clothes?”
Jenny shook her head. “Nope, designer babies.” She ripped a piece of warm, salty garlic bread off. “It’s the latest trend in the fertility industry. This lady buys eggs from attractive, college-educated women. She keeps a stash of sperm donors from handsome guys with doctorate degrees, and for about forty grand, will allow infertile couples to pick the genetic combo they want. A little mixing and matching, and presto; they’ve got their designer progeny.”
Jenny popped the bread in her mouth, closed her eyes and sighed in appreciation. “This bread. Is amazing.”
“How very Nazi eugenic. She’s bioengineering her own little master race. And this is legal?”
“So far.”
The waitress placed a fresh napkin and Peroni in front of Skye. “Compliments of Mark Dutton.” She turned to Jenny. “What can I get you?”
Skye leaned forward. “Excuse me, you must have made a mistake. I don’t know a Mark Dutton.”
“Well, he paid for your drink and dinner.”
“I...well...” How weird—and uncomfortable. Skye didn’t want some strange guy paying for her dinner.
Please tell me the redheaded creep isn’t Mark Dutton . Skye resisted the urge to move closer to Jenny—suddenly very glad for her friend’s presence. She swiveled in her seat to survey the room, expecting to see some guy’s smooth grin. “Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yup. He saw that guy hitting on you, so he had a word with the gentleman, paid for your meal, and left.”
He did what? How’d he know she hadn’t enjoyed the attention? Silly thought. Skye knew she had a rather transparent demeanor, and she’d hardly been subtle with the guy. “What’d he say to him?”
“Don’t know, but the guy got all red in the face and took off.”
Skye’s jaw dropped open as she squinted at Jenny. “That’s crazy. Who does that?”
“Apparently, Mark Dutton.” Jenny turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a Bellini, please.”
“Wait a minute,” Skye called out. “He told you his name?”
The bartender reached into the refrigerator for a spiced peach to garnish Jenny’s cocktail. “Mark’s a regular. Loves the Chicken Neopolitan.”
“I don’t suppose you could give me his phone number or address?”
“I could, but I like my job.” She placed the drink in front of Jenny. “He’s probably listed.”
Skye raised an eyebrow. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Probably listed.”
“Probably.” Jenny took a sip of her Bellini, closed her eyes, and sighed. “So. How was your day?”
“My day?” Emotionally worn out, Skye didn’t feel like explaining the family mess she’d uncovered. Her thoughtful gaze returned to the Peroni in her hand. “My day was a nightmare, but my night’s looking up.”
* * *
Skye eased her Prius to a stop in front of Faith’s house and put the car in park. Dropping her hands into her lap, she looked at the digital clock. The numbers glowed eight forty-five. Skye stared at the darkened house. Hmm. Had Peter and Faith gone to bed already? She wrinkled her forehead. Was Peter on days or nights this month? She couldn’t remember. Skye turned the car off and sat with her hands resting on the inside curve of the steering wheel.
Mom had had a family policy of never letting them go to bed angry. She claimed that it was bad for the soul. Mom probably just made that up because she hated familial discord, but habits were hard to break and guilt was a powerful motivator. Skye sighed deeply and left the car.
Skye found the side door open, let herself in, and followed sounds of the TV into the family room. It was dimly lit from the glow of the TV and one small lamp. Not wanting to startle them, she called out a hello, then moved into the room.
Peter sat at one end of the couch and Faith lounged at the other end. Peter held Faith’s bare foot in his lap, his thumbs massaging the bottom of one foot as they watched TV. “You’d think a cop would be more
Jenny shook her head. “Nope, designer babies.” She ripped a piece of warm, salty garlic bread off. “It’s the latest trend in the fertility industry. This lady buys eggs from attractive, college-educated women. She keeps a stash of sperm donors from handsome guys with doctorate degrees, and for about forty grand, will allow infertile couples to pick the genetic combo they want. A little mixing and matching, and presto; they’ve got their designer progeny.”
Jenny popped the bread in her mouth, closed her eyes and sighed in appreciation. “This bread. Is amazing.”
“How very Nazi eugenic. She’s bioengineering her own little master race. And this is legal?”
“So far.”
The waitress placed a fresh napkin and Peroni in front of Skye. “Compliments of Mark Dutton.” She turned to Jenny. “What can I get you?”
Skye leaned forward. “Excuse me, you must have made a mistake. I don’t know a Mark Dutton.”
“Well, he paid for your drink and dinner.”
“I...well...” How weird—and uncomfortable. Skye didn’t want some strange guy paying for her dinner.
Please tell me the redheaded creep isn’t Mark Dutton . Skye resisted the urge to move closer to Jenny—suddenly very glad for her friend’s presence. She swiveled in her seat to survey the room, expecting to see some guy’s smooth grin. “Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yup. He saw that guy hitting on you, so he had a word with the gentleman, paid for your meal, and left.”
He did what? How’d he know she hadn’t enjoyed the attention? Silly thought. Skye knew she had a rather transparent demeanor, and she’d hardly been subtle with the guy. “What’d he say to him?”
“Don’t know, but the guy got all red in the face and took off.”
Skye’s jaw dropped open as she squinted at Jenny. “That’s crazy. Who does that?”
“Apparently, Mark Dutton.” Jenny turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a Bellini, please.”
“Wait a minute,” Skye called out. “He told you his name?”
The bartender reached into the refrigerator for a spiced peach to garnish Jenny’s cocktail. “Mark’s a regular. Loves the Chicken Neopolitan.”
“I don’t suppose you could give me his phone number or address?”
“I could, but I like my job.” She placed the drink in front of Jenny. “He’s probably listed.”
Skye raised an eyebrow. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Probably listed.”
“Probably.” Jenny took a sip of her Bellini, closed her eyes, and sighed. “So. How was your day?”
“My day?” Emotionally worn out, Skye didn’t feel like explaining the family mess she’d uncovered. Her thoughtful gaze returned to the Peroni in her hand. “My day was a nightmare, but my night’s looking up.”
* * *
Skye eased her Prius to a stop in front of Faith’s house and put the car in park. Dropping her hands into her lap, she looked at the digital clock. The numbers glowed eight forty-five. Skye stared at the darkened house. Hmm. Had Peter and Faith gone to bed already? She wrinkled her forehead. Was Peter on days or nights this month? She couldn’t remember. Skye turned the car off and sat with her hands resting on the inside curve of the steering wheel.
Mom had had a family policy of never letting them go to bed angry. She claimed that it was bad for the soul. Mom probably just made that up because she hated familial discord, but habits were hard to break and guilt was a powerful motivator. Skye sighed deeply and left the car.
Skye found the side door open, let herself in, and followed sounds of the TV into the family room. It was dimly lit from the glow of the TV and one small lamp. Not wanting to startle them, she called out a hello, then moved into the room.
Peter sat at one end of the couch and Faith lounged at the other end. Peter held Faith’s bare foot in his lap, his thumbs massaging the bottom of one foot as they watched TV. “You’d think a cop would be more
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