the risk of being argumentative, Miss Harcourt, anorexia may be common in your business, but this is Chestnut Grove. Girls around here have more sense.”

“It’s happening all over America, Janet,” Eric put in. “I don’t know as much about this as Sam does, but I’ve been researching. Most teenage girls diet at some point, but girls with a distorted body image take dieting to the extreme.”

“I understand that, but Gina is an honor student. She’s brilliant. She plays the piano and takes ballet. She has friends and dates a nice boy. She’s active in church and does volunteer work. There is nothing distorted about our daughter.”

“Unfortunately, most girls who develop anorexia are high achievers like Gina. Girls who’ve developed unrealistic expectations.” Girls like Sam, he thought.

“But we’ve tried to give Gina every opportunity. We encourage her to excel because she can, but we’ve never forced her to do anything more,” Ed said. “We’re proud of her grades and her talents.”

“And you have a right to be. But somewhere something went awry and she began to crumble beneath the pressure.”

“We appreciate your concern, Eric, but I’m a good mother. I’d know if my child had a problem.” Janet Sharpe rose and gathered her purse. “We really need to go now. We have company coming this afternoon.”

Her husband rose, too.

Eric’s heart sank. This was not going the way he’d hoped.

Gray eyes worried, Sam stood and laid elegant fingers on Janet’s arm. “I’m sure you’re a great mom, and we’re not trying to offend you. We’re just worried about Gina. She’s a great girl. Please keep an eye on her and let us know if you notice anything at all. Will you do that much?”

The woman’s stiffness eased. “Of course we will. Gina is our whole life. She’s our only child.”

Eric extracted his wallet and took out a business card. “Give me a call if we can help.”

Without hesitation, Ed took the card, then offered his other hand for Eric to shake. “We appreciate your concern, Eric. Thanks, anyway.”

And then the couple departed, leaving Sam and Eric staring at the closed office door.

“That went well,” Eric said lightly.

“Not.” Sam pushed both hands up the back of her head, lifting her hair in a gesture he’d seen her do a dozen times. Though certain the move was a modeling pose, it was so feminine and uncontrived, Eric wished she’d do it again.

“Maybe we approached them the wrong way. They seemed defensive as if we were accusing them of bad parenting.”

“Well, think about it. Maybe they feel insecure because Gina’s adopted.”

“Nothing we can do now except try to talk to Gina again and pray something we say to her or in Sunday school will make a difference.”

“That’s not good enough,” Sam insisted. “She needs help immediately.”

“Any suggestions?”

“None.” In agitation, Sam pressed her fingertips to both temples. “I’m scared for her, Eric.”

“I know you are.” And he admired Sam more every minute. The woman he’d believed to be shallow was deeply compassionate. “How about if we brainstorm ideas over lunch? The Starlight makes terrific Sunday fried chicken.”

“
Fried
chicken?” Sam pretended horror. “You’re trying to cost me my job. I never eat fried
any
thing.”

“Live dangerously. We can always go for a run later.”

He looped an arm over her shoulders, keeping the action as casual as possible.

Regardless of the inner warnings against a personal relationship with Sam, Eric figured they were too late. A week ago, he’d almost kissed her. Maybe he’d get another chance today.

As soon as the idea came, guilt followed. Gina was in serious trouble and all he could think of was kissing Sam.

Disappointed in himself, he let his arm slide from Samantha’s shoulders.

S
am was trapped.

The doorbell rang again for at least the twentieth time, but she didn’t race down the stairs. She knew who it was.

Reporters.

She gazed out the window of her temporary bedroom to the chaotic scene below. A half-dozen media types camped outside the Harcourt mansion waiting for her appearance. She’d opened the door once, but not again. Not after the horrible things they’d said.

The telephone jangled. She didn’t dare answer.

She picked up the
Richmond Gazette
and read the piece again. The paper had received another letter, full of poisonous threats and accusations toward the ongoing investigation at the Tiny Blessings Adoption Agency.

This time, the author specifically mentioned the Harcourt family, spewing veiled accusations, claiming the living Harcourts were as guilty as the dead Barnaby Harcourt. At one point, the writer stated, “The Harcourts, especially Samantha the fancy model, have an inflated sense of self-importance.” The letter writer went on to rehash Ashley’s child born out of wedlock and hinted that Sam must be hiding some indiscretion to have remained in provincial Chestnut Grove for such an extended period of time.

As intended, the words stung. And had set the tabloids on fire with speculation.

Ever since Ross Van Zandt had begun his probe of the records, trouble had followed like hungry hyenas stalking a wounded antelope.

Though she and her family were no longer directly connected with the agency or the investigation, they couldn’t escape the past. After the recent discovery of Ben Cavanaugh’s false adoption papers in her wall, the pressure had mounted. Her grandfather had left behind a terrible legacy of lies, extortion and baby selling.

As a result, any number of people could be uncomfortable with Ross’s investigation, as well as with the stories in the
Gazette
and other less reputable papers. Jared Kierney, an honest reporter who had adopted through Tiny Blessings, was doing his best to show the agency in a positive light. He had also gone out of his way to de-vilify the remaining Harcourt family.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t working. At least not today.

For whatever reason, someone wanted an end to the investigation and news reports. And they weren’t afraid to send scathing letters to both the agency and the newspaper. Letters that fueled a ravenous media.

Yellow journalism prevailed, especially when a spokesmodel and her wealthy family were involved. Even her agent had heard the news and worried Style would pull her contract due to negative publicity.

A band of tension squeezed her forehead. She rubbed at it.

“Lord, if you’re available, I sure could use some peace and quiet.”

Someone pounded on the front door. Though she should be immune by now, Sam jumped. She doubted seriously it was the help she’d prayed for.

“Miss Harcourt. Give us a statement.”

Yeah, right. They didn’t want a statement. They wanted something scandalous or scintillating, especially if they could stick her picture above a misleading caption. Though she maintained a low profile, being the Style girl made her a target for every bozo with a camera and a hankering to make a few bucks.

The phone jangled again. Fed up, she stormed across the room and turned off the ringer. “Why didn’t I do that an hour ago?”

A moment later, her cell phone rang. She flinched, wishing she hadn’t given her card to every kid in the Sunday school class. Surely, none had shared with a reporter. She grabbed for it, checking the caller ID.

Eric.
A bubble of pleasure followed the relief. “Thank goodness it’s you.”

“I’d like to take that as a compliment, as if you were waiting beside the phone, longing for my call. Considering the scene down here this morning, and the fact that I have a volunteer whose only job today is to deal with the media, I don’t think that’s what you meant.”

“It wasn’t, although I’m really, really glad to hear from you. This place is a circus.”

“Figured as much. Reporters?”

“Everywhere. I can’t imagine how they got through the gates, but they did.”

“Unscrupulous paparazzi have ways we can’t even imagine.” His baritone was a pleasant burr in her ear. “They’ve been here, too, but Ross sent them packing. He was furious, worrying about the stress on Kelly.”

“He should be. It’s awful. I’m a prisoner in my own house.”

“You’re not there alone, are you?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Ashley didn’t have class so she headed up to Williamsburg to see her fiancé. Dad and Mother drove into Richmond for the day to see Aunt Sharon.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I had some errands to run, calls to return, business stuff, but there is no way I can do those now. I called Mother and Dad and warned them to stay in Richmond tonight. Until this dies down, I’m trapped.”

“I guess that rules out lunch, huh?”

“Afraid so.” But she was delighted he’d asked.

“Can’t you sneak out, meet me somewhere?”

“Are you kidding?” She shoved her hair back in frustration. “These piranha are watching every door and window.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” She could practically see the worried V between his eyebrows. “We need to get you out of there.”

“If there is a way, I don’t know what it is.”

The line was quiet for several seconds. Only his soft breathing assured her the call had not been dropped.

“Give me a few minutes to think of something and to make a few calls,” he said. “I might have an idea. I’ll call you back. Stay safe and don’t answer the door. Okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Safe. She hadn’t considered the possibility of danger. To what lengths would the paparazzi go?

Even though she and Eric had accomplished exactly nothing, she felt better, calmer. She pushed the end button and snapped the cell phone closed. During the next fifteen minutes, the doorbell rang over and over again. She tried to tune it out, but her nerves now jumped at every sound. If reporters could breach the gate, who was to say they couldn’t get inside the mansion?

When her cell chirped, she wilted with relief. She had no idea what Eric could do but he served as a friendly distraction and made her feel safe.

“Eric?” she said into the mouthpiece.

“Yep. Me. Your gardener is coming over. Where is the best place for him to park?”

“My gardener?” She frowned, trying to follow his drift. “Albert knows where to go.”

“Humor me.”

“Okay.” What was Eric up to? “At the side entrance in front of the back security gate.”

She went to the window overlooking the front lawn and peeked through the drapes. To her horror, a satellite truck rumbled down the drive.

“When you see his van, be prepared to let him in. Watch for a signal.”

“Eric, what’s going on? What are you up to?”

But the line went silent. She stared at the dead phone for a second and then smiled.

Eric was up to something, all right. What had he done? Convinced Albert to sneak her out? As goofy as the idea was, it tickled her. Some of her tension evaporated. Leave it to Eric to turn a nerve-racking event into an adventure.

Fueled by a surge of unexpected energy, Sam trotted down the stairs to the side entrance, careful to remain away from the windows.

By the time the familiar white van bearing Albert’s insignia arrived, Sam was ready to do battle. She’d much rather stand and fight than hide. Outwitting a mob of harassing reporters was right up her alley.

She peered through the security peephole as three reporters came around the side of the house toward the gardening van. The driver popped out, tool tote in hand, and headed for the side entrance.

Sam squinted at the dark figure. Albert was short, stocky and Hispanic. Though dressed in gardener’s overalls and sporting a ball cap, the man coming toward her was none of those things.

She sucked in a gasp of surprise.

“Eric,” she whispered. “You crazy man.”

One of the reporters called out. “Sir. Hold up. A couple of questions please.”

“¿Qué?”
The gardener turned slightly, expression puzzled.

“What’s your name? Do you work for the Harcourts?”

“¿Qué?”
Eric said again.

Exasperated, the reporter spoke very slowly. “Are you the gardener? Did you work for Barnaby Harcourt?”

Eric waved his hand and batted his eyes in total confusion.
“No comprendo. Español. No comprendo.”

The three reporters looked at each other, suspicious but uncertain.

By now, Eric had reached the back steps. The newsmen waited expectantly, gaze fixated on the door, but instead of knocking, Eric stared straight at the peephole and winked. Then he whipped a pair of sheers from the tool tote and began whacking her mother’s favorite verbena. A tuneless whistle erupted from his lips.

Sam clamped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

The reporters watched for a few minutes, eyeing the gardener with suspicion. Eric ignored them. He just kept whacking away at the bush as if he knew what he was doing. Someone snapped his picture. He looked up, grinned a big, goofy grin, waved his sheers and went merrily back to whacking.

Mother would not be happy about this.

And the notion made Sam laugh all the harder.

About that time a motor sounded around front. Car doors slammed. The interlopers shot Eric one last glance, then rushed away, leaving the incommunicative gardener to his work.

When they had cleared the corner of the house, Eric sprang into action, tossed the sheers into the tote and signaled Sam to open the door. As soon as he slipped inside and flipped the lock behind him, Sam slid to the floor in a fit of giggles.

“You have the worst Mexican accent I have ever heard.”

White teeth flashed. He whipped off his hat and bowed. “What? You don’t appreciate my fine acting talents?”

“Actually, I do. I haven’t laughed so much since the picnic. Mother will die when she sees her verbena.”

“Hey! I only trimmed a little.” His grin was sheepish. “Maybe a lot. Should I buy her a new one?”

Sam waved off the worry. “Albert will take care of it, although he may never forgive you for damaging one of his babies.” Her giggle said it really didn’t matter. “How did you manage this? And what have you done with poor Albert?”

“Poor Albert is sitting over at the Starlight Diner, drinking Sandra Lange’s good coffee and counting his money.”

“You rented his van?”

“I thought it was a pretty ingenious idea on such short notice.” He looked proud of himself, too. Cute, cute, cute. Eric was the cutest, most fun guy she knew.

“Can’t argue that. But now you’re stuck in here with me,” she said.

Eric shrugged. “I can think of worse things.”

He set the tools on the floor and removed a pair of thick jersey gloves.

“Just wait until you’ve been here a while. You’ll change your mind.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Come on in. I have tea and coffee in the kitchen.”

She led him toward the spacious kitchen, which had been remodeled recently to incorporate all the latest gleaming stainless appliances and granite countertops. Their shoes tapped on stone tile flooring.

“Beautiful place.” Eric’s cheerful voice grew quiet.

“Mother’s on a constant remodeling kick. Every time I come home something has been redone.” She could almost read his thoughts. “I know the money could be better spent.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it and you’re right. The money belongs to them, though, and I’m trying to stop feeling guilty about the things I can’t control.” Like the bagel and cream cheese she’d had for breakfast. She reached into a glass-front cabinet and took down two frosted glasses. “Tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“I have to give you something for coming to my rescue.”

“You aren’t rescued yet.” His grin was back. He wiggled his eyebrows. “But I’m plotting.”

The doorbell rang again, one long ring as if someone leaned on it. He gave it an annoyed glance.

“Has this been going on all morning?”

Sam nodded morosely. “Awful, isn’t it?”

“That would drive anybody crazy. We have to get you out of here.”

She shrugged. “Reporters will show up anywhere we go.”

“True.” Deep in thought, Eric stared at the microwave as though it held the mysteries of the universe. Eyes dancing, he pointed at her. “Wait a minute. I know of one place where no one would ever think of looking.”

“Where? Mars?” Since landing the Style Fashions campaign, Sam had never found any place to be private from the media. And she had long since discovered, the more she complained, the more attention she garnered.

“Better than Mars. A place with AC, plenty of snacks
and
a plasma screen.” Looking pleased, he tapped himself on the chest. “My place. We can hide out, cook lunch, watch a little TV, play with Barker. It’ll be great.”

“Barker?”

“My dog.”

“You own a dog?”

Eric shook his head in mock sadness. “He owns me. Big, shaggy and in total control. What do you say? You game?”

She’d never seen his house, but she loved the idea. Anywhere was better than here. Being with Eric was best of all. “Sure, but how do we get past the piranha?”

Eric pumped dark eyebrows. “Ve vill find a vay.”

Sam laughed. “You sound like the villain in an old movie.”

“You don’t like my disguise?” Eric pretended offense.

“I love it.” Regardless of his earlier refusal, Sam took down two glasses, setting them on the counter with a soft clink. “It got you inside the house.”

“And now it will get us both out. Time to put my diabolical plan into motion.”

Glasses in hand, Sam crossed to the refrigerator for ice. “And what plan would this be?”

“The one I am devising as we speak. You need a disguise. A real dandy one like mine.”

She was tempted to roll her eyes, but his disguise had worked. What harm was there in trying? No matter what happened, it would be fun to play along. The distraction alone was worth the effort.