I haven't used a slide rule since I was six and Dad showed us how to do logarithms."
Jane could only sigh. "Oh, Byron."
"I for one think it's good he found out how flighty she is now," their father said. "Before he married the woman."
"Flighty!" Jane protested. Caitlyn had been perfectly nice and had stuck by sensitivity-challenged Byron for years.
Her brother nodded. "She was making rules. No computer at the dinner table."
"You're all hopeless," Jane murmured.
Phil glanced over. "I heard that. I also heard that the real reason Ian Stone's not your client is because the two of you no longer have a romantic attachment."
"Jane!" her father said, disapproval written all over his face. "Is that true? If I'd known you were treading down that path I would have counseled you on the foolishness of mixing the professional and the personal. Your career is much more important than a romance."
She glared at the tattletale in the family. Avoiding a lecture against having a love life was why she didn't tell her father who she dated. "It's water under the bridge, Dad. Ian and I were done months ago. I've got the new client now." Who was already muddying the waters with another unwise professional-personal mix. She pressed the heels of her hands against her throbbing temples. What was she going to do about it?
"Uh-oh," Byron said. "Jane's got that look on her face."
"What look?" she demanded. "I've got a headache."
"Yeah, the same headache you had when you wanted that kid who lived next door - what was his name...Ed? - to ask you to your prom. It's your love headache. Are you getting silly and emotional with your new client too?" His voice took on an annoying elder-brother teasing slyness. "Does he find you lovable, little sis?"
Silly and emotional. He'd picked that up from their father, Jane thought, now glaring in Byron's direction. It was true that when the Pearson men ate meals they rarely paid attention to the plate and were instead engrossed with their work. Which meant there had been plenty of opportunity in those many years they'd lived together for her to have slipped poison into her brother's mashed potatoes. Damn her for the oversight.
Her father rose, yet another frown on his face. "What's this, Jane?" Corbett came to stand before her, his austere good looks making his expression appear only more critical. "I don't pretend to understand why you chose this field, but in any case, you need to think like a professional."
"Dad - "
"Just direct your attention to doing your job, my girl." He pointed a bony finger at her, the same one that he'd used to point out the errors in her geometry proofs. The sigh he released was the same too. "It goes without saying...."
But he would, she thought, bracing for it.
"It's much better to be competent. You can't count on people, Jane. You can't count on people or the strength of their emotional attachments. So it's much better to be competent than lovable." His frown deepened. "You hear me?"
"Yes, Dad, I hear you." After a minute, she stood to brush another kiss against his cheek. "Thanks."
And the gratitude was sincere. What had been silly and emotional of her was dreading this visit, she decided. Her father's disapproval never failed to motivate her in some manner or other and now was no different. She was going to put the incident in the storeroom with Griffin into perspective. And in the past. It was a brief lapse of judgment best forgotten. She'd direct her attention to doing her job.
That was clearly the best way forward. When she returned to the cove, she'd be refocused on business and absolutely immune to any further physical entanglements.
* * *
TESS SAT ON ONE of four cushioned chairs gracing the small porch that overlooked the ocean at Beach House No. 8. She pretended she wasn't spying on Teague White, who was back on the sand. She couldn't see the Tee-Wee in him; there was no residual sign of small and scrawny in his tall, muscled form. "Big and brawny," she murmured aloud, then, guilty, glanced around to ensure she was alone.
But she was. Alone.
The three older kids were inside the bungalow. Russ, ensconced in the matching lounge chair, was out like a light, curled in a ball on the seat pad. The ocean air and play in the sand had exhausted him. As was his wont, the baby had pulled his blanket around him until he looked like nothing more