Page 97 of Shame the Devil

Dyma was asking, “What are you working on now, Dakota?” Dakota was talking about a fern series in stained glass and how she could suggest raindrops, which all sounded very Portland-like, Blake was looking proud of her, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face, and Jennifer was half-listening, but mostly working up her courage. Which was why, when the doorbell rang, she jumped.

“You expecting somebody?” Oscar asked.

“Probably for Dyma,” Jennifer said. In fact, Dyma was already up. Not quite as excited as she would have been if she’d thought it could be Owen paying a surprise visit, but that was because Dyma herself had told him to stay away.

“I’ve got four AP exams starting in two weeks,” she’d told him over another family dinner last weekend. “And I’ve got to nail all of them. Once I’m done, though, if you want to come up …” She’d given him the kind of sidelong look Jennifer still hadn’t perfected. “We could go … hiking.”

Dyma wasdefinitelyworking on her powerfully-feminine moves, and from what Jennifer could see, Owen’s resistance was wearing thin. He was still resisting, though. Thank goodness, because Dyma sure wasn’t.

Some exclaiming from out there. Girls’ voices. Not Owen, then.

Another voice. A male one, smooth as dark caramel.

Oh, boy.

Why?

* * *

When Harlan pulledto a stop at the address Owen had given him, outside a shabby blue duplex that was never going to be featuring in theLuxury Homesbook, Annabelle was still saying, “Why do we have to do this in person? And what is it you’re doing?”

Harlan said, “I’m going to let you know in a minute,” and tried to calm his racing heart.

Game face,he told himself as he headed up the walk, then decided,Wait. No. That’s not going to work. You’re not trying to scare her.

He had no face for this.

A wait at the door, and then Dyma opening it. Same lively little face, same blonde hair, cut even more daringly now, because she’d gone even further in the “undercut” direction. Same piercings in her eyebrow. She exclaimed at sight of Annabelle, gave her an exuberant hug, and said, “I didn’t know you were coming! Hey, if you’re staying the night, we should go see this show. We could still make it. Some friends of mine are into drama, and they’re doing an experimental thing. My mom’s having this dinner first, though. It’s lasagna, so if you haven’t eaten …”

Harlan had tuned out long since. His pulse was galloping like he was about to run out of the tunnel, and if real life allowed it, he’d have been doing some running and jumping to bleed off the adrenaline. Instead, he thought,You’ve decided. This is the easy part,and told Dyma, “I came to talk to your mom.”

“Well, I figured,” Dyma said. “Unless you came to talk to Blake.”

“No,” Harlan said.

“Well, too bad,” Dyma said, “because he’s here.”

Which, yes, he was. They’d moved out of the little entryway and into an equally minuscule living/dining room where four people sat around a crowded table, all of them turned inquiringly to take in the new arrivals.

A very old guy, the kind who got stringier as he aged, like a piece of beef jerky, other than his shock of thick white hair and beetling white eyebrows, which looked like they’d been growing for about twenty years. Right now, the eyebrows were raised over a pair of not-amused brown eyes. That would be the grandpa. Blake Orbison, next, looking no more welcoming than he had the last time Harlan had seen him, like,What are you doing here, exactly?Or, possibly,About time,depending what Jennifer had told him. A young woman with mile-high cheekbones and long, dark hair, too, who looked more interesting than expensive. That must be Blake’s new wife, the artist.

And Jennifer. Who was clutching a cloth napkin in both hands and staring at him. Frozen, he’d call that.

He said, “What, you didn’t think I’d come?”

“I …” She seemed lost for words. After a second, she stood up and said, “Hi, Annabelle. Have you guys eaten? Want some lasagna? I made plenty.”

Annabelle said, “That’d be great. You’re a way better cook than me, and Harlan cooksextremelyhealthy.”

“Dyma,” Jennifer said, possibly recovering a little poise, “go set another two places, would you? And grab the desk chairs out of our rooms. Oh—Grandpa, this is Harlan Kristiansen and his sister, Annabelle. My grandpa, Oscar Gardner. I guess you know Blake and Dakota, except that Annabelle won’t. Know them. So, uh—Blake and Dakota. Savage.”

As a smooth introduction, it failed. Dyma said, “Unless everybody holds their plates in their lap, how does this work? Annabelle and I can eat in my room.”

“Uh, no,” Jennifer said. “Actually … no. I need to talk to you.”

“Actually,” Harlan said, “you’re right. You do have to talk. How come you didn’t call me?”

“Me?” Jennifer said.“Me? I’mnot the one who got that five days ago, and didn’t say a thing!”