Anything for Her - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,75

the choice she’d made. Think of the guilt she’d suffer. Would she be able to bear it?

Chest aching, Allie asked herself, Can I do that to my mother?

She didn’t know.

They ate a few bites in near silence. The blotches gradually faded from Mom’s face, although the lines seemed permanently carved deeper. Allie gradually realized how odd she felt. Maybe this was a case of being careful what you wish for. She hadn’t wanted to know that her mother had resented her for being special in any way.

And yet she did understand how Mom had felt. Allie hadn’t recognized that her grandparents were sexist enough to have devoted their praise and hopes and resources to their son while stinting their daughter. She had entirely misinterpreted those sharp voices she’d overheard coming from the kitchen. The fact that her granddaughter was interested in feminine arts like tatting had pleased Nanna, since her own daughter never had been. Maybe even Allie’s dancing had seemed girlie enough to be acceptable.

What might Mom have done with her life, if she’d been encouraged to go to college and maybe even grad school? It was entirely possible that Mom was smarter than Dad. Had it especially rankled that Dad had inherited his position and the company that carried his name?

Maybe.

And do I blame Mom for that?

No.

Allie knew enough had been said today. Her mother had broken. She’d see herself as having lost her dignity. Allie couldn’t bring herself to plead for more.

“You know, if we hustle we can still make that movie,” she said, and Mom visibly wrapped herself in a semblance of her usual self-possession.

“Oh my,” she said, glancing at her watch. “You’re right. Why don’t you see if you can catch the waitress’s eye?”

Allie lifted her hand, glad she had an excuse not to have to continue to pretend enthusiasm to eat. “Here she comes now.”

“My treat,” her mother said, reaching for her purse.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said, as soon as the waitress moved off with Mom’s credit card. “We have enough leftovers to give us our dinners, too.”

Her mother ruefully agreed. A moment later they both accepted take-out containers and scraped their mostly uneaten salads into them.

Walking out, Mom remarked disparagingly on the antiques-and-consignment store that shared the building.

“Honestly, it’s barely a step up from a garage sale,” she said with disdain.

Allie argued, of course, because it was expected. She ought to be relieved that they were back on familiar footing.

Deep inside, she was still so angry, she was afraid she could never feel the same for her mother.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“GOT TO BE HONEST,” the P.I. said. “I’ve hit a roadblock. I can’t answer your questions yet.”

Nolan peeled off his goggles. He’d already set aside the ear protection. With his forearm, he swiped granite dust from his face, keeping the cell phone to his ear. “You can’t track down any family?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve done that. Haven’t been able to talk to the brother yet, though. He’s a sales manager for one of our bigger employers in these parts. My brother-in-law works there, too. Mannerville Furniture. You know them?”

“No,” Nolan said tersely. “Should I?”

“The company manufactures fine wood furniture. Sells in fancy stores all over the country.”

Nolan pinched the bridge of his nose. “And this is relevant how?”

Small silence. “Well, I guess it isn’t. Only meant to say, this Jason Nelson is on the road most of the time. Hard to catch him home.”

“And the father?”

“Him I talked to. Mark Nelson. First he said he didn’t have a daughter and what was I talking about? When I took out a copy of the yearbook page and a printout of the emergency-contact page from the school records, he slammed the door in my face.”

“Huh.”

“He looked real shook-up,” the investigator remarked thoughtfully. “Not like someone who just didn’t want to be bothered. More as if...” He trailed off.

“He was scared?” Nolan didn’t even know where that came from.

“Yeah. That, or seriously ticked off. Hard to say.”

“I assume you checked out newspaper archives? Arrest records? You didn’t find anything suggesting domestic violence?”

“Nothing like that. There’s no hint the divorce was anything but amicable. Mrs. Nelson never called the cops on her ex, that’s for sure. Neither parent was ever investigated for child abuse.”

Then what in hell had happened? Nolan asked himself in frustration. Could there have been an ugly incident when the family was out of state on vacation, say? He raked fingers through his hair, stirring a cloud of grit. No, of course not; Judy and Mark Nelson had