was just that—a facade to hide the vulnerable, lonely girl who was so desperately in need of a real friend.
Regan would be the most sensitive to Elliot Graham’s brand of disapproval. She had trouble fitting in, resisted fitting in, daring people to like her in spite of her terrible attitude. To date, few people had cared enough to go through the hassle. She had made the rounds of the “better” juvenile homes in the Twin Cities, and had finally been shipped down to Horizon House. Now Horizon House itself was being shuffled around, rejected, and disapproved of. Lynn doubted the situation would do anything to help Regan settle in.
She stepped into a clean pair of worn-out jeans, pulled on her battered canvas sneakers without undoing the laces, and yanked open the bedroom door, determined to face the day, ready or not. Sitting on the floor just outside the room was a plate with a fortune cookie on it. The cookie had been cracked open and the end of a strip of white paper stuck out of the shell, beckoning the curious to look and see what the future might hold in store.
Lynn scowled at it, stepped around it, took abackward step toward the bathroom, eyeing the cookie as if it were bait in a trap. She told herself she didn’t care what it said. She wasn’t some sap ready and willing to believe an arbitrary sentence stuffed into a cookie at a factory a thousand miles away. Still, she hesitated. Her gaze darted up and down the hall. The coast was clear. Cursing her own curiosity, she bent and snatched the message out of the shell.
“Good things are coming to you in the due course of time,” she read aloud. Giving a snort of disbelief, she stuffed the note into her pocket and headed down the hall to try to restore some order to her hair.
The sound of Father Bartholomew’s voice led the way to the kitchen.
“Shredded bran, oat bran, bran nuts, that’s all the woman will buy. I tell you, my breakfast bowl usually looks like something you should feed to a workhorse. Bless her heart, I know Mrs. Ingram means well, but all that bran can put a real dent in a man’s morning, if you know what I mean. I try to tell her. Why, just the other day I said to her, ‘Agnes, when I preach that we should purge ourselves, I mean it in a spiritual sense!’ ”
Warm, husky laughter rolled out of the kitchen, stopping Lynn in her tracks just outside the door. She had been half hoping Senator Gunther would have been off to some essential breakfast meeting with his staff or teeing off with some grand pooh-bah. No such luck.
He was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, looking very much at home in his rumpled white polo shirt. His golden-blond hair looked finger-combed, slightly tousled, much too sexy. The hair, combined with the morning beard that shadowed the strong planes of his cheeks, made him look like a rock star, some teen idol just waiting for a herd of adoring young girls to hurl themselves at him. He sat with his elbows on the table, big shoulders hunched, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and a Twinkie in his hand.
The Twinkie got her. She could have steeled herself against the screen-star looks and the man’s-man aura, but how could she fight against a Twinkie? How could she maintain her cool against a white knight with a weakness for junk food?
“Oh, dear! Good morning, Lynn!” Father Bartholomew twisted around in his seat to give her a bright smile. As usual, his glasses were askew. He had obviously made an effort to glue his hair into submission with something that smelled like motoroil, but one recalcitrant section still stood up in a little fan of spikes at the crown of his head. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“Good morning, Father.” She nodded in Erik’s direction but avoided looking right at him, keeping her eyes on his half-eaten Twinkie. “Senator.”
“Senator Gunther went out and got us some treats for breakfast.”
“I see that. Twinkies. This is my lucky day.” Lynn made a
Regan would be the most sensitive to Elliot Graham’s brand of disapproval. She had trouble fitting in, resisted fitting in, daring people to like her in spite of her terrible attitude. To date, few people had cared enough to go through the hassle. She had made the rounds of the “better” juvenile homes in the Twin Cities, and had finally been shipped down to Horizon House. Now Horizon House itself was being shuffled around, rejected, and disapproved of. Lynn doubted the situation would do anything to help Regan settle in.
She stepped into a clean pair of worn-out jeans, pulled on her battered canvas sneakers without undoing the laces, and yanked open the bedroom door, determined to face the day, ready or not. Sitting on the floor just outside the room was a plate with a fortune cookie on it. The cookie had been cracked open and the end of a strip of white paper stuck out of the shell, beckoning the curious to look and see what the future might hold in store.
Lynn scowled at it, stepped around it, took abackward step toward the bathroom, eyeing the cookie as if it were bait in a trap. She told herself she didn’t care what it said. She wasn’t some sap ready and willing to believe an arbitrary sentence stuffed into a cookie at a factory a thousand miles away. Still, she hesitated. Her gaze darted up and down the hall. The coast was clear. Cursing her own curiosity, she bent and snatched the message out of the shell.
“Good things are coming to you in the due course of time,” she read aloud. Giving a snort of disbelief, she stuffed the note into her pocket and headed down the hall to try to restore some order to her hair.
The sound of Father Bartholomew’s voice led the way to the kitchen.
“Shredded bran, oat bran, bran nuts, that’s all the woman will buy. I tell you, my breakfast bowl usually looks like something you should feed to a workhorse. Bless her heart, I know Mrs. Ingram means well, but all that bran can put a real dent in a man’s morning, if you know what I mean. I try to tell her. Why, just the other day I said to her, ‘Agnes, when I preach that we should purge ourselves, I mean it in a spiritual sense!’ ”
Warm, husky laughter rolled out of the kitchen, stopping Lynn in her tracks just outside the door. She had been half hoping Senator Gunther would have been off to some essential breakfast meeting with his staff or teeing off with some grand pooh-bah. No such luck.
He was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, looking very much at home in his rumpled white polo shirt. His golden-blond hair looked finger-combed, slightly tousled, much too sexy. The hair, combined with the morning beard that shadowed the strong planes of his cheeks, made him look like a rock star, some teen idol just waiting for a herd of adoring young girls to hurl themselves at him. He sat with his elbows on the table, big shoulders hunched, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and a Twinkie in his hand.
The Twinkie got her. She could have steeled herself against the screen-star looks and the man’s-man aura, but how could she fight against a Twinkie? How could she maintain her cool against a white knight with a weakness for junk food?
“Oh, dear! Good morning, Lynn!” Father Bartholomew twisted around in his seat to give her a bright smile. As usual, his glasses were askew. He had obviously made an effort to glue his hair into submission with something that smelled like motoroil, but one recalcitrant section still stood up in a little fan of spikes at the crown of his head. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“Good morning, Father.” She nodded in Erik’s direction but avoided looking right at him, keeping her eyes on his half-eaten Twinkie. “Senator.”
“Senator Gunther went out and got us some treats for breakfast.”
“I see that. Twinkies. This is my lucky day.” Lynn made a
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