Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(61)

“Is that why you broke up with her, then?” she asks Blue.

“I didn’t.”

Her heart drops. “You’re still going out?”

“No! I mean, I didn’t break up with Willow. She broke up with me.”

“Really? That’s not what I heard.”

“Yeah, people assume stuff. She didn’t bother to set the record straight, so why would I?”

Calla shrugs, as if none of this matters all that much to her, when really, she’s been wondering what happened between Blue and Willow . . . and where they stand now.

So Willow dumped him? Would they still be going out if she hadn’t?

Evangeline has said she thinks Willow is still hung up on Blue, but maybe it’s the other way around. What guy wouldn’t be captivated by Willow, with her perfect porcelain skin, delicate features, and striking dark hair and eyes?

“Well, anyway, I just wondered if she’d said anything to you about . . . what happened with us. Since you two are friends now.” Blue adds, “Hey, by the way, how’s her mother doing lately?”

It’s not a casual question, Calla realizes. That’s the tone you use when the person you’re asking about hasn’t been well.

“Althea’s hanging in there,” she informs Blue, as though she knows all about it. Well, almost all about it. She can’t help but ask, “What, exactly, is wrong with her? Is it cancer?”

“Maybe . . . something bad. I’m not sure exactly what. Willow doesn’t like to talk about it. Althea’s the one who told me. I was over there one day, and it was obvious something was wrong. I asked her about it, and she said she was sick. Really sick. She doesn’t want people feeling sorry for her, so not that many people know about it.”

“Not that many people know about what?”

Calla looks up, startled to see David Slayton framed in the doorway.

He’s instantly recognizable. She’s seen him on television plenty of times, discussing his work with celebrities and politicians, or solving high-profile crimes. She always thought he was impossibly good-looking, charismatic, flashy.

Kind of like his son.

Now here he is in person, even better looking than he is on TV. His wavy hair is more gray than brown, but not in an unappealing way, and he shares his son’s intense blue eyes. He’s wearing expensive-looking lounging clothes; the kind actors wear in movies, unlike real-life guys, who go around the house in holey sweatpants or boxer shorts before bed. Guys like Calla’s dad, anyway.

Something tells her that her dad and Blue’s dad don’t have a whole lot in common.

“If people were supposed to know about the thing we’re talking about, more people would, but since I just said they don’t . . . don’t ask.” Blue’s response to his father’s question is punctuated by a look that makes it clear he isn’t happy to see him.

“Keeping secrets from your old man again, are you?” He crosses the room and holds out his hand to Calla. “I’m David Slayton.”

“Hi . . . I’m Calla Delaney.”

“It’s nice to meet you. You’re not from here.”

Caught off guard as much by the deliberate statement as she is by the intense scrutiny in his gaze, Calla stammers, “Oh . . . uh, I’m . . . no.”

“The Southeast. Correct?”

“Florida.”

He nods, looking so pleased with himself that she realizes he isn’t just recapping what his son told him about her earlier.

In fact, she gets the distinct feeling Blue didn’t tell him anything at all, because they don’t seem to have seen each other in at least a couple of days.

“Do I have an accent?” she asks David, to break an uncomfortable silence. “Is that how you knew where I was from?”

“No accent at all. I just knew.”

“He’s magical,” Blue says sarcastically. “Didn’t you know?”

Ignoring his son, David Slayton mentions that he just flew in from California that evening, and is hoping to reset his body clock back into the right time zone.

“I swear by hot milk and honey,” he comments, pouring some milk into a mug. “You should try it the next time you’re jet-lagged.”

Unsure whether he’s talking to her or to Blue, Calla says nothing, watching him put the mug into the microwave and press a few buttons.

She notices that Blue is methodically plucking grapes from the stem, chewing and swallowing without the least bit of pleasure. You don’t have to be a psychic medium to notice that there’s plenty of tension between father and son. At least, there is on Blue’s end.

David Slayton seems oblivious.

“You’re living here now, in the Dale,” he asks, or rather tells, Calla as he leans against the counter, arms folded, waiting for his milk to heat.

She nods. “Either you’re really good, or Blue told you about me.”

“I’m really good,” he says simply, but not without a smug nod. “Blue hasn’t told me anything . . . about you, or anything else.”

“There’s nothing to tell, and even if there were, you haven’t been around all week.”

“No. But I’ve called.”

Blue shrugs. “Not every day.”

“You’re a big boy, Blue. Do you really want me bugging you every day?”