Lynnette Kent - The Third Mrs. Mitchell

“Manual transmissions are so cool,” Kelsey commented, watching the trooper change smoothly from second to third.

He let the engine noise build to a roar, then flashed another one of those grins before easing into fourth. “Makes the driving a lot more fun. But working a clutch takes practice. You’re not old enough for a license yet, are you?”

“I’ve got my learner’s permit. But all I get to drive is my mom’s Volvo. It’s automatic. Boooorring.”

“I notice your aunt’s Porsche is a six-speed. Maybe you should bug her to let you drive.” His smile looked…wicked?

“Hey, good idea.” She glanced out the window at the neighborhood they were going through, at houses with sagging porches and yards littered with tires and trash. A gang of boys stood on one street corner, smoking and jiving each other over gangsta rap from a boom box on the sidewalk.

Kelsey shivered. Walking past that group would have been scary. No question.

She felt more than saw Pete Mitchell glance across at her. “That was some argument, back at Charlie’s.”

So much for polite conversation. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No problem.” He nodded and glanced at Trace through the rearview mirror. “I hear you played a good game Thursday. Leading scorer on the JV?”

“Yeah.” Trace was at his most uncommunicative.

“Bet you can’t wait to get on to the varsity squad. You’re in—what?—eighth grade? I guess you’ve got a couple of years yet. Think you’ll play football, too?”

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

Pete gave up on coaxing the boy into saying something on his own. Forcing a kid to talk was the quickest way to kill any chance for communication. The best results came from letting them know the option was there and then backing off until they decided to take it.

Sure looked as though the LaRue kids could use somebody to listen, though. The air around the two of them practically boiled with what they weren’t saying. A divorce in the family was toughest on the kids—all this bad stuff happening around them over which they had no control.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. Without comment, Pete braked for the stop sign at Boundary Street—the unofficial border between the poorest section of town, with its public-housing projects and broken-down rentals, and the historic, luxurious homes on The Hill. On the south side of Boundary, kids lived with a whole different scale of troubles. Troubles that made Kelsey and Trace look as if they’d landed in Oz by comparison.

“Here you go,” he said as he pulled up to the curb in front of a house probably worth more than all the buildings south of Boundary Street put together. The announcement wasn’t necessary—Kelsey and Trace were scrambling out of their seat belts as fast as the latches would release. “Have a good day.”

Trace stalked off without so much as a nod. Kelsey got out, then leaned back into the car with a smile that flirted a little too much for Pete’s comfort. “Thanks.”

He gave her a discouraging lift of his eyebrow; her immediate pout told him he’d made his point. “You’re welcome.”

“Kelsey?” The girl straightened up and looked over her shoulder at the woman coming around the side of the house. Pete followed Kelsey’s gaze and groaned silently. If the blond curls piled on top of her head hadn’t advertised who this was, the honeyed voice would have.

Damn. His plan was to drop the kids off without running into their aunt. Wasn’t it? No ulterior motive here, right?

Fighting a sensation of imminent doom, he eased out of the Jeep and propped his arms on the roof. “Hey, Mary Rose. You’re out early.”

She held up a pair of garden clippers, as if that explained everything. “What’s going on? Kelsey, where’s your dad?”

Kelsey imitated her brother’s indifferent shrug. “Who knows?”

“He was supposed to bring y’all home.”

“Well, he didn’t.” Before her aunt could say another word, Kelsey stomped up the walk and slammed the front door behind her.

That left Pete to face the question in Mary Rose’s blue eyes. “They, uh, had an argument. At the diner.”

“And how did you get involved?” The suspicion in her tone suggested the ulterior purpose he hadn’t acknowledged.

“The kids left on their own, intending to walk home. I didn’t think that was such a good idea, so I caught up and gave them a lift.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks turned a deep pink under her tan. “Thanks. They should know better than to walk here from Charlie’s.”

“Kelsey was too mad to be thinking about much of anything.”

“Did you hear the argument?” She held up a hand before he could answer. “What am I saying? No doubt everybody in the diner heard.”

“Well, yeah. L.T. had some trip planned, but Kelsey told him she wasn’t going and then stomped out.”

Fists propped on her hips, Mary Rose stared down at the sidewalk, shaking her head. She wore a pink knit shirt, which clung close to her breasts, and pale jeans, which hugged her hips and thighs. The sight stirred something hot inside him that Pete knew he had no business paying attention to. After all these years, after two failed marriages, he could leave well enough alone. Right?

“Well, thanks again.” Throwing off her preoccupation, Mary Rose sent him an impersonal smile. “We appreciate your taking care of the kids.”

Wrong answer. Every time she put him at a distance, Pete got an irresistible urge to close the gap. He walked around the front of the Jeep, braced his feet on the curb and leaned back against the passenger door. “Did you come into town to take care of your sister’s garden?”

Mary Rose glanced at the clippers in her hand. “I’ll do whatever Kate needs. She’s pretty overwhelmed right now.”

“Why don’t you let the yard service take care of things?”

Her mouth tightened and her eyes blazed. “Because when L.T. moved out, he stopped sending his landscaping crew to do the work. And the allowance he gives her doesn’t exactly cover a lawn service.”

Pete muttered the word Adam DeVries had used earlier to describe LaRue. “She should sic her lawyer on him.”

“Easier said than done.” She fiddled with the clippers, opening and closing the blades. “Daddy wants to keep the situation low-key, attract as little publicity as possible.”

“Your dad is acting as her lawyer? But he does business with LaRue, doesn’t he?” Pete thought for a second, then shook his head. Her father had, after all, engineered their divorce. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Don’t make it sound so…so selfish. Daddy wants L.T. and Kate back together. He thinks that by making as few demands as possible, L.T. will…will feel less resistance to coming home.”

“Seems to me he’s interfering the same way he did ten years ago. Telling your sister what’s best for her instead of letting her decide for herself.”

“That’s ancient history.”

“More like history repeating itself, I’d say.”

Mary Rose took a breath to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Not when she was standing here face-to-face with Pete Mitchell, remembering how her parents had badgered her into getting a divorce. She recalled her dad’s calm, rational arguments, delivered nonstop until she couldn’t seem to think on her own.

“I’m sorry for your sister,” Pete said, breaking into her thoughts. “Sounds like she could use at least one person on her side. And not,” he said, with a pointed look at the clippers, “just to do the yard work.”

“I am on her side!”

He tilted his head. “Are you? Better be sure, Mary Rose. Looks like the stakes are pretty high. There are two kids involved.”

“I’m aware of that. Kate and Kelsey and Trace are the only people who matter in this situation.” Who was she trying to convince? Why did it matter what Pete Mitchell thought, anyway? “Have a good Saturday.”