Anything for Her - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,13

had been changed by his decision to take in the tall, skinny boy with the greasy blond hair he’d first encountered at the grocery store, of all places.

Back in February or so, he’d been going in when a man and teenage boy were coming out, the man pushing a cart with difficulty through winter slush.

“Did you steal that?” There was an unpleasant snap in the man’s voice.

“What? No!” The boy sounded shocked. “You saw me put it in the cart. I thought...”

“You thought wrong. You ask if you want something. Hear?”

“It’s just beef jerky.”

“We don’t buy junk.”

Watching the two walk across the parking lot, Nolan had been struck by the dislike on the man’s face. How could you look at your own boy that way?

He saw them again a couple months later, in spring. The hardware store that time. He’d rounded the end of one aisle and started down the next, and there they were. They weren’t talking. The kid was trailing disconsolately a good ten, fifteen feet behind the man Nolan assumed was his father. His head hung, his shoulders were slumped. His feet dragged.

There came a moment when the dad pushed the cart around the corner and Nolan and the boy were alone.

Nolan didn’t understand what drove him. A solitary man, he didn’t make a habit of intruding. But he hadn’t liked anything he’d seen between these two.

“You okay, son?” he asked.

The boy didn’t turn around, although he did stop. He shrugged, a miserable sight if Nolan had ever seen one. His jeans were too short, Nolan noticed, exposing bony ankles in sagging socks. His hair was dirty.

Nolan laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not an answer,” he said, in his quiet way.

The boy looked at him. The sheer desperation on his face tore something open in Nolan’s chest.

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Your father?”

The boy all but erupted in fury. “He’s not my father!”

“Then who is he?”

“He’s...” The shoulders sagged again. “He’s my foster dad,” he said dully. “I’ve lived with him and his wife since December, when my grandma died.”

“If they took you in, they must have wanted you.”

Another shrug. “They said they did.”

“Sean?” the foster father called from the next aisle. There was that hateful snap again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m coming,” Sean said, and started to trudge forward.

“Wait.” When the boy paused, Nolan asked quietly, “Does he hit you?”

“Nah.”

That was when Nolan did something even more out of character for him—he took out his wallet and removed a business card. “Sean.”

The boy stopped again and looked back.

“Take this. It has my number on it. If you need someone, call me.”

He took it, his fingers closing tightly on the card. He looked down at it, then up at Nolan’s face. Back to the card. He didn’t get it. Nolan could tell. Nolan didn’t get it, either. All he knew was that he’d recognized something in the boy, a smoldering resentment and unhappiness he’d felt at about the same age. Different causes, but enough the same that he couldn’t suppress the empathy he felt for a boy he didn’t even know.

After a long minute, Sean had ducked his head in a sort of nod and disappeared after his foster father.

At the end of May, he’d called.

CHAPTER THREE

ALLIE’S MOTHER SMILED perfunctorily when Allie told her the date had gone great and she and Nolan were going to see each other again. Without commenting or asking more about him, she began chattering about the Friends of the Library and how someone had suggested she run for president when elections came around at the end of the year.

“Goodness, I’d never considered it,” she said, “but of course I do organize the book sale, and it seems as if more and more often people are turning to me.”

She sounded really pleased, Allie thought, which made her guess her mother needed more recognition than she’d been receiving. It wasn’t hard to see why; her boss might appreciate her, but her job kept her tucked away in the back room. Who gave a thought to the bookkeeper, unless your paycheck was late? For so many years, Allie’s and her mother’s entire lives had required them to keep a low profile. It had been a long time since Allie had chafed at that, but maybe it had bothered Mom all along.

I never realized. The fact that she was surprised made her feel self-centered. When was the last time she’d wondered what made her mother happy?

“You’d do a great job,” she assured her. “You ought