her teeth and
contracted plague. The man wouldn't even look at her. "I'll be
leaving come morning."
"I wouldn't count on that if I were you." One
side of the woman's mouth curved up into her cheek in a lopsided
smirk that Kat already recognized as Mrs. Martin's version of
a smile. "If Eugene Begley sent you here, he must mean you to be
here."
"You heard Mr. Goodman. It was a
mistake."
"Eugene Begley don't make that kind of
mistake."
"Charles' plans for this place didn't include
me or kids. I thought he made that pretty clear."
Looking only at Mrs. Martin across the table
from him at lunch or at Buddy to his left, Charles
explained in code again (and that was really ticking Kat
off) that he'd purchased this place in the middle of
nowhere as a 'retreat' for his people, to be used mostly on
weekends for adult relaxation and pursuits, emphasis on
'adult', and not for a schoolhouse.
You didn't have to be an expert at code
breaking to understand the meaning of that! With the pool and hot
tub, food and liquor enough to stock a neighborhood bar and
six bedrooms and baths above, he was looking for party time,
not foster parent time and he had thought to begin this
week's party early with Kat. The flaw in that theory was Mrs.
Martin herself who didn't find their circumstances amusing when she
walked in on them this morning, but later nodded her head in
understanding at Charles' plan. Of course, at the time, Mrs. Martin
thought Charles was the painter and not the boss. The guy who
signed your paychecks always had great ideas.
Kat brushed the last of the crumbs from
the counter into her palm, tossed them into the container under the
sink and came to stand next to Mrs. Martin. Together they watched
Charles look up at the gray and water swollen sky and frown.
He held his hand out, palm up, catching the
first fat drops of rain and then his hand went to his mouth and
with two fingers between his lips he issued a piercing whistle
before waving his arms to call Buddy in.
"You're supposed to be sitting down."
Kat touched the other woman's arm and
indicated the wooden rocker in the corner, mostly because she
didn't want to watch Charles' high and tight rear end move beneath
the canvas work pants. She didn't want to imagine how the muscles
of his tapered back rippled under the faded oxford shirt.
Damnit! What was the matter with her? She
didn't even know this guy and if they hadn't been interrupted, she
would have been stripped and spread after only a grunt and a nod
from him. She'd never done a one night stand in her life and she
sure as hell never felt like that about anyone, never mind a guy
she just met. After the way he'd treated her, what he'd said to
her, the way he ignored her at lunch, how could she still feel this
disgustingly insatiable interest?
"You don't belong here," Kat said aloud,
"That's what he said and he was right." He might as well have
slapped her.
She'd heard and felt those words so many
times, they shouldn't hurt any more. Repetition had taken the sting
out of those words long ago or so she thought. Kat had spent a
lifetime trying to belong, trying to have what other people had,
trying to live the way other people lived. Trying and failing.
She never belonged; not in her old
neighborhood, not in high school or college, not with her
colleagues at Greenwood Preparatory Academy and apparently not with
those of the Bastard, either.
"Seems to me, men say a lot of things they
don't mean." Mrs. Martin rocked that chair the way Kat suspected
the woman did everything, in double time.
"Trust me, Mrs. Martin, this one means it. He
wants me gone," Kat said bitterly and wondered again why it should
bother her so much.
"Don't know you well enough to trust you and
call me Tilda. I expect we'll be spending a lot of time together.
No sense being formal."
Before Kat could reply, Charles stuck his
head in the door.
"I'm going for a run," he said, "See if I can
catch up with Buddy."
At the sound of her son's
contracted plague. The man wouldn't even look at her. "I'll be
leaving come morning."
"I wouldn't count on that if I were you." One
side of the woman's mouth curved up into her cheek in a lopsided
smirk that Kat already recognized as Mrs. Martin's version of
a smile. "If Eugene Begley sent you here, he must mean you to be
here."
"You heard Mr. Goodman. It was a
mistake."
"Eugene Begley don't make that kind of
mistake."
"Charles' plans for this place didn't include
me or kids. I thought he made that pretty clear."
Looking only at Mrs. Martin across the table
from him at lunch or at Buddy to his left, Charles
explained in code again (and that was really ticking Kat
off) that he'd purchased this place in the middle of
nowhere as a 'retreat' for his people, to be used mostly on
weekends for adult relaxation and pursuits, emphasis on
'adult', and not for a schoolhouse.
You didn't have to be an expert at code
breaking to understand the meaning of that! With the pool and hot
tub, food and liquor enough to stock a neighborhood bar and
six bedrooms and baths above, he was looking for party time,
not foster parent time and he had thought to begin this
week's party early with Kat. The flaw in that theory was Mrs.
Martin herself who didn't find their circumstances amusing when she
walked in on them this morning, but later nodded her head in
understanding at Charles' plan. Of course, at the time, Mrs. Martin
thought Charles was the painter and not the boss. The guy who
signed your paychecks always had great ideas.
Kat brushed the last of the crumbs from
the counter into her palm, tossed them into the container under the
sink and came to stand next to Mrs. Martin. Together they watched
Charles look up at the gray and water swollen sky and frown.
He held his hand out, palm up, catching the
first fat drops of rain and then his hand went to his mouth and
with two fingers between his lips he issued a piercing whistle
before waving his arms to call Buddy in.
"You're supposed to be sitting down."
Kat touched the other woman's arm and
indicated the wooden rocker in the corner, mostly because she
didn't want to watch Charles' high and tight rear end move beneath
the canvas work pants. She didn't want to imagine how the muscles
of his tapered back rippled under the faded oxford shirt.
Damnit! What was the matter with her? She
didn't even know this guy and if they hadn't been interrupted, she
would have been stripped and spread after only a grunt and a nod
from him. She'd never done a one night stand in her life and she
sure as hell never felt like that about anyone, never mind a guy
she just met. After the way he'd treated her, what he'd said to
her, the way he ignored her at lunch, how could she still feel this
disgustingly insatiable interest?
"You don't belong here," Kat said aloud,
"That's what he said and he was right." He might as well have
slapped her.
She'd heard and felt those words so many
times, they shouldn't hurt any more. Repetition had taken the sting
out of those words long ago or so she thought. Kat had spent a
lifetime trying to belong, trying to have what other people had,
trying to live the way other people lived. Trying and failing.
She never belonged; not in her old
neighborhood, not in high school or college, not with her
colleagues at Greenwood Preparatory Academy and apparently not with
those of the Bastard, either.
"Seems to me, men say a lot of things they
don't mean." Mrs. Martin rocked that chair the way Kat suspected
the woman did everything, in double time.
"Trust me, Mrs. Martin, this one means it. He
wants me gone," Kat said bitterly and wondered again why it should
bother her so much.
"Don't know you well enough to trust you and
call me Tilda. I expect we'll be spending a lot of time together.
No sense being formal."
Before Kat could reply, Charles stuck his
head in the door.
"I'm going for a run," he said, "See if I can
catch up with Buddy."
At the sound of her son's
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