two-story, wedding-cake-shaped houses with the covered front porches were distinguished from one another only by the different earth-tone colors they’d been painted, the outside shutters and flower boxes that had been added to several of them, and the yards—some with elaborate landscaping and others with only well-tended lawns.
The address she was looking for came into view on the fourth house from the corner—that one had tan siding, white shutters and a wooden swing hanging from chains on the left side of the porch.
There was a black-and-white SUV parked in the driveway with Northbridge Police stenciled on the sides and back. There weren’t any cars parked in front, though, so Kira pulled to a stop at the curb.
Before she turned off the engine she took the manila folder from the passenger seat and opened it. Inside was the newspaper article from Sunday’s Denver Post that she’d cut out and laminated.
It was a small piece about two Montana men—one an off-duty police officer and the other a Northbridge business owner—who had rushed into a burning house to rescue a family trapped inside. The two men had saved the family and then had gone back in for the pets only to have a beam knock Addison Walker unconscious and break Cutler Grant’s ankle. Still, Officer Grant had managed to drag the unconscious businessman to safety.
The name Addison Walker meant nothing to Kira.
But Cutler Grant—that was something else. Kira knew—sort of—a Cutty Grant.
There wasn’t much information about the two men in the pictureless piece, but it did say that Cutler Grant was a widower with eighteen-month-old twin daughters.
That was a surprise. The Cutty Grant Kira knew had married her older sister and they’d had a son. A son who would be twelve years old by now.
So maybe this really was a wild-goose chase and the Cutler Grant in the newspaper wasn’t the same Cutty Grant she knew.
But what she was hoping was that this was the same man. That she’d find out that the wife who had left him a widower with eighteen-month-old twins was his second wife. And that he would be able to tell Kira where to find Marla and their twelve-year-old son.
Kira put the slip of paper neatly back into the folder and replaced it on the passenger seat.
Then she turned off the car.
Ignoring the tension that tightened her shoulders, Kira picked up her leather purse and took it with her as she got out.
The scent of honeysuckle was in the air as she headed for the door. Light shone through the windows of the lower floor and the front door was open—probably to let in the cooler evening air—so apparently the occupants of 104 Jellison Street were still awake.
She climbed five cement steps to the porch. As she approached the door she could see through the screen. There was a man sitting on an antique chair, talking on the phone.
He caught sight of her, and without missing a beat, he motioned for her to come inside.
Who did he think she was? Kira wondered, staying rooted to that spot, unsure whether or not to actually go inside.
Although his looks had matured, she could tell that this man was the Cutty Grant she was looking for. But she knew there was no way he recognized her. The one and only time he’d seen her had lasted a total of ten minutes before she’d been dispatched to her room. Besides, she looked completely different than she had then.
But when she remained on the porch, he motioned to her even more insistently, and she didn’t know what to do but oblige him. So she opened the screen and went in.
“Betty, we’ll be okay,” he was saying into the phone. “Family comes first. You have to take care of your mother.”
Kira didn’t want to appear to be listening so she kept her eyes on the floor. The floor where he had one foot stretched out in front of him. One big, bare foot with a white cast cupping his heel and disappearing under the leg of a pair of time-aged blue jeans that hugged a thigh thick enough to be noteworthy.
She tried to keep control of her eyes but they seemed to have a mind of their own and continued up to the plain white crew-neck T-shirt that fit him like a second skin and left no doubt that he was in good enough shape to have dragged a full-grown man out of a burning building. His chest and shoulders were that substantial, bulging with toned muscles. And his biceps were so big they stretched the short sleeves of the T-shirt to the limit.
“No, don’t do that.”
For a split-second Kira thought he might be talking to her, and she glanced quickly to his face.
But he was still talking into the phone. “You can’t take care of things here and take care of your mom, too,” he said.
In fact he wasn’t even looking in Kira’s direction. His focus really was on the floor where hers had begun, and he didn’t seem aware that Kira’s gaze was on his face now. Somehow that made it more difficult to lower her eyes and instead she was left studying the changes in him.
The seventeen-year-old boy she remembered had been cute enough to make her jealous of her older sister. Yet the boy was nothing compared to the man.
The grown-up Cutty Grant had the same sable-colored hair only now he wore it short all over and messy on top rather than long and shaggy.
It wasn’t only his haircut that had changed. His face had gone from boyishly appealing to ruggedly striking. His very square forehead had become strong. His distinctive jawline and straight, slightly longish nose were more defined, and every angle and plane of his face seemed more sharply cut.
His upper lip was still narrow above a fuller bottom lip, and when he smiled at something the person on the other end of the phone said, two grooves bracketed either side of that mouth, which had gained a certain suppleness. And an indescribable sexiness, too.
His deep-set eyes hadn’t undergone any alteration with age—they were still a remarkable shade of green unlike any other eyes Kira had ever seen. Dark green, the color of Christmas trees. Evergreen trees. And all in all, Kira thought that she’d never even met a man as head-turningly handsome as the adult Cutty Grant.
“Yes, the place is a mess, but Lucinda had no business reporting that to you,” he said then.
Kira needed an excuse to tear her eyes away from him and that gave it to her. She forced herself to look from him into the living room.
She didn’t know about the rest of the place but that room was definitely in disarray. There were toys on the floor, on the end tables, on the brown tweed sofa, even on the desk in the corner. There were children’s clothes strewn here and there, including one tiny pair of pink shorts hanging over the lampshade of a pole lamp in the corner. There were unused diapers spilling from a sack on top of the television in the entertainment center. There was a plate with the crusts of a sandwich left on it, a half-empty glass of milk, and another smaller glass overturned in a puddle of orange juice on the oak coffee table. And there was just an overall air of clutter everywhere that sparked an urge in the meticulous Kira to put it all in order.
But of course she resisted that urge.
“I mean it, Betty. Forget about us until she’s better. The girls and I will manage.”
Kira noticed then that there was even debris on the stairs—more toys, more baby clothes, a sock that must have belonged to Cutty, and it occurred to her that no matter what he was telling the person he was talking to, he wasn’t managing very well.
But in spite of that he insisted, “Really, you don’t have to come by here in the morning before you pick up your mom from the hospital—”
There was a pause while the person on the other end interrupted him to say something, and whatever it was it apparently convinced him because he sighed and said, “Okay, but then that’s it. An hour tomorrow morning. After that, I don’t want to see you around here until your mom is a hundred percent better. If nothing else I’ll get Ad over to help.”
Whoever