the person inside can decide whether or not he or she wants you to come in.” She gave the girl a blithe smile. “We had quiche lorraine for lunch. There’s some left, in case you didn’t have time to eat.”
“Quiche...? But Tilly can’t make quiche,” she faltered.
“I can.” She smiled again, went back into her room, closed the door and locked it audibly.
Curses ensued from the other side of the door.
Gaby just laughed and went back to her book.
* * *
SUPPER THAT EVENING was a subdued affair. Jackie glared at Gaby and picked at her food, which was a macaroni-and-cheese casserole and asparagus, cooked by Tilly.
“How was school?” Chandler asked his niece.
“Boring. Tedious. I hate it!”
“Well, cheer up. When you’re seventeen or you graduate, whichever comes first, you can leave.”
Jackie glared at him, too. “I miss my old school!”
“You can always get on a plane and join your mother wherever she’s living in Europe,” he said, barely noticing her as he made notes on an iPad for court.
Jackie put her fork down and actually looked sick. “I’m full.”
He looked up. “Then you’re excused.”
“She’s not eating, either,” Jackie muttered, noting Gaby’s apparent lack of appetite.
“Oh, I’m still full from lunch,” Gaby said with a big grin.
“Were you here for lunch?” Chandler asked Jackie suddenly, looking up from the screen with hostile brown eyes.
“No,” Jackie said shortly.
Chandler looked at Gaby. “What did Tilly feed you?”
“She was going to make fish stew,” Gaby said, with a wry glance at Jackie, “but I suggested quiche instead.”
“Tilly can’t make those fancy dishes,” he began.
“I can,” Gaby replied. “I made the quiche.”
“You can cook?” he asked, startled.
“My grandmother had me professionally trained when I was about the age of the Goth Girl, here.” She indicated Jackie, who fumed and stood up, angrily.
“I am not a Goth Girl!” she almost screamed.
Gaby and Chandler both stared at her. She was wearing black pants and a black camisole. She had tattoos on both arms and pierced jewelry from her ears to her nose. She was wearing black nail polish and black lipstick.
“I can call you a Beatnik instead, if you like,” Gaby said pleasantly. “They wore black and hung around coffee shops playing bongo drums and reciting poetry. In fact, I know of such a club, right downtown.”
“That’s the Snapshot, right?” Chandler asked.
Gaby chuckled. “Yes, it is. The owner said that everybody snaps instead of claps and they drink shots of espresso, so the name just seemed right.”
“It actually does.”
“I do not play bongo drums,” Jackie growled. Not for worlds would she admit that she knew the place and loved to go there.
Gaby looked at her. “The original beatniks didn’t wear tattoos,” she remarked. “Did you know that they have actual tattooed human skin in one of the larger museums in the city?” she added.
Jackie made a horrible face. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s just eight o’clock,” her uncle said.
“TV. I’ll go watch TV,” she muttered.
“There’s a new series about women in prison,” Gaby called after her. “It might give you some pointers.”
There were horrible curses, followed by a slamming door.
Gaby burst out laughing. “Sorry,” she told her boss contritely. “Couldn’t resist it.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got her standing on her ear. I haven’t been able to get so much as two words out of her since she’s been here.”
“She’s hurting,” Gaby said suddenly.
He scowled. “Excuse me?”
“Something or somebody has hurt her badly,” Gaby said simply. “Have you asked her why her mother wanted her to stay with you?”
He hesitated. “It wasn’t her mother. Jackie asked to come.”
“That must have taken a lot of guts, at her age,” was the soft reply. “I imagine her mother was insulted by it.”
His firm, chiseled lips opened on a breath. “She was. How did you know?”
“We all have tragedies in our pasts,” she said simply. “At a guess, her mother’s boyfriend did or said something inappropriate, or she’d still be with her mother. Tilly said she loved her mom.”
“She does. Not the new boyfriend, however. Frankly, I think he’s the worst kind of layabout, and he’s got a roving eye. I don’t know what the hell my sister sees in him.”
“Who can understand the leanings of a hungry heart?” She sighed and smiled.
“Have you ever felt them, Miss Dupont?” he asked pointedly.
She grimaced. She couldn’t tell him about the trauma that had kept her chaste for so many years. “I was too busy being educated to hang out with wild crowds. My grandmother paid for my education, but insisted that I not