Page 65 of Just Trouble

Maybe he’swithSylvia, sorting out how they’ll be a happy family together. That’s the knife I twist in the wound in the middle of the night.

The truly crappy thing is that now I’m the one who wants more, and it’s too late.

And that’s what I get for believing people—well, one man—andfeelinginstead of thinking. Following impulse always leads me wrong.

We’re supposed to learn from our mistakes.

If I’m going to seize the day, I need to be faster.

I grumble about this to myself all weekend long, going through my usual routine. I clean the house on Saturday morning and do my laundry. I drive to Havelock and pick up some groceries in the afternoon, then have my weekly talk with Abbie. She’s annoyed about someone at work so I mostly listen. When she asks about Luke, I manage to deflect the question and admit nothing. I go to my dad’s for dinner on Saturday and he barbeques steaks. It’s almost warm enough to eat on the patio but not quite. He’s in a great mood even if I’m not.

I stay in bed to read on Sunday—wishing there was someone around to make coffee, someone whose butt I could admire while he was doing that—then Cameron texts me to go for a run on the beach at Port Cavendish. It’s such a beautiful sunny day that I go along, even if it means ignoring her questions and pointed glances.

I do check my phone a little bit obsessively, not that there’s any reward in that.

On Monday morning, I confront my sorry self in the mirror, tell myself to let it go, and head to work. My motivation is non-existent. I remind myself that I expected Luke to vanish. I expected once to be enough for him—even though I was wrong about it being enough for me. I expected him to be trouble—but I never expected him to be a delinquent father.

Well, that’s it and it’s huge.

It’s also stupid, because condoms fail, but still, I feel betrayed.

And that feels even more stupid. I barely knew him sixteen years ago.

My father is at work already, of course, and offers a cheery wave from his office. He seems to be highly amused, although I’m not in on the joke.

No one has mentioned the previous Friday morning, which is just fine by me—especially after Friday night’s revelations. I’m not sure anyone else knows about it, other than my dad. There is a bustle of activity across the street and I see Willow heading toward the bistro with purpose.

It seems my part in this particular drama is over.

Mrs. Prescott clears her throat, then indicates the office answering machine. (Yes, we still have an actual answering machine, a little box that sits on her desk with a red light that blinks when it’s done its job.) “I believe this is for you,” she says primly, pushes the button then goes into my father’s office. Normally, I’d be amused that she goes through the motions of giving me privacy to listen to a message that she’s already played, but not today.

Because it’s Luke.

“Hey Daph,” he says, his voice surprisingly rough. My heart does its caged bird thing, right on cue. “Looks as if I need an angel of mercy and I only know one good candidate. I’m a guest of the Havelock police, at least until someone helps me out, and I’m hoping it will be you. Thanks.”

I play it again, just to be sure, then straighten to find Mrs. Prescott watching me with undisguised disapproval.

Suddenly, I understand what my dad was smiling about.

I duck my head around the door to his office. “I have to go to Havelock this morning.”

“Oh?” He is not surprised. He’s enjoying himself—too much.

“Luke’s been arrested and told them I was his lawyer.”

My father chuckles. “Your young man,” he teases. “He’s more interesting than the last one, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s not my young man. He’s my client,” I correct and Dad laughs out loud. “Why is this funny?”

“It’s not funny.” He sobers with an effort but his eyes keep twinkling.

“You look like you’re planning to have a good chuckle with Patrick about this.”

“Not me,” he says with such resolve that I believe him. “But I was recently reminded that clever people need challenges to feel as if their efforts matter. I never expected this young man to step up so effectively.”

I’m going to ask who offered that advice—if that’s what it was—but the phone rings and Mrs. Prescott intervenes.

“Mr. Cavendish for you, sir.”

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