It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(47)

The exposed stone on the longest wall glowed buttery in the light of the lamps he turned on. The room encompassed a comfortable two-story living area and a cozy, old-fashioned kitchen with a snug loft tucked above it under the eaves. The scrubbed pine floor held an assortment of furniture including a couch in a hunter green plaid with red and yellow accents, soft, oversized chairs, and an old pine cupboard. A wooden bench bearing decades of nicks and scars from tools served as a coffee table and held an old checkerboard sitting next to a pile of books. Chunky wooden candlesticks, stoneware crocks, and several antique metal banks rested on the mantel above the big stone fireplace. She had expected him to be surrounded by marble statues of naked women, not live in this comfortable rural haven that seemed so much a part of the Illinois prairie.

He handed her a soft blue chambray shirt. “You might want to put this on. There’s a bathroom off the kitchen.”

She realized she was still clutching the front of her dress. Taking the shirt from him, she excused herself and went into the bathroom. As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, she saw that her eyes were large and vulnerable, windows into all her secrets. She straightened her hair with her fingers and rubbed at the mascara smudges with a tissue. Only when she felt calm did she leave the bathroom.

The shirt he had given her hung to mid-thigh, and she rolled up the sleeves as she came into the kitchen where he was pulling a loaf of whole wheat bread and a package of sandwich meat from the refrigerator.

“How about roast beef?”

“I’m not much of a beef eater.”

“I’ve got some salami here, or turkey breast.”

“Plain cheese would be fine.”

“Grilled cheese? I’m real good at that.”

He was so eager to please, she couldn’t help smiling. “All right.”

“Do you want wine or a beer? I’ve also got some iced tea.”

“Iced tea, please.” She took a seat at an old butternut drop leaf table.

He poured both of them a glass and then began fixing the sandwiches. A copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time lay open on the table. She used it as an opportunity to restore some semblance of normality between them. “Pretty heavy reading for a jock.”

“If I sound out all the words, it’s not too bad.”

She smiled.

He tossed the sandwiches into an iron skillet. “It’s an interesting book. Gives you a lot to think about: quarks, gravity waves, black holes. I always liked science when I was in school.”

“I think I’ll wait for the movie.” Taking a sip of iced tea, she pushed the book aside. “Tell me what happened with Molly.”

He braced his hip against the edge of the stove. “That kid’s a crackerjack. I met her inside when I was making my phone call. She told me some pretty hair-raising things about you.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that you’re keeping her a prisoner in the house. You tear up her mail, put her on bread and water when you’re mad at her. And you’re slapping her around.”

“What!” Phoebe nearly knocked over her iced tea.

“She told me it doesn’t hurt.”

Phoebe was flabbergasted. “Why would she say something like that?”

“She doesn’t seem to like you too much.”

“I know. She’s like a fussy maiden aunt. She disapproves of the way I dress; she doesn’t think my jokes are funny. She doesn’t even like Pooh.”

“That might be good judgment on her part.”

She glared at him.

He smiled. “As a matter of fact, your dog was cuddled around her ankles most of the time we talked. They seemed to be old friends.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I might be wrong.”

“She honestly told you I slap her?”

“Yes, ma’am. She said you weren’t evil, just twisted. I believe she compared you with somebody named Rebecca. The first Mrs. de Winter.”

“Rebecca?” Understanding dawned, and she shook her head. “All that talk about Dostoyevski and the little stinker is reading Daphne du Maurier.” For a moment she was thoughtful. “How do you know she wasn’t telling you the truth? Adults slap children all the time.”

“Phoebe, when you were standing on the sidelines at the game, you looked like you were going to faint whenever anybody took a hard hit. Besides, you just don’t have the killer instinct.” He turned to flip the sandwiches. “For example—correct me if I’m wrong here—but I’m guessing it’s more than a fickle appetite that made you turn down Viktor’s barbecue that day we ate in your kitchen, not to mention that good sandwich meat I’ve got in my refrigerator.”

This man definitely saw too much. “All those nitrates aren’t healthy.”

“Uh-huh. Come on, sweetheart, you can tell Papa Dan your ugly little secret. You’re a vegetarian, aren’t you.”

“Lots of people don’t eat meat,” she said defensively.

“Yeah, but most of them are on their soapbox about it. You don’t say a thing.”

“It’s nobody’s business. I simply happen to like unclogged arteries, that’s all.”

“Now, Phoebe, you’re wiggling around the truth again. I have a feeling your eating habits don’t have anything to do with your arteries.”