Page 26 of Sweet Obsession
“Great. Just great.” He let out a heavy sigh that crackled through the phone. “We have no choice but to stay put. You stay in the shop. The last thing we need is for them to see you and me talking and put two and two together then start camping out at the ranch. We’ll never get rid of them.”
“Well, we wanted to give them something to chew on.” Maybe now would be a good time to hide under a rock for a day or two hundred.
“I was thinking a little appetizer, not the entire menu.” She was glad to hear a hint of humor in his voice.
“Eventually they’re going to get bored and leave your parents and the rest of the town alone, right?”
“Maybe. Or they’ll dig in their heels until they find someone to spill the…” his voice trailed off and it took only a moment longer for Jillian to follow his train of thought.
At the same time, he muttered, “Grams,” Jillian voiced, “Sara.”
Aw, hell. Could this get any worse?
Chapter Thirteen
It was impossible to enjoy a decent cup of English breakfast this morning without someone clomping up the porch steps like they owned the place. A cup of lukewarm tea forgotten in her hand, Sara Kirby peered through the sheer lace curtains of her living room window. A gaggle of reporters, looking like a flock of badly dressed, noisy geese, had taken up residence on her lawn, some spilling over into her prize-winning petunias. She’d tried ignoring them, thinking they’d get bored and wander off to bother someone else. No such luck. If anything, they’d gotten louder and more persistent, knocking on her door every few minutes like woodpeckers with poor manners.
They’d been there far too long, shouting questions at her front door and aiming their ridiculous long-lens cameras at her windows. It was an invasion, a complete and utter breach of civility. She had half a mind to turn the sprinklers on, but that might damage their equipment and then she’d have a stupid lawsuit on her hands.
No, this required a different sort of handling. Enough was enough. A few reporters with more enthusiasm than sense weren’t going to rattle her.
Setting her teacup down, Sara straightened her shoulders and walked to the hall mirror. Patting her silver hair, ensuring the coif was perfectly in place, she adjusted the single strand ofpearls at her neck, and straightened the collar of her crisp cotton blouse. If one was to face a firing squad, one should at least look one’s best. She then marched to the hall closet and retrieved what she needed: a sturdy folding chair.
Leaving the chair by the front door, she swept into the kitchen, poured a tall glass of iced tea, and added a sprig of mint from the pot on her windowsill. Armed and ready, she strode through the living room and unlocked the door. Now or never.
The flock of reporters swarmed the porch steps, a cacophony of overlapping questions erupting at once.
“Mrs. Kirby, is Blake here?”
“Is it true he’s got a new girl?”
“Is it serious?”
“Why has he been hiding?”
Sara ignored them all. With a calm deliberation that seemed to momentarily stun them into silence, she unfolded the chair, placed it precisely in the center of her porch, tugged a metal side table beside the chair, set her glass on the table, and sat down. Crossing her ankles, she smoothed her slacks and folded her hands neatly in her lap. After taking a long, slow sip of her iced tea, she leveled a gaze on the most aggressive-looking reporter, a young woman with bright red lipstick and an impatient frown.
“All right,” her voice carried easily over the sudden hush, “if you’re going to pester me, you might as well do it properly.” She scanned the group, her eyes sharp. “Ask your questions one at a time. Enunciate. And for heaven’s sake, no interrupting. This is a front porch, not a wrestling match.”
The tallest one cleared his throat. “Uh… is it true your grandson is—”
“Five out of ten,” she interrupted crisply. “Points deducted for mumbling. Shoulders back, dear, you’re not a question mark.”
He blinked, straightened his posture, and tried again. “Is it true your grandson is hiding here?”
“That’s better. Eight out of ten. My grandson doesn’t need tohideanywhere. Next.”
“Mrs. Kirby, I’m Jessica Wells.”
Sara nodded at the woman in bright red lipstick. “Eight out of ten. Good projection, you remembered to introduce yourself, but that lipstick is the wrong shade for your complexion. You’d do better with a pleasant pink. Your question?”
“Can you confirm that your grandson Blake is currently in Honeysuckle?”
“Well, of course, he’s here,” Sara said with the patience of someone explaining the obvious to a particularly slow child. “Why wouldn’t he visit his family when he’s not playing music for his fans?”
The cameras clicked frantically. Another reporter, a nervous-looking man with too much hair gel, raised his hand like he was back in elementary school. “Is Blake dating anyone local?”
The man’s timid demeanor almost had Sara smiling, he already seemed so nervous, she didn’t have the heart to critique him. “My grandson is a handsome, successful young man with excellent manners and a kind heart. Of course the local girls are interested. Have you seen him lately? That boy could charm the birds right out of the trees. Of course he gets that from my side of the family.”
