Authors: Rian Kelley
“Bottled water,” he announces and it sounds like a pretty good compromise to her.
“Sparkling,” she amends. She has to have her carbonation.
He shakes his head. “Must be a girl thing. My sister loves the stuff, especially if it’s flavored. I always know when she’s coming home because my mother stocks up on wild cherry sparkling water.”
“What’s it like having a sister?”
He smiles, looking inward. “Great. She’s a lot of fun. She laughs more than she talks and she has this way about her that makes everyone feel, I don’t know, like they’re OK. Not safe, in the physical sense, but like you can tell her anything and no matter how bad it is, she’ll still come up with a way to make you feel better.”
“I knew it,” Genny says.
“What?”
“I’m missing out. Every time I asked my mom or dad to make me a sister they always said I’d be much happier an only child.”
“Yeah, you’re missing out. Big time.”
“Rub it in,” she says, her mouth twisting into a frown.
“OK. One of my favorite memories from my childhood is Shokia.” He laughs when the word leaves her face a blank slate. “Never heard of it, huh?”
“No,” she admits. “Maybe we didn’t have it in America.”
That only makes him laugh harder. She folds her arms and waits for him to enlighten her.
“Holly, my sister, created her own language when we were kids, so that we could talk to each other without our parents knowing what we were saying. It was great. We would sit at the dinner table and chat about school, or about how much we hated our father’s tie—he has a thing for character ties—and our parents were clueless. Actually, it was more than that. They would stop eating and watch us like we just landed from Mars.”
Genny laughs, because it really would have been cool to have a sister to conspire with.
“Your turn,” Truman invites. “Give me a memory.”
“It won’t be as good as yours,” she says.
“Of course it will,” he encourages.
“I’m a one man team,” she reminds him.
“Are you telling me you had no fun at all when you were a kid?”
“No.”
She had a great childhood. She reaches back, through all the places she’s been and experiences she’s had and chooses the one where she and her mother visited the very rustic Galapagos Islands. Her mother brought seven swimsuits and a pair of hiking boots, not realizing they would spend the entire time on a boat that was a scientific laboratory.
They spend the rest of the game trading stories and by the time the ninth inning is played out, Genny has a good idea of the kind of kid Truman was—he had a wild streak of humor tempered by compassion.
“Do you have a dog now?” He and Holly started taking in and caring for retired rescue dogs when Truman was nine years old. At that point, he said, all they really need is family and affection.
“We do. Her name is Kendra. Her muzzle is about as white as the polar ice caps and she has arthritis in her knees, but she’s hanging on.” He smiles. “You want to meet her?”
Genny nods. “I’ve always wanted a dog, but my mom insists on one she can carry around in her handbag and that is
so
not my style, and my father isn’t home enough to keep one.”
“OK. Sunday, then,” he promises. “She still knows a few tricks that will amaze you.”
Genny isn’t surprised. She’s willing to believe everything about Truman is amazing, including his dog.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday morning, just before noon, Genny’s mother lingers in the living room. She’s dressed for a day of shopping in tailored slacks and a silk blouse. A cashmere throw and her slim, leather bag are resting on the coffee table as she paces the teak floor. Genny watches from the doorway.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks.
Her mother frowns. “You know what I’m waiting for. I hope he’s punctual. Your father says he’s polite,” the last word issues from her mother’s mouth smothered in doubt. “He said it like maybe it was a bad thing.”
“Dad doesn’t like Truman.”
“Why?”
“He hasn’t told me why, but I’m thinking it’s a combination of things.”
Her mother crosses her arms over her stomach and invites her to, “Enlighten me.”
“Mostly, I think Dad is making Truman pay for Hunter’s mistake.”
Her mother nods. “I think so too. What else?”
“Truman is from Scotland. They don’t have baseball there.”
Her mother’s perfectly glossed mouth opens in a satisfied grin. “Yes. That would do it. Scotland, huh? Your father said it was ‘some third world country.’”
Genny rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I think Dad stopped maturing at age fifteen. At dinner, he told Truman that he hoped living under communistic rule would turn out to be good training for him.
“’We’re under British rule, Sir,” Truman told him. And dad said, “’With the King and Queen and all that red carpet, purple is the color of my blood, parade crap?’”
“’We do love a parade,’ Truman said, even though everyone knows America has way more of those than any other country.”
Her mother’s laughing and dabs at the tears coming to her eyes, but when she gets that under control, she says, “Hunter has lost favor with me, too. I’ll try not to hold it against Truman, but no promises until I’ve met him.”
Genny’s not worried. Truman
is
polite. And polished. Her mother prizes both attributes.
Her mother has a drifting quality about her, almost butterfly-ish, which she probably cultivated during her years on the runway. She moves toward Genny now with grace, even as she perches her hands on her hips and her blue eyes grow heavy with concern.
“You don’t think this is fast turn-around?” she asks.
“You mean twenty-four hours isn’t long enough to mend a broken heart?” Genny’s voice is flippant.
“I know,” her mother says, “you weren’t
in
love with Hunter.”
Genny knows the time for truth is upon her. “I don’t think I ever successfully thought of him as my boyfriend. I guess I took him about as seriously as he took me in that regard.” She stuffs her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and brushes past her mother and her probing gaze. “Have you ever dated a friend?”
“No,” her mother admits. She follows Genny into the center of the room and leans a hip against the back of an arm chair.
“So what’s so special about Truman Lennox? Other than his outrageous hair?”
Genny recognizes Serena’s description of divinity from five days ago.
“I’m not sure he’s special yet.”
Liar.
Then she amends, “He’s very. . .attentive.” He makes Genny feel like she’s the only girl breathing.
“That’s good,” her mother agrees. “So long as attentive isn’t desperate.”
“Mom! When you see him you’ll know how off
that
is.” She searches for a way to explain how different Truman is. There’s a very tangible quality about him that’s more than maturity or confidence. ‘He knows what he wants and what he doesn’t,’ doesn’t quite sum it up, but it’s close.
“What are you two doing today?”
Genny narrows her eyes as she settles them on her mother. She already answered this question twice—last night, when she first asked her mother for permission to go out, and again this morning.
“Humor me,” her mom says. “I am closing in on middle age. I think memory is the first thing to go.”
“You’re memory is fine. I think you’re trying to test mine,” Genny challenges.
Her mother purses her lips and considers Genny for a long moment. “Maybe,” she concedes. “So, it’s a drive, a picnic and visiting a senior citizen.”
“The senior citizen is a dog.”
“Oh, I missed that part. I thought you said something about a retiree.”
That’s Genny’s fault. She deliberately waited until her mother was on the treadmill and halfway through her work out before she approached her. Her mom hates talking when she’s already struggling to breathe, which means very few questions for Genny and an easily distracted parent.
“Kendra is retired.” Genny explains again how Truman and his family offer a home to rescue dogs ready to leave the field.
“That’s very nice of them.”
“Yes, it is,” Genny agrees and then smiles openly at her mother’s reluctance to like Truman. She glances at the clock over the mantel then prompts, “Remember, you’re going to be fair. In America, tried before convicted.”
The doorbell rings and Genny leaves to answer it, but not without hearing her mother’s last words, “Good thing he landed here, then, isn’t it?”
Truman is wearing a short sleeved ribbed T in a shade of green that matches the pieces of jade in his eyes. It also stretches over his shoulders and chest in a way mere mortal men never experience.
It takes a long minute and a full grin from Truman for Genny to realize that she’s staring.
“Hmmm,” she stammers as her face heats up.
“Hmmm,” he agrees. “Nice sweater.”
Genny’s wearing a silk blend, figure-hugging Donna Karan sweater in a shade of blue so pale it’s almost white. It makes the pink in her skin glow, but she worried about the low sweetheart neckline. Until now. Truman seems mesmerized and she definitely likes being on equal footing.
“Are you going to invite him in, Genny?”
Her mother’s voice comes from directly behind them and when Genny turns she’s hit by the dark scowl on her mother’s face. Her lips are twisted with more than a hint of disapproval. Her blue eyes are hot and capable of bending steel.
Great
. What does her mother see that Genny doesn’t?
It’s a good thing Truman possesses a lot of confidence. He moves around Genny without leaving her side and extends his hand in her mother’s direction.
“Mrs. Vout,” he begins. “It’s good to meet you.”
“It’s Ms. Barnes,” her mother corrects him and is slow to offer her hand. “Genny’s father and I never married.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
“Me, too. Sometimes. Fleeting moments of regret.” She waves a hand to dismiss the topic. “How old are you, Truman?”
“Seventeen.”
She seems to weigh his answer, her eyes scanning his face and the breadth of his shoulders. “Really?”
“Would you like to see my driver’s license?” he offers easily.
“I’ll need to see it before you drive off with my daughter. Proof of insurance, too.”
Her mother waits patiently while Truman pulls out his wallet and offers the documents to her. Genny is another story. She rolls to her toes and back to her heels several times before Truman’s hand on the small of her back calms her. Her mind, though, is still shrieking. What is her mother up to? Why is she being so. . .harsh? She was never like this with Hunter. She always had a smile for Hunter. So far, she’s delivered a perfect impersonation of a Doberman.
“I look older,” Truman attempts in a voice that is apologetic.
Her mother shakes her head. “You
seem
older. Genny is
just
seventeen.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Her mother looks over Truman’s license and insurance card then returns them.
“That’s a Florida driver’s license,” her mom says.
“Yes. It’s good here for ninety days,” he assures her. “I have an appointment to test next Saturday.”
Her mother nods. “What are your plans today?”
“I’m going to introduce Genny to our golden lab. Then we’re going to drive out of the city—I was thinking we could go to the state park and take a short hike. We’ll have a picnic, too.”
“Are your parents home, Truman?”
“My mother is.” He pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans and offers it to her. “My cell phone number is on there. The house phone, too.”
And his address. Genny’s mother comments, “You live just three blocks from here?”
“Yes, Ma’am. It’s a short walk.”
“Did your parents buy the Adderman place?”
“Long-term lease. My father’s work moved us here, but he promised I could finish high school at Fraser.”
Her mother folds the paper in half. “I’ll hold onto this. Maybe your mother and I can meet for coffee,” she poses but doesn’t wait for an answer. “We’ll see how things progress.”
Truman is unruffled. In fact, he manages a full smile for her mother. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Genny? Home by seven.”
Genny doesn’t answer. She holds her mother’s gaze, her own as hot but also confused, and listens as Truman makes the appropriate response. Then he’s guiding her through the door and into the fresh spring air. It’s cool enough it snaps the spell cast by her mother’s oddly aggressive behavior.
“What was that all about,” she wonders aloud.
“She’s worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re her daughter,” he says, like her mother’s behavior was nothing more than a natural response to the common concept of teen dating. “She let me off easy.”
“Are you kidding?” Genny demands, feeling the fire of injustice.
“She wasn’t swinging a bat,” Truman points out. “And she did extend the possibility of a family meet.”
“She treated you like you were a criminal.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“She never asked Hunter for ID.”
“Hunter is—” Truman pauses, either in search of tact or to test her feelings for his commentary. Genny waits calmly for him to finish, “a boy.”
She doesn’t ask him to clarify. Genny knows exactly what he means. Hunter is harmless, and looks the part. Truman is drop dead gorgeous with a manner that suggests he would make the human sacrifice worth it. Genny finds it unsettling. She thinks her mother does, too.