Chapter 20

Twenty

APPARENTLY THE FOLLOW-IN-THE-FOOTSTEPS question he'd thought was innocuous had been anything but.

As Lindsey's shoulders stiffened, Jack stopped whisking. "Sorry. I didn't mean to tread on sensitive ground."

She continued to the island and set the container of cream on top. "No need to apologize. I just don't talk much about my family situation."

"I can change the subject. Why don't we—"

"No. It's okay." She exhaled. Faced him. "I can give you the highlights. Or lowlights, to be more precise. Cooking isn't a family tradition. My dad was in international finance and my mom's the VP of marketing for a Fortune 500 company."

When she named the firm, he hiked up his eyebrows. "Impressive."

"Yeah, it is—and Mom and Dad had similar career aspirations for me. Law or medicine were their suggestions, given my excellent grades. But I didn't have the stomach for blood, and law bored me. After some mega battles, I agreed to get a business degree. One year into the corporate world, though, I knew I couldn't spend my life doing that kind of work. I wanted a more creative outlet that fed my soul as well as my body. Hard as I tried, I couldn't be the person Mom and Dad wanted me to be. So I quit my job and went to culinary school."

"How did your mom feel about that?" Because her dad would have been gone by then if he'd died twelve years ago, as she'd told him.

She turned aside to rummage through a drawer. "She wasn't happy." There was a world of hurt in her voice.

His heart contracted. "She didn't support your choice, did she?"

"No." Lindsey kept her back to him as she withdrew a large stirring spoon. "As Mom made clear, she didn't send me to a high-priced college so I could flip pancakes or be a scullery maid."

Jack cringed. "I'm sorry." Not close to adequate, but it was too soon for the hug he was tempted to give her.

"Thanks. But I did fine. After I graduated, I landed a job at a high-end restaurant in South Carolina. I planned to work on that side of the business for about ten years, then venture out on my own. The grocery store incident accelerated my timetable."

"How did you end up in St. Louis?"

She swiveled back toward him, her features schooled into a neutral expression. "I'd visited Clair on several occasions after she got her job here, and I liked the town. It seemed like it would be a good fit."

"Has it been?"

"Yes. Except for everything that's happened in the past three weeks, I've enjoyed living here and establishing a business."

"All of the bad stuff will be behind you eventually."

"It can't happen soon enough to suit me." She set the spoon on the island, pulled the piecrust from the oven, and returned to the counter that separated them. "Ready for me to add the rest of the ingredients?"

They were done talking about her parents.

Yet from the condensed history she'd provided, her life hadn't been a bed of roses on the family front, either.

And it helped explain why she'd been angry with him for urging her best friend to do something that didn't reflect her interests or personality.

He gave the contents of the bowl another quick whisk and pushed the mixture toward her across the island. "Have at it."

It took only a couple of minutes to stir in the remaining ingredients, but he did a double take as she measured the last one. "You put pepper in pumpkin pie?"

The corners of her lips tipped up. "A secret ingredient shared with me by one of the pastry chefs I used to work with." She measured out an eighth of a teaspoon, blended it in, and poured the filling into the crust.

Once the pie was in the oven, Lindsey set a timer and motioned to the stools at the counter. "Shall we sit? The cheesecake has to bake at least another half hour, and the pie will take close to an hour."

Uh-oh.

She was expecting him to keep his promise to explain the comment he'd made earlier, about the necessity of learning to cook.

His pulse picked up.

While he'd intended to follow through, a sudden wave of doubt crashed over him. His story wasn't pretty, and who knew how she'd react?

Cradling her mug in her hands, Lindsey remained silent. She didn't push. She simply waited for him to get comfortable with the idea of sharing confidences—or not.

He had seconds to make a decision.

Honor his promise to tell her more about his background, or succumb to a case of cold feet and flee?

Yet she'd opened up to him. Didn't he owe her the same in return? Especially if he wanted this relationship to progress?

Just do it, Tucker. You'll have to tell her at some point, and if your background turns her off, you may as well know now rather than set yourself up for heartbreak later.

That was true.

But how did you launch into a tale you'd never told a single soul?

WHATEVER JACK'S SECRET, he'd changed his mind about sharing it.

Curious as she was about his earlier cooking comment and his odd reluctance to rescue the boy's Frisbee in the park, it would be unkind to press the issue. Best to give him an out.

Lindsey pushed up the corners of her mouth. "Maybe sitting isn't the best idea. I expect you have chores to take care of the day before the holiday, like everyone else does."

His eyebrows dipped into a V, and when he spoke, his words were slow and careful. As if he was weighing each one. "I do have to make a green bean casserole for dinner at my sister's tomorrow. It was a staple at every family holiday gathering for as long as I can remember. One of Mom's specialties. My foster mom's, that is. My birth mother ... Lorraine ... she didn't cook much."

Was that an opening? Did he want her to ask a few questions, help guide him along whatever path he wanted to go down?

She slid onto one of the stools and approached with caution. "That fits with what you mentioned earlier, about learning to cook out of necessity."

"Yeah." After a nanosecond of hesitation, he circled the island and took the stool beside her, resting an elbow on the countertop as he angled toward her. "I learned to forage from a very young age."

"How young?"

He gave her a taut shrug. "As far back as I can remember, to some degree. More so after I was seven. Lorraine was an indifferent mom at best, a terrible one at worst." His fingers curled into a ball, and a muscle ticced in his jaw. "She had huge, unpredictable mood swings and delusions. She always thought someone was trying to break into our apartment, and she'd tell me to watch the door. If I got distracted, she'd fly into a rage and punish me. I don't remember when that started, but the pattern was well-established by the time I was four."

Shock rippled through her. "That's far too young to be given any sort of responsibility."

"Not according to Lorraine."

Lindsey wasn't certain she wanted to hear the answer to her next question, but she asked it anyway. "How did she punish you?"

A subtle quiver rippled through him. Easy to miss if she hadn't been watching closely. "She'd drag me up to the roof of our apartment, dangle me over the edge, and threaten to drop me." His voice hoarsened, and he cleared his throat. Swallowed.

Lindsey stopped breathing.

How did a person survive that kind of abuse and grow up to be normal, aside from an understandable fear of heights?

"Where was your father during all this?"

"I have no idea. He was never part of my life. There's no father listed on my birth certificate."

"And no one knew about the abuse?" She gently rested her fingers on top of his clenched fist.

He looked down at their connected hands. "My grandmother caught her doing it one day when I was five. Not long after that, she moved in with us, and life got calmer—and safer. She watched out for me. Loved me. Cared for me. Showed me the only kindness I'd ever known. She died when I was seven, but those two years with her saved me."

"Did your mom go back to punishing you after she died?"

"Not with the roof routine. I was big enough at that age to fight her off. So she stopped taking care of me. I subsisted on cereal and canned goods, learned to do my own laundry, cleaned my own room. That's when I vowed someday to learn to cook so I never had to eat cereal again."

Jack's story was even more of a nightmare than what she'd been living through these past three weeks.

"How did you end up in foster care? Did someone finally report your birth mother?"

"No. She abandoned me the summer I turned eight. Left one day and never came back. For two months, I lived alone, eating from garbage cans after the food in the apartment ran out."

An eight-year-old left to survive on his own?

Unbelievable.

"Your neighbors didn't notice what was going on?"

He barked out a mirthless laugh. "Where we lived, everybody kept to themselves. These weren't the type of people who wanted anyone to know their business."

"So how did foster care enter the picture?"

"We got thrown out of the apartment. Turns out Lorraine hadn't paid the rent for months. An eviction notice came, but I couldn't read all the big words. The first I knew about it was when I came home one day after scavenging for food and found the front door locked and all our stuff on the sidewalk."

Merciful heaven.

The story kept getting worse and worse.

"What did you do?"

"I panicked. Not because I was on my own. I was used to that. But Gram had a gold claddagh pendant her father had given her mother on their wedding day in Ireland. Gram treasured it. She kept it in a box of cough drops in her dresser where Lorraine wouldn't find it and hock it, but once in a while she'd take it out and show it to me. Thankfully, no one who'd gone through the broken-down furniture on the sidewalk had bothered with the cough drops. The pendant was still there."

A little, motherless boy who suddenly had nowhere to live but who cared more about a sentimental item from his grandmother than where he would sleep that night.

Her heart melted.

She took a sip of her hot chocolate, swallowing past the lump in her throat as she struggled to hold on to her composure. "So if the apartment was locked, what did you do? Did you ask someone to call the police?"

"No. Lorraine had always told me to stay away from them. She said they caused problems. So I went to the church at the corner and knocked on the door of the house beside it. A priest answered. He fed me and assured me the police weren't my enemies. He also stayed with me through the whole ordeal with the patrol officer and the woman from Social Services who showed up. By the end of the evening, I was with Mom and Dad. And I never left."

Lindsey let out a slow breath. "I can't believe everything you went through as a child. Most people who'd experienced all that wouldn't have gone on to live a normal, productive life."

"I wouldn't have, either, if it hadn't been for Gram, and then Mom and Dad. But those early years messed with my mind for a long time. Part of me thought it was my fault Lorraine was the way she was. That I'd failed her somehow, and that's why she left. Why she punished me."

"Oh, Jack." She twined her fingers with his. "None of that was your fault. It's obvious your birth mother had psychological issues."

"I realize that now. From the research I've done, I suspect she had schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. But coming to grips with that was tough. And I've never overcome my fear of heights. Other than that, though, I gradually settled into a more normal life, thanks to Mom and Dad. From the day they took me until the day they died, they did everything they could to make up for my rough beginning." The last word rasped.

Thank God he'd been placed in a loving home. Otherwise, Jack could easily have ended up on the other side of the law.

"I'm glad your story had a happy ending."

"I am too. Sadly, not all foster kids are as lucky. That's why I take a week of vacation every year and volunteer at Camp Gideon. Have you heard of it?"

"No." But kudos to him for his willingness to help others.

"It's a summer camp for kids like me, started by an ex-army pilot who was also in the foster program. It's about forty-five minutes west of St. Louis. Kids from backgrounds like mine need a leg up, and Rick does a great job creating a memorable and positive experience for them."

"I doubt he could do it without volunteers like you."

Jack lifted one shoulder. "I believe in paying it forward." He looked again at her hand resting on his while several silent seconds ticked by. "You know ... I've never told that story to anyone."

Her heart stumbled. "Not even your parents?"

"No." He lifted his head and his gaze locked onto hers, its intensity short-circuiting her lungs. "But I'm glad I told you."

"I'm glad too." Her response came out in a whisper.

"I also want to thank you for telling me about the situation with your parents. Your mom in particular."

"It pales in comparison to what you went through."

"Hurt is hurt. And it's always worse when it comes from a family member." He eased his hand free and slid off his stool. "I should go. Your desserts will need your attention soon, and I have a casserole to make."

She stood too, despite her reluctance for this confidence-sharing session to end.

He followed her to the foyer, slipping his arms into his coat after she removed it from the closet. "I hope you enjoy your holiday."

"You too." But pleasant as her day at Madeleine's would be, spending it with the detective who'd just offered her a window into his soul would be much, much better.

A timer began to beep.

"Your cheesecake calls." Jack's lips curved up.

She shifted her focus to them.

They were very nice lips. Firm, but with a hint of softness that suggested his kisses would be—

"Lindsey?"

She yanked her gaze back to his eyes, where heat had begun to simmer. "Cheesecake. Right." She fought down the warmth threatening to spill onto her cheeks. "Burnt cheesecake from a chef would be a major faux pas."

"Unless she had an excuse for being distracted." Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his hand and trailed a finger down her cheek, sending a tingle through every nerve in her body.

Oh, man.

She grabbed the edge of the closet door and held on tight.

"Are you—" Her voice cracked, and she tried again. "Are you flirting with me, Detective?"

"No. I don't flirt. I believe in sending direct messages." He maintained the skin-to-skin contact for another moment, then withdrew his hand. "Happy Thanksgiving, Lindsey."

"You too."

"I'll be in touch after the holiday. But if anything comes up in the interim, call me."

"Okay." It was all she could manage.

As she continued to cling to the closet door, he let himself out, the soft click of the lock behind him prompting her to tiptoe over and peek through the sidelight.

At his car, Jack stopped at the door and lifted a hand in farewell.

Huh.

If he was that certain she'd be watching, she must have sent a boatload of I'm-smitten clues.

But who cared? They'd entered new territory today, and the future was brighter now that much had been explained. Like his fear of heights. And his understandable reluctance to get involved with anyone who might have mental issues similar to his birth mother's. Plus, a deep-seated fear of desertion could also make him cautious about entering into any relationship.

His touch at their parting, however, suggested he was fast putting any reservations behind him.

One more blessing to be grateful for this Thanksgiving week.

The only thing that could make tomorrow's holiday even happier?

Solving the Robertson murder case and an end to bizarre incidents like the ones that had upended her world over the past three weeks.

Unfortunately, a vague niggle of unease as she watched Jack drive away left her with an unsettling feeling that they weren't out of the woods yet.

Where do we stand?

Proceeding according to plan.

We may have to get rid of her if she remembers anything else.

Shouldn't be necessary. We've made sure her credibility is compromised, and the carpenter is still a prime suspect thanks to the planted and pawned jewelry. I don't want any more killing.

Like I've said, we could set it up to come across as a suicide or an accident. After all, she's been under a lot of strain.

Easier said than done.

I have confidence we can pull it off, just like we've pulled off everything else. Is the tattoo gone?

Getting there. It isn't fun.

It's less painful than going to prison. That tattoo should have been gone long ago anyway. When can we get together?

Safer to wait until this is over.

I'm getting impatient. This is dragging on much longer than I expected.

If there hadn't been a witness in the kitchen that day, we'd be home free. Have to go. Schedule is full this afternoon.

You're always busy.

Goes with the territory. Life will be less crazy after this is over.

If getting rid of Lindsey Barnes will speed up that outcome, I'm in.

I'll keep that in mind. Happy Thanksgiving.

Not as happy as it could be.

There's always next year.

Hold that thought. And keep Lindsey in your sights. We're too close to our goal to let anything—or anyone—stand in our way.