Читать книгу: «Scarlet Woman», страница 2

“You seem tired, Papa,” she said. “Maybe you need a vacation.”

“Can’t afford it. You get busy and set up that foundation, otherwise you’ll lose that money.”

He wasn’t going to inveigle her into putting him on that board; once the word was out, no one else would sit on it.

“I’ll get started on it, but I wish everybody would remember that Prescott hasn’t been gone three weeks. I need time to adjust.”

“Didn’t mean to rush you, but you have to make hay while the sun’s shining, and people will be more likely to help you now while your grief is fresh.”

Melinda hadn’t associated her father with greed. Maybe he really did need money for the church. Best not to comment on that. “Yes, sir. I’d better be going. See you soon.”

She patted his shoulder and jerked back her hand, remembering that he didn’t like being touched. She’d like to know what would happen if he unlocked his emotions, but she wouldn’t want to be there. The thought brought Blake Hunter to mind. Now, there was a man who probably controlled the blinking of his eyelids.

After parking her four-year-old Mercury Sable in front of her parents’ house, she went in to see her mother. “Why weren’t you in church this morning, Mama? You aren’t sick, are you?”

“No, honey. Your father had a miniconvention yesterday, and after cooking and serving that gang, I was too tired to get out of bed this morning.”

“Papa ought to get you some help. You’re practically a slave to those preachers and the members of that church.”

Lurlane Jones rolled her eyes and looked toward the ceiling. “Bring me Aladdin and his magic lamp—I’ll get some help a lot quicker that way. Your father does what he can.”

Her mother had the looks and bearing of a woman of sixty, though she’d just turned fifty, and her father looked as if he hadn’t lived a day longer than forty-five years though he’d recently passed his sixtieth birthday.”

“It’s sapping your life, Mama. The hardest work Papa ever does is preach his sermons, and since my brothers and I are no longer here to help you, you’re slaving here all day and half of some nights. You won’t catch me doing that for any man. Never!”

Lurlane tightened the belt of her robe and began brushing her long hair in a soothing, rhythmic fashion, as if expressing pleasure with her life and all around her. “We’re of different generations, Melinda. When you find a man you love the way I love your father, you’ll understand.”

Melinda’s head came up sharply. “Are you suggesting that I didn’t love Prescott?” It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what her parents thought of that marriage, and they hadn’t let on.

“You loved him as a friend, a pleasant companion, and only that. You’re still an unbroken colt, as your grandfather would say, but that’ll change before long.”

“My life, the part I held to myself, wasn’t secret after all,” she said to herself, walking rapidly out of the dining room to escape the sound of the ticking clock—a source of irritation for as far back as she could remember—knowing that her mother would follow. She wrapped her arms around Lurlane, kissed her, and left.

Driving home with her mind on her options, she was glad she’d invested in blue chip stocks most of her teacher’s salary and every penny of the allowance that Prescott gave her each month. The payoff was having enough money to support herself while she studied for a Ph.D., and enjoying the choice of remaining among the gossipmongers of Ellicott City or leaving the town. But she could not dishonor Prescott’s wishes that she set up that foundation, so school would have to wait one more year.

As she entered the house, she heard Ruby say, “She’s not back yet, Mr. Blake. Maybe she stopped by Reverend Jones’s house. She does that some Sundays.”

Melinda rushed to the phone that rested on a marble-top table in the hallway. “Hello,” but he’d already hung up. She looked down at the receiver she held, while disappointment weighed on her like a load of bricks.

Every molecule in her body shouted, “Call him back,” but he would want to discuss business, while she…She went into her room, threw her hat and pocketbook on her bed, and looked around. Blake Hunter had aggravated her nerves and irritated her libido for almost five years, and it hadn’t gotten the better of her. She wasn’t going to let him mess up her mind now.

She ignored the telephone’s insistent ringing. “Yes, sir, she just walked in. Yoohoo! Miz Melinda, it’s Mr. Blake.”

“Hello, Blake.” Did that cool, modulated voice belong to her?

“Hi.” A pause ensued, and she wondered why, as her heartbeat accelerated.

“What is it, Blake?”

“I hope you didn’t decide to put Reverend Jones on the foundation’s board of trustees.”

She stared down at the phone. “I thought we had an understanding about that.”

“Yeah. Well, I wanted to be sure.”

“Not…to worry.” The words came out slowly as she realized he’d changed his mind about something, and that her father’s membership on the board was not the reason he’d called. She sat on the edge of the bed, perplexed.

“Why are you calling me, Blake?”

“Didn’t I just tell you—”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, interrupting him. “But if that’s the way you want it, fine with me.” Angry at herself for seeming to beg the question, she added in a voice that carried a forced breeziness, “Y’all have a nice day.”

“You bet,” he said and hung up.

Pressing him hadn’t gained her a thing; she might even have lost a few points with him.

Chapter 2

The biggest error he’d ever made. What the devil had come over him? He’d feasted his eyes on her, eaten at her table, wanted her for nearly five years and kept it to himself. Not once had he done anything as stupid as making that phone call. He’d swear that, until yesterday, she hadn’t had an inkling as to how he felt about her. The thing to do was get his mind on something and somebody else. To make himself useful. He put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, stuck a baseball cap on his head, got into his Mercury Cougar, and headed for Metropolitan Transition Center in Baltimore, a state facility for short-term prison inmates.

As he entered the institution, he met a priest he’d often seen there. “Got three new ones today,” the priest said. “Tough kids. I expect you can do more for them right now than I can.”

Blake didn’t like the sound of that. “Where are they?”

“Up on 9XX3. Jack will send them down.”

“Thanks. As soon as one leaves here, two or three replace him.”

The priest shook his head. “And they’re so young.”

Blake sat on the uncomfortable sofa, drabness facing him from every angle, and waited for the young men. Why would a person risk going back there once he regained his freedom? Yet the prison held dozens of repeat offenders. Finally, the boys arrived, none of them over eighteen.

“I’m Blake. A lot of the guys here take my course in criminal law. Would you like to join?”

“School? Juku, man,” the oldest one said. “Man, that’s like an overdose of Nytol.”

Blake shrugged and pulled his cap farther down on his forehead. “I make it cool, man. One of the brothers learned enough law to get his case reopened. I wouldn’t think he’s any smarter than you.”

“I gotta keep my lines open, man. Otherwise, while I’m in here, my territory’ll go up for grabs.”

The youngest of the three looked at Blake, attentive, but unwilling to cross the leader.

“How long are you in for?” Blake asked the older, talkative one whom he’d sized up as the leader.

“Eighteen months. Why you take up your time coming out here?”

“We brothers have to hang together,” Blake said. “The street’s mean. It can suck every one of us in like quicksand.”

“Man, I ain’t fooled by your jeans and sneakers,” the older one said. “You don’t know nothing ’bout the street, man. It’s a pisser out there.”

Blake had been waiting for that. It always came down to are you really one of us? He rested his left ankle on his right knee, stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and leaned back.

“I hustled the streets of Atlanta till I owned them. You name it, I did it—running errands on my bike, shining shoes, selling shoestrings, peddling books, peanuts, even the Holy Bible. I delivered packages, did whatever I could to make a living and keep myself in school.” He had their attention now, and he’d keep it. “Every cop knew me, and I knew every junkie on the street, but I wasn’t their customer.”

“Did you rat on them?”

Blake raised an eyebrow and pasted a look of incredulity on his face. “I’m sitting here talking to you. Right?”

“Cool, man. My name’s Lobo.” The older one held out his hand, palm upward. “Put it right there, man. You’re mega.”

He supposed that was a compliment, so he thanked Lobo.

The others introduced themselves as Phil, who hadn’t said anything previously, and Johnny, who was the youngest of the three. Two potential gang members if he’d ever seen any.

“I’ll be here next Saturday at three o’clock when I teach criminal law. Hope to see you brothers in the class.” He picked up the bag he’d rested on the floor. “Meanwhile, I brought along a few things you might like to share—some chocolates, writing pads and pens, deodorant, soap, aftershave, things like that. See you Saturday.” Rule number one, never overstay your visit.

Lobo extended his hand, and Phil and Johnny did the same. “Chill out, brother,” Lobo said. “You da man.”

Blake let himself grin. Getting their confidence was the first step. Later, he’d try what the correction institution didn’t bother to do—work at correcting them.

When he got outside, it surprised him to see the priest sitting against the hood of his Cougar. “How’d you make out?” the priest asked him.

“I made a dent, but not a very deep one. They’ve been there less than a week and already they’re a little gang.”

“Not very encouraging,” the priest said. “How’d you get into this?”

Blake walked around to the driver’s side of his car. “I’m going to Ellicott City. If you’re headed that way, I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’m going to Baltimore.”

“A couple of years back,” Blake said, as he headed into Baltimore proper, “I had a client, a young Moslem man, who told me he’d managed to turn some of the brothers around, giving up one day each week to teach in the Lawton Prison Program. He impressed me, and I decided to do something similar.”

“I wish I knew how he did it.”

“He had his successes as well as some failures, you know.” He slowed down to avoid colliding with one of Maryland’s road hogs. “By the time we get to these criminals, most are too far gone for help, but I decided to try with the young ones.” He paused for a minute. “I’m not being disrespectful, Father, but it might help if you learned the language of the street and took off that collar. They don’t want to be corrected, so you have to be subtle.”

“Thanks. You don’t play golf by any chance, do you?” the priest asked him.

“You bet. I’m no Tiger Woods, but I occasionally shoot around par.”

“Then maybe we could go out together some Saturdays after your class. My name is Mario Biotti.”

“Blake Hunter. It’ll be a pleasure.”

He dropped the priest off in Baltimore, and headed home. He loved junk food but didn’t allow himself to have it often. Today, however, he pulled into Kentucky Fried Chicken and ordered a bucket of Southern-fried buffalo wings, French fries, buttermilk biscuits, and coleslaw. Walking out with his treasure, he patted his washboard belly, assuring himself that he could occasionally indulge in junk food and keep the trim physique in which he took pride. As he opened the door of his car, he heard his name.

“Mr. Hunter. Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Rachel Perkins. Just what he needed. “Hello, Miss Perkins,” he said, remembered his baseball cap, and went through the motion of tipping his hat. “Great day we’re having,” he added, getting into his car as quickly as he could and igniting the engine.

Her obvious disappointment told him he’d escaped an invitation that he wouldn’t have wanted to accept, and a grin crawled over his face as he waved at her and drove out of the parking lot. He’d always enjoyed outfoxing people, and Rachel Perkins was outdone.

At home, he put the food on the kitchen counter, washed his hands, and was preparing to eat when the telephone rang.

“Hi, Callie. What’s up? I was going to call you as soon as I ate.”

“Nothing much. Mama said Papa’s still poorly, but I haven’t been down there since we last talked. He keeps driving himself just as he always did, even though we send him money and he doesn’t have to do it.”

“He’s a hard man, and that extends to himself. Thank God I got out of there when I did.”

“Tell me about it. I have to thank you for insisting I get my General Education Diploma and for sending me to college. No telling what I’d be doing now if you hadn’t.”

“Water under the bridge, Callie. You only needed a chance. Why don’t you come up here for part of your vacation? You haven’t seen my house yet.”

“Maybe I’ll do that. Don’t forget to call Mama.”

“I won’t. Hang in there.”

He hung up and walked back into the kitchen with heavy steps. He dreaded going to Six Mile, Alabama, but no matter what his father’s shortcomings, his mother needed his support, and he’d have to get down there soon. He sat against the kitchen counter, propped his left foot on the bottom rung of a step stool, and bit into a piece of chicken. Somehow, it failed to satisfy him as it usually did on those rare occasions when he ate it. He put the food in the refrigerator and went out on his patio. What the devil was wrong with him? He was hungry, but had neither a desire nor a taste for food, and that didn’t make sense: he loved to eat. Maybe he needed a check-up.

The phone rang again, and he raced to answer it. “Hello. Hello?”

The caller had the wrong number. He slammed his left foot against a leather puff that he’d bought in Morocco and considered himself fortunate to have chosen that rather than the wall as a means of relieving his frustration. Damn her, anyway.

Melinda looked over the list of people Blake suggested for membership on the board of the Prescott Rodgers Foundation, as she’d decided to call it, and ran a line through the name of Andrew Carnegie Jackson. The man’s parents named him Joseph, but he changed it, claiming that Joseph reminded him of the song “Old Black Joe.” A man with money, he’d said, ought to have a name to go with it. Hardly a social event took place in Ellicott City that someone didn’t make a joke of it.

She stared at the name Will Lamont, and grabbed the phone with such recklessness that she jerked it off the table and the receiver fell on the floor.

“What are you trying to do to me?” she asked, her voice sharp and cutting, when Blake answered the phone. “Will Lamont is head trustee at my father’s church. I can’t put him on this board unless I appoint my father, too.”

“Then scratch off his name.”

“That’s exactly what I did. How could you—”

“If he’s off the list, what’s the problem? I gave you a bunch of names. Do what you please with them.”

Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm. “Thanks so much. You’re supposed to be helping me, but it’s clear you’re waiting for me to blow the whole thing.” She held the phone in her left hand and pounded softly and rhythmically on the desk with her right fist.

“So you think I’m an ogre? Fine. I like that—it means I don’t have anything to live up to.”

She wanted to…What did she want? She’d better rope in her thoughts. “Prescott talked about you as if you could change the direction of the wind. I wish you’d show me some of your virtues. So far, you’re batting pretty low.”

“Well, I’ll be doggoned. You want to see some of my virtues. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll be happy to oblige you.”

She looked down at the print of her little fingernail in her right fist and shook her body, symbolically shedding the goose pimples that his words brought to her arms. Suggestive words that embedded in her brain images of his beautiful fingers stroking her flesh.

Angered that he seduced her so easily, she said, her voice crusted with ice, “What are you talking about?”

“Me? Same thing you’re talking about. Why?” The words came out almost on a laugh. Mocking. Yes, and accusing. “Did I say something wrong?”

She escaped to the safety of talk about the foundation and the list before her. “Who drew up this list, you or Irene?”

“I gave her the names. She did the rest. She’s extremely efficient.”

She didn’t give two hoots about Irene’s efficiency, and she was sure he knew it. “Did you put these booby traps in here intentionally, or did you have temporary lapses of political savvy?”

“I don’t have such lapses. If you see a name on that list, it’s because I intended for it to be there. I don’t mix foolishness with business.”

“I see.” She couldn’t help needling him, even though she knew that was a substitute for something far more intimate. “One of your virtues. Right?”

She heard the wind swoosh out of him and prepared herself for biting words, but the expectation didn’t materialize.

“Think over this conversation, Melinda, and let me know what you make of it. Any disinterested person would think you’re after more than you’re receiving. Think about what you want before you get in too deep.”

She had to let that stab go by, because he’d changed from teasing to baiting, and she refused to bite. “Since I’m not a disinterested party, I won’t be able to judge. Right?” She began walking back and forth from her desk to her bed. “The will says you’re to help me. If you don’t, I’ll do it without you.”

“You might as well cooperate with me. It will be done to my satisfaction or there’ll be no foundation and no inheritance.”

She swore under her breath. “A person with a flea brain could see through what you’re doing. I refuse to fail, because that would make you happy.”

She imagined that one of his mesmerizing grins had taken possession of his face when he said, “You don’t want me to be happy?”

“Does the sun rise in the north?” she asked him. “This isn’t getting me anywhere. See you.” She hung up and immediately wished she hadn’t. Jostling with him had been fun, and while they were at it, she’d had a warm, cozy sensation, far from the forsaken feeling she had now.

An hour later, his belly full of calories, Blake lay flat on his back on his living-room floor listening to Ledbetter sing the blues. He wasn’t contented, but he felt a lot better than he did before she called to chew him out. If only he had a firm handle on whatever was going on between them.

He voiced his frustration with a satisfying expletive. She could raise hell and threaten all she pleased, but she’d fulfill the terms of that will or she’d be just another widow. She married Prescott for money, and if she wanted to get it, she’d have to earn it. She could heat him to boiling point; it wouldn’t make an iota of difference.

Melinda decided to tackle Judd Folson first and get that over with. Too bad that he’d misunderstood the scene with Blake and her when he’d walked into Blake’s office.

“Good morning, Mr. Folson. This is Melinda Rodgers. I’m calling to—”

“Oh, you needn’t worry, Melinda. Blake explained that he had to catch you when he opened the door. I didn’t—”

The nerve of him. She told herself not to react. “Mr. Folson, my late husband’s will requires that I establish a foundation to support remedial reading here in Ellicott City, and I’m inquiring as to your willingness to serve on the board. I’m canvassing twelve of the town’s leading citizens. It’s a charity foundation, so there’s no honorarium for this.” She heard a sound like someone clearing his throat and waited for the verdict.

“The leading citizens, eh? Well, now, that’s right decent of you. You can put my name down.”

Martha Greene agreed to serve, but not before she let Melinda know what she thought of the Reverend Booker Jones. “That man thinks everybody’s headed straight for hell, everybody but him, that is. It’s a wonder you turned out as well as you did.”

Melinda closed her eyes tight. Ten more to go, and she could shake Ellicott City dust from her feet, except for Christmas and Mother’s Day. Turned out as well as you did! Grin and bear it, girl, she admonished herself. It’ll soon be in the past.

“Then you’ll serve, Mrs. Greene? Thank you so much. My husband would be pleased.”

“You think I’m doing it for him?” the woman shot back. “I’m signing on because of all the people around here who can barely read a street sign. Prescott Rodgers stayed as far away from the citizens of this town as he could get. Anybody would have thought he was scared we’d absorb some of his money.”

Just a sweet, loving human being. “Whatever your reason, Mrs. Greene, I do appreciate your help.”

She hung up. “Whew.” That was as much as she could take for one evening. She went over the lesson plans for her classes in American literature and contemporary fiction writing, got ready for bed, and put on a Billie Holiday CD. Jazz, Mozart, and Brian McKnight ballads could lull her into contentment every time. She sat on the floor with her back against her bed and closed her eyes to let the sound of Billie singing “Why Not Take All of Me?” wash over her. Within seconds, Blake Hunter filled her thoughts, and then she could feel his fingers gently loving her neck, face, arms, her belly, thighs, all of her. She gripped the coverlet on her bed as he hovered above her, and when he wiped tears from her eyes, she felt the dampness on her face and knew that she cried.

Melinda got to school the next morning, but she’d tossed in bed all night begging for the sleep that never came, and every muscle in her body ached. When questioned about her obvious fatigue, she explained to Rachel that working on the foundation had worn her out.

“I thought maybe you’d been out with that fine brother who’s handling Prescott’s will.”

“You saw him the last time I did.”

Rachel lowered her gaze, and Melinda couldn’t help noticing the look of embarrassment on the woman’s face. “Are you suggesting that I’m seeing Blake socially?” she asked Rachel.

“Well…uh…no, but you know how people talk.”

Melinda didn’t press Rachel, but the woman’s words failed to placate her. She’d noticed her fascination with Blake, and Melinda didn’t blame her. Who would? Blake Hunter wasn’t just handsome; his tough, masculine personality and riveting presence jumped out at you, and you had to pay attention to him. Any female between the ages of eight and eighty with warm blood running through her veins would give the man a second look.

“What are they saying about me and Blake Hunter? What can they say?”

Rachel patted Melinda’s shoulder and looked as if she wanted to deny her statement. “Girl, our folks love to gossip. You know that.”

She stared down at Rachel, who stood little more than five feet five inches in her three-inch heels. “It isn’t just ‘our folks’ who gossip. All small-town people gossip—they don’t have much else to do.” Seeing the relief on Rachel’s face, she knew the woman had been saved from embarrassment. Or maybe from lying.

Later that afternoon, the school’s superintendent called Melinda to his office. “Mrs. Rodgers, I understand your late husband’s will contains provisions that aren’t favorable to you. I was—”

“Who told you that? As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing bad in that will.”

“But I heard you’d been disinherited, and I thought you might ask Mr. Hunter to settle some money on the school.”

She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. It wasn’t easy to ring her bell, but he’d just managed to do it. “Is that all, Dr. Hicks?” Without waiting for his answer, she spun around and left.

On an impulse, she stopped by Blake’s office on the way home. If he couldn’t do something to arrest the awful gossip, she’d chuck the whole thing.

“Melinda. What a surprise,” he said and stood when she entered his office. “What can I do for you?”

She explained the reasons for being there. “It started yesterday with Judd Folson. Even Rachel’s repeating these stupidities. I’m fed up.”

The tips of his fingers warmed her elbow. “Come on in.” He didn’t go to his desk as she would have expected, but led her to the leather sofa that rested beneath a collection of paintings by African-American artists and sat there beside her.

“Tell me about it.” His voice conveyed an unfamiliar softness, a tenderness, maybe even an intimacy. At least she thought so.

“It’s…I know a lot of people don’t like my father, and I understand that. I even accept it, because he’s a big dose for me sometimes, but what did Prescott ever do to anybody?”

“Ordinary people envy the rich, Melinda. He didn’t have to do anything to anybody.”

Her eyes widened, and her pocketbook slipped from her lap to the floor. She caught herself, but not quickly enough to hide her shock. He picked up her pocketbook and put it on the sofa beside her.

“Why are you surprised? The poor have hated the rich since the beginning of time.”

She couldn’t help staring at him. “Rich? What do you mean rich? I know Prescott was well off, but rich?”

Now, she had obviously surprised him. “Prescott Rodgers was worth millions, and his estate will earn royalties probably for as long as people wear glasses and use cameras.”

She slumped against the back of the sofa and slowly closed her mouth. “I never dreamed…Prescott never talked about his finances, and I didn’t question him about them. I knew we were well off. We had what we needed, but if he hadn’t given me anything more than the first real peace I’d had in my life, I would have been contented.”

He stared at her for so long that she decided she’d lost his sympathy, that she’d better leave. But he restrained her with a hand on her shoulder, a hand whose warmth she felt to the marrow of her being.

“Don’t go. Please. This takes some getting used to.”

“Why? What did you think? That I—”

He cut her off. “Don’t say it. Right now, I don’t know what to think. Prescott talked freely to me about his affairs, or at least I think he did, so it didn’t occur to me that he didn’t share them with his wife.”

She didn’t like the chill that settled in her chest. “There was no reason why he should have.” She stood and walked to the door, giving him no choice but to follow her.

“If you want to take over the matter of that foundation, it’s all right with me,” Blake said.

“You know I can’t do that. I’ve sworn to do as he wished, and I can’t sidestep my integrity and live with myself.”

His voice behind her, so close to her ear, sent shock waves throughout her body, and she had to will herself not to turn around.

“I…I’ll help you with it. Maybe…” His breath seemed to shorten, and his words became rasping sounds. “We’ll…Like I said, I’ll help you.”

And then it hit her. His opinion of her didn’t differ from what the rest of Ellicott City thought about her. “You don’t believe me, do you? You think I knew and that I can’t wait to get my hands on Prescott’s money, don’t you? Isn’t that right?”

The sudden coolness of her body told her he’d stepped away from her back. She saw his hand on the doorknob and remembered that moment two weeks earlier when it had rested on her waist. Protective. Possessive. He turned the knob, and when she risked a glance at him, she bit back the gasp that nearly sprang from her throat. Desire, fierce and primitive, shone in his eyes.

“What do you want me to say?”

The words seemed to rush out of him. Perhaps he’d found some kind of reprieve, had grabbed the opportunity to reply logically, but without saying anything meaningful. She didn’t answer. But she hurt. Oh, the pain of it, shooting through her like a spray of bullets tearing up her insides. The ache of unappeased desire, and the anguish of knowing he thought so little of her. With her hand covering his, she pulled open the door and rushed down the corridor to the elevator. He didn’t think well of her, but he wanted her. She didn’t know if she could stand it.

He watched her rush away from him, her hips swaying almost as if in defiance above the most perfect pair of props a man ever looked at. Seconds earlier, he’d come close to doing what he’d sworn never to do. As she reached the elevator, he closed his door and leaned against it. It wouldn’t do for her to look back and find him watching her. She needed his help; without it, the good people of Ellicott City would laugh at her, and he couldn’t bear to see her ridiculed.

A man confided things to his lawyer, but to keep his wife in the dark about his wealth…He ran his hand over the hair at the back of his head. He didn’t believe she was lying, but something didn’t jell. A woman who’d been married for almost five years ought to know how to finesse a man’s revved-up libido. Any man’s. But she didn’t make small talk, didn’t joke, didn’t say anything that would have cooled him off. That level of naiveté in a twenty-nine-year-old widow was incomprehensible. He should keep his distance, but he didn’t see an alternative to sitting with her while she contacted the people on her list.

She’d had time to drive home, so he called her. “Melinda, this is Blake. Suppose you stop by after school, and we’ll go through your list till we get twelve people to agree to serve. The sooner we do this, the better.”

Her long silence annoyed him until he let himself remember that she was probably as shaken by their near-encounter as he. “All right,” she said at last in a voice that suggested disinterest. “I want to finish it as soon as possible.”

He believed that, but not her feigned disinterest. “Till tomorrow then.”