The Wishing Jar Read online

  “You sure?” T. J. frowned. “I can stay with you.”

  “Yeah, go on. Maybe this won’t take too long.”

  Neal watched as T. J. set off on foot in the direction of the stadium, and when she turned back, she found Mike staring at her. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

  “Nothin’,” he drawled. “Nothin’ but the girl of my dreams.” He raised one eyebrow. “Oil light, you said?”

  The problem with the oil light turned out to be a short in the electrical system. In thirty minutes Mike had it fixed and was closing up the shop. While she phoned her mother to get a credit card number to pay him, he washed up and stripped off the coveralls to reveal an awesome buff body in black jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt. She couldn’t take her eyes off the snake tattoo on his upper arm, the way it writhed when his muscles flexed.

  “You can leave your car parked here while you go to the game,” he said. “Or you can take a ride with me and we can get acquainted.” He pointed toward a red Harley with bright chrome parked at the side of the building.

  Neal hesitated. “They won’t miss me for a while,” she said at last.

  They roared through town on Mike’s motorcycle, detoured to the drive-through window at Backyard Burgers and bought Cokes, then went to the park and sat at a shaded picnic table. Neal told him about her father’s death and her grandmother’s stroke—the first time she had been able to confess those feelings to anyone. Mike talked about how his father had abused both him and his mother and then abandoned them, and how his mom had worked herself to death trying to make ends meet. Despite everything, he said, he was determined to be a success. He was saving money to buy out the owner of the garage.

  “My father would have helped you,” Neal said. “That’s what he did—helped people start their own businesses.”

  “I coulda used his help.” Mike shrugged. “Now that Mom’s gone, I don’t really have anybody who believes in me.”

  The words came out of Neal’s mouth before she had time to think about them: “I could believe in you, Mike.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Every chance she got all during July and early August, Neal had dropped by the garage to talk to Mike. His boss called her “jailbait” and tried to run her off, but she kept coming back. She couldn’t help herself. For a long time after Daddy’s death and Granny Q’s stroke, she had felt like a zombie, just going through the motions, but her conversations with Mike Damatto made her feel like a real person. He liked her. He needed her. And now— maybe thanks to the miniskirt and new hairdo—he was beginning to regard her with a different kind of interest.

  She knew her mother would not approve. But she was seventeen— old enough to know what she wanted. Old enough to make her own decisions. And apparently, if the expression on Mike’s face was any indication, old enough to attract a real man rather than the stupid, immature high-school boys her mother thought she went out with.

  Something nagged at the back of Neal’s mind. A warning. Questions she couldn’t—or didn’t want to—answer. Why Mike? Why now? Did she really want him, or did she only want something different?

  She pushed the questions aside. Mike was staring at her, his eyes dark and brooding.

  “So,” he said, “you want to get out of here? Go somewhere?”

  “Like where?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. My place, maybe?” His mouth turned up in a slow, seductive grin.

  She stubbed out her cigarette, forced down the last swallow of beer, and got unsteadily to her feet.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  8

  Prospects

  Abby awoke to the soothing caress of music—an elusive, lyrical tune—and was vaguely aware that the melody had threaded through her dreams. But it was only the sound of rain splashing against the windowpane.

  The music of the rain reminded her of Devin Connor. It had been almost a week since she had met with him. On Monday, after their initial interview the previous Friday, she had revisited Café on the Square in hopes of finding him playing in the plaza. Yesterday she had invented another reason to go to Pack Square, but still no Devin. And today was a lost cause. Surely he would not be out in this weather, playing his fiddle in the rain.

  She had tried to telephone him, but without success. Every time she had called, she had gotten his answering machine and then hung up without leaving a message. What could she possibly say— “I can’t stop thinking about you”? Absurd. And she couldn’t make up an excuse about needing more information for the article—not when she hadn’t even begun to put it together.

  She’d just have to be patient. Besides, she had other things to do with her time and attention than obsess about Devin Connor. Mama seemed so discouraged and withdrawn, and Abby had no idea what to do about it. Neal, fortunately, had been in better spirits the past few days. She was spending a lot of time at T. J.’s, but Abby couldn’t fault her for wanting to escape the oppression of this house. Besides, T. J. was a good kid. Maybe Abby was expecting too much, wanting Neal to confide in her rather than in her best friend. The important thing was that Neal Grace had someone to talk to, a friend who would be supportive and encouraging.

  Abby only wished she had someone to talk to, someone who could understand. On the subject of Devin Connor, Birdie was no help at all.

  She remembered that fleeting sense of freedom she had felt when riding on the back of Devin’s motor scooter, that tantalizing combination of serenity and longing she had tasted in the time she had spent at his cabin.

  She pushed the thought firmly from her mind. Devin might be something of a mystery, and mysteries were always compelling. But he was also an idealistic dreamer who made ends meet by living as a caretaker on someone else’s property.

  Abby made the bed and went into the bathroom. She had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the phone ringing. She waited. Neal didn’t answer it, and Mama never would. Still dripping wet and muttering to herself about teenagers, she wrapped a towel around herself, dashed into the bedroom, and picked up the receiver.

  “Abby?” Birdie’s voice said. “Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

  “I was in the shower.”

  “Oops, sorry.” Birdie laughed. “I was just calling to remind you about dinner tonight. Six-thirty, our place. Assuming the rain stops, Taylor’s going to grill out, so dress casually.”

  “Dinner?” Abby repeated. “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight. It’s Thursday, remember? You’re supposed to meet Charles.”

  Abby rubbed at her eyes with a corner of the towel. “Who’s Charles?”

  “Charles Bingham. Doctor Charles Bingham. The new business prof at WNCU.” An exasperated sigh whooshed through the earpiece. “I invited you last week, the day we went to lunch. Come on, Abby. Fifty-three, good-looking, single. Does this ring any bells?”

  “Oh.” Abby frowned. “I don’t know, Birdie, I—”

  “No excuses. Forget it. You are not going to bail on me. You promised.”

  Abby gave up. She didn’t really have a good excuse to beg off, and arguing with Birdie was always a waste of breath and energy. “All right. What’s the time again?”

  “Six-thirty. Bring a salad.”

  “I’ll be there. Under duress, mind you.”

  “Atta girl.” Birdie laughed. “See you tonight. Love you. Bye.”

  Abby hung up the phone, started to sink down onto the bed, then remembered she was still wet and jumped up again. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was go out on a blind date and have to be charming. But Birdie was unstoppable once she had her mind made up. Better simply to brace herself, meet this Charles Bingham, and get it over with.

  Charles, as it turned out, wasn’t so bad.

  “So, what do you think?” Birdie hissed in her ear as she dragged Abby into the kitchen on the pretense of needing help serving dessert.

  Abby leaned against the island in t
he middle of the kitchen. “I think he’s very nice.”

  “Very nice?” Birdie shook her head. “The last time you used that line was in high school, and the boy was some pimply-faced nerd who carried a slide rule jammed down the back of his pants. Don’t mess with me. Do you like him?”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “I like him very much. He seems . . . stable.”

  Birdie shook her head. “Stable.”

  “Is there an echo in here?” Abby thoroughly enjoyed yanking Birdie’s chain, but she could see from her friend’s expression that she was not amused. “OK, I’ll be serious. You didn’t oversell him. He’s handsome, in a mature, professorial sort of way. He’s an above-average listener and carries on a decent conversation. He’s got a sense of humor. I’d prefer he didn’t talk quite so much about the prospects of the stock market, but—”

  “But you like him.”

  “I already said that, didn’t I? I like him, OK?” She picked up a dessert fork from the counter and held it high, in imitation of Sally Field at the Academy Awards. “I like him! I really, really like him!”

  “Good.” Birdie turned her back and began spooning coffee grounds into the basket. “Because you’ve got another date with him next week.”

  Abby balked. “What?”

  “He’s going to ask you to go with him to the faculty banquet next Friday night.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Birdie turned and grinned. “Because he told Taylor while they were out on the patio grilling the steaks.”

  “Did he leave a note in your locker, too?” Abby grimaced. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

  “Of course you are.” Birdie laid out four slices of pound cake and nodded toward the fridge. “Get the strawberries, will you? And the bowl of whipped cream.”

  “Listen, Birdie—”

  Birdie turned and pointed the cake knife in Abby’s direction. “You listen. It’s time for you to start dating again, and you’re not likely to find anyone half as eligible as Charles Bingham. Besides, he really, really likes you.”

  Abby began to sling strawberries onto the cake. “Oh, are you psychic now?”

  “No, I’m observant. Anyone with eyes could see it. The way he looks at you, the way he leans forward when he’s talking—”

  “You’ll have me walking down the aisle next.”

  The coffee was done. Birdie reached for the pot. “And what’s so horrible about that idea?”

  “Nothing.” Abby paused with a scoop of whipped cream in midair. “It’s just that—” Tears clogged her throat.

  Setting the coffeepot back on the warmer, Birdie came to Abby’s side of the island and put her arms around her. “I know. You still miss John Mac,” she said quietly. “You can’t imagine being with anyone else.” She stroked Abby’s back with the flat of her hand. “Just give Charles a chance, will you? You had a wonderful marriage. There’s no reason you couldn’t have another one.”

  Abby took a paper napkin from the holder and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re right. John Mac would want me to be happy, I know. Still, it’s hard to let go.”

  “Of course it is. But it’s time to start.”

  Abby nodded. “All right. You win. Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me you won’t push. Let me do this my way, on my timetable.”

  “I promise,” Birdie said. “Cross my heart.”

  Abby narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because I’m your best friend, and you know me too well?” She grinned. “Meet me after work tomorrow. I’ll help you buy a new dress for the banquet.”

  Abby burst out laughing. “Don’t you think we should wait until he actually asks me?”

  “What a ridiculous notion.” Birdie poured the coffee and set the cups on the dessert tray. “He’ll ask. Trust me. I know these things.”

  “Apparently, you know everything,” Abby muttered under her breath.

  “Of course I do. It’s my job.” She picked up the tray and motioned for Abby to follow.

  Abby laughed. “Must be a terrible burden, being right all the time.”

  “It’s a curse.” Birdie grinned back at her as she shouldered her way through the door into the dining room. “But we all make do with the crosses we have to bear.”

  9

  Mothers and Daughters

  Quinn House

  September

  Neal looked in the mirror and pushed her hair into spikes, making the ends stand up straight over the cowlick in the back. Perfect. She grinned at her reflection and twisted her torso for a better view of the tattoo on her right shoulder. A small red heart with a dagger thrust through it. The swelling had gone down, and most of the pain had subsided.

  It was only a small tattoo, but that wouldn’t make any difference to Mom. She would be furious if she found out. But she wasn’t going to see it—not if Neal had anything to say about it. Besides, Neal was almost eighteen; she could do whatever she wanted.

  “My body, my life,” she muttered under her breath. She zipped up her jeans, slipped on a black T-shirt, and pulled her heaviest denim jacket out of the closet.

  Today was going to be great. A shiver of excitement raced through her. Mike had the whole day off, and he’d convinced her to skip school and ride with him up to a friend’s cabin in the mountains. T. J. would undoubtedly give her a lecture about missing the History midterm, but so far she had been great about covering for Neal, and she wouldn’t rat on her now.

  Besides, Mom was so busy these days she probably wouldn’t even notice Neal was gone. For nearly a month her mother had been going out two or three times a week with that Charles guy. One night she had even invited him to the house for dinner. Probably a trial run, to see how Neal and Granny Q would take to him.

  Neal laughed out loud at the memory of that evening—a total disaster, no matter how you looked at it. The moment Charles entered the house with that bogus grin on his face, she had instantly decided she despised the man. He was the total opposite of Daddy. Neal couldn’t imagine what her mother saw in him. He had a shifty look about him, as if he had something to hide, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Mom gave him a quick tour of Quinn House, and the whole time he seemed to be casing the joint, adding up Mom’s net worth on a little calculator inside his head.

  Neal couldn’t stand him, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. He hadn’t said a single word to her the entire evening, just stared at her as if she were some kind of sideshow freak. Granny Q had attempted to talk to him, but he couldn’t understand a word she said, and when she passed the gravy, her grip gave way and she dropped it with a big splat, splashing it all over his fifty-dollar silk tie.

  Neal had thought the whole situation was pretty funny, but Mom was not amused. When she came back after seeing him to his car, she lit into Neal with a fury, saying that Charles was important to her, and the least her daughter could do was try to be nice to him.

  But Neal found it impossible to be nice to someone she didn’t trust. And she couldn’t talk to Mom about it—not when she was so obviously snowed by the guy. She’d just have to let things take their course and hope old Chuckie would conclude that life with three generations of Quinn women was just too complicated. With any luck, Mom would come to her senses and see through him—or he’d give up and fade away before the relationship got too serious.

  But even if Mom didn’t dump him—or he didn’t dump her—it didn’t matter much to Neal. She had her own life now, with Mike Damatto.

  She had wished for change, and she had gotten it. When she looked in the mirror these days, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair was cut very short and spiked on the top, and most of the time she dressed all in black. Mom rolled her eyes, and T. J. kept complaining that Neal wasn’t herself anymore, but that was exactly what Neal wanted. To be someone else.

  She even felt different. Mature, like a woman, instead of like a teenager. And that was the way Mike treated her, to
o.

  There were some downsides to her relationship with Mike, of course. She had little in common anymore with her friends at school. Even T. J. seemed to be drifting away, getting more distant. Oh, Teej listened when Neal talked about Mike, and tried to be enthusiastic. But Neal could tell T. J. didn’t understand. She couldn’t expect her to understand. Teej had never been in love. And she was always so nervous about everything. T. J. was sure Neal was going to get into trouble for skipping class, sure her grades would slip, sure her mother would eventually find out and pitch a fit.

  But none of that mattered to Neal. What mattered was that she had connected with somebody who loved her—needed her, even. Mike might seem like a tough guy from the outside, but he was really very sensitive.

  “Nobody knows me like you,” he had said to her the night before when she had sneaked out to meet him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d be fine, Mike. Really you would.”

  She had meant it as an encouragement, but he didn’t take it that way. “What do you mean?” he said, pushing away from her. “You promised to stay with me. You’re not gonna break that promise, are you?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I only meant that you don’t need me to be all right. You’re good at your job; you’re ambitious. You’d be fine, with or without me.”

  “But I do need you,” he said. “You don’t know how much. You didn’t have a father who beat you and then abandoned you. I need somebody who’ll never leave me, who’ll love me and stand by me no matter what. My life was so empty before you came along. I need you so much, Neal. I’ll love you forever. Promise you’ll always be here. Promise.”

  On the one hand, Neal felt warmed and comforted by his declarations of love for her. But she was also aware of a brief surge of annoyance at his possessiveness and insecurity. Still, she reasoned, he’d had a hard life. And now, when he had someone who loved him, it was only natural that he might be a little insecure. She just wished she didn’t have to reassure him constantly. She wished he could trust her.