say anything. Mike Wayne was a veteran reporter, and he read his niece well enough to know that something had upset her pretty badly. But he knew, too, that he’d never be able to pry it out of her. In her own good time, and when she felt ready, she’d talk about it. That was the best part of having Nikki around, that she never tried to hide things from them. She’d been a pitiful little girl, all nervousness and thin limbs and uncertainty. God knew he’d loved her like his own, and Jenny had, too. Maybe they didn’t have kids of their own, but Nikki sure felt as if she were. He’d wanted to adopt Nikki years before her parents died. If they’d really wanted her, they had a strange way of showing it. They’d been too wrapped up in each other to care much about Nikki. They never seemed to say more than a few words to her, or to touch her or smile at her.
The Waynes had always gotten along well with Jenny’s brother and his wife, but Mike hadn’t taken to them privately. He resented their treatment of Nikki, their thoughtlessness. He remembered one Christmas when she was about ten; her parents hadn’t even bought her a present. Christmas Day, at the family dinner, her father had handed her a five-dollar bill and told her to go get what she wanted. Mike had wanted to get up out of his chair and deck him. But for Jenny’s sake he’d bitten his tongue almost through and finished his turkey.
Now, holidays and special occasions always got remembered; Mike saw to it. He liked to think he’d made up some of those dark years to that lonely little girl.
The Wayne home was neoclassical in styling, with deep blue shutters around its windows and a fanlight above the front door, which tempted the imagination with its intricate, delicate pattern. The grounds were lushly green and shady, as dogwoods, pines and pecan trees mingled around the dark green hedge that separated the circular drive from the house and grounds. Azaleas were in full, glorious bloom, along with the crepe myrtle and wisteria. Jarrat Wayne had built the house the same year he opened the newspaper for operation sixty-five years before. Nikki loved every line of it, and the history it imparted. It was a copy of a much older house Jarrat had seen in the eastern part of the state. His wife had fallen in love with the design, so Jarrat had it copied for her.
“I just had the swimming pool cleaned,” Mike told her as he drove the car up to the front walkway and cut off the engine. “Go on in, honey. I’ll bring the suitcase.”
“Left the door unlocked again, did we?” Nikki teased as she opened the car door and got out.
Mike looked uncomfortable for a minute, sweeping a hand through his silvered black hair. “Well, hell, I only flew to Atlanta and back...”
“Someday,” she echoed Jenny’s eternal argument, “some happy burglar is going to come and carry away every single possession you and Jenny have.”
“Every single possession we have wouldn’t bring ten dollars,” he scoffed. “You know I’m not stupid enough to keep valuables in the house. I don’t even buy cheap original paintings anymore.”
“How about that antique table that belonged to your great-grandfather’s aunt in the West Indies, made of mahogany?” she asked, waiting for him to catch up with her. “And how about the grandfather clock in the hall that Uncle Cecil brought over from Ireland? And how about...”
“So I’ll start wearing the key to the house around my neck on a chain,” he grumbled, gripping the suitcase tightly as he stomped up the steps and threw open the door for her. “Nag, nag, nag...”
She laughed delightedly, feeling her old self for the first time since she’d left with Cal. It was good to be home.
“Don’t you feel like a swim?” Jenny asked later, when they were relaxing on the patio after a huge supper. “It’s a hot night.”
Nikki glanced toward her tall, well-endowed aunt, who was still dressed in slacks and a tent blouse in a shade of green that matched the eyes she and Nikki shared. Nikki’s late father had eyes the same shade.
“I don’t see you beating any paths toward a bathing suit,” Nikki murmured, laughing at her over a tall glass of sweetened iced tea.
“My figure loses something in the translation.” Jenny Wayne laughed. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on