stop someone from crossing through the yards.
If it weren’t so expensive, he’d recommend installing surveillance cameras. But that, he admitted silently, might be overkill.
While he tried to keep his mind on the job, his impressions from the past hour kept drifting back. He still couldn’t fully grasp the fact that he’d gotten Casey pregnant eight months ago. All this time, his child had been growing inside her, and he’d had no clue.
His child. A little girl. Diane.
He couldn’t figure out how to integrate the idea of her into his worldview. Certainly he bore the tyke no hard feelings, even though she’d sprung into being against his wishes. And he knew he had moral and legal obligations to her. But what exactly was he supposed to do?
It wasn’t as if he had any role models to draw on. His own father had loved only one thing: alcohol.
He’d lost job after job because of it, and beaten his wife and little boy in a rage when he was drunk. Jack had learned early how to stay out of Pop’s way. He hadn’t been big enough to defend his mom and she’d never mustered the strength to stand up for herself. When she became sick, Pop had disappeared. Later, he’d landed in prison.
The last time Jack had heard from his father, while he was in college, it had been with a request for cash. Knowing what the money would be spent on, he’d refused. A few years later, his father had died from alcohol poisoning.
Maybe he should have suffered regrets. The only thing he’d regretted had been his father’s complete failure in relation to his family.
Jack knew he wasn’t like his old man. He rarely drank, and he would die before he’d hurt Casey or her child. Just thinking about how defenseless they were made his fists clench in a protective gesture.
The problem was, although he knew theoretically what a father was supposed to be like, he didn’t have it in him. Maybe the instincts lay buried, but the prospect of digging them out got him tangled up with frustration and pain, old emotions he tried hard to put behind him.
He could still hear the sarcasm darkening Pop’s voice when his irritation level began to rise. He remembered the explosions and his mother’s fear, along with his own terror and misplaced sense of guilt. The old wounds had never fully healed. Jack didn’t intend to rip them open again.
Grimly, he finished tracing the perimeter of the cleared part of Casey’s property and turned back. From the rental car, he collected his suitcase and laptop and let himself inside with a key he’d borrowed from Casey.
When he entered, the living room lay quiet. Instead of loud music or the blare of a TV, only a soft humming from the direction of the bedrooms broke the peace.
“Casey?” he called. “In here.”
Pushing past his reluctance, Jack walked through a short hall and entered the nursery. Casey stood ratcheting a teddy-bear mobile onto the crib. When she saw him, she pushed a button on the device, setting off a music-box version of “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.”
His wife smiled as tinkling music filled the room. Tiny teddy bears revolved, their furry paws outstretched as if eager for Diane’s arrival. You couldn’t have shot a better commercial for home and happiness, Jack thought with an ache.
At the first foster home he’d gone to, when he was eleven, he’d walked into a nursery where the parents’ own six-month-old sat cooing and playing with a clown mobile. He didn’t remember the tune, but it had made him long for his mother.
The foster parents had rushed in and ordered him out as if he posed a threat to their precious offspring. He was never to go in there again, the man had snapped. They’d set up a cot for him in the sewing room; that was his place.
He’d learned later that that couple had never cared for foster children before and had taken him in because they needed money. They hadn’t been prepared for the moodiness of a preadolescent, for his flashes of anger or even for his poor table manners.
Jack knew many foster parents provided loving care, sometimes adopting the children. He hadn’t been so lucky. The six months he’d spent in that first house had made it agonizingly clear he didn’t belong.
Every time he’d heard music from the nursery, the sound had underscored the fact that he no longer had a home and probably never would. He’d had to harden himself to hold back the tears, as he was doing now.
Casey misread his reaction. “You don’t have to glare at me! Anyone else would be glad I’d set up such a nice welcome for the baby.”
“You’ve done a great job,” he muttered.
“You might try to sound as if you mean it.”
He could see that she’d put in a lot of work. She’d painted the place and probably stenciled those birds on the wall herself. The yellow-and-white color scheme, the shelves holding a couple of leather-bound classics—who could ask for more?
Not Jack. What he’d asked for was less. “I can’t change how I feel, so let’s not argue about it,” he told her. “Do you want to hear my preliminary observations about the property?”
“Sure.” She closed her tool kit. Some of his strain eased as they exited through the hall.
After stowing her tools in her office, Casey led the way into the old-fashioned kitchen, where the lingering scent of baking soothed Jack’s spirit. He’d loved spending time in the kitchen while they were living together.
Without asking, she poured them both decaf coffee. He would have preferred the regular version but didn’t want to impose.
“Shoot,” she said.
No need to consult his notes. “To start, you need better lighting. Also, I’d recommend you consider fencing the yards.”
“Unless I put up barbed wire, a prowler could go over it or through the gate.” She dosed her cup with cream and sugar and served his black, the way he liked it. “I don’t see that it would do much good.”
“It’s partly psychological,” Jack explained. “It provides a sense of containment. It also gives an intruder pause because it can slow down his escape.” He found the brew more flavorful than expected. Or maybe he simply enjoyed it because this was Casey’s house.
“I can’t afford to build fences, anyway,” she said. “That’s not a request for money. It’s a statement of fact.”
He knew better than to argue. “I don’t suppose you can afford to put up lighting along the footpaths, either.”
“You got that right.” She still seemed remote and almost combative. Apparently his attitude toward the nursery had set her off.
Jack refused to apologize. He’d warned her how he would likely react to a baby, although he hadn’t been specific. “If you can’t afford lighting and fences, you certainly can’t afford guards.”
“I suppose not.” She propped her elbows on the table. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I called you for a recommendation. I felt so mad about getting sprayed, I couldn’t think straight.”
Maybe, he thought, she’d subconsciously hoped he would come. But he knew better than to count on it. “My next suggestion is to organize your tenants into patrols. Two-person teams carrying cell phones. Not twenty-four hours a day, obviously, but during the evening when this guy’s most likely to show up.”
“One guy’s in his eighties and Enid’s in her seventies. I don’t want them trying to play super cop,” Casey said. “Plus even my more able-bodied tenants could break an ankle trying to patrol these woods in the dark.”
“There’s one more choice.”
“And it is?”
“You’re going to have to put up with me until I find this guy.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer,