The Secrets of Rosa Lee. Jodi Thomas

not safe.”

      He didn’t know if he should apologize or try again. It seemed a lifetime since he’d known the rules—if he’d ever known them.

      He thought it best to say good-night. “Thanks for the steak.”

      “Anytime,” she answered. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker.” The look she gave him said so much more.

      “Nice to meet you,” he echoed, thinking she was a blast of fresh air in the cellar he’d been living in for years.

      Ten

      Lora Whitman folded her napkin and tried to give at least the appearance of paying attention to her mother. She should have pretended sleep longer and cut the time at the breakfast table in half. Working for her father was easy compared to having to live with her mother. Luckily, the house was big enough for Lora to have her own wing on the third floor with a study, a bedroom and a small workout area. Her mother rarely ventured into her rooms, claiming the stairs were too much for her.

      “I can’t imagine how frightened you were, dear. I told everyone how you just couldn’t face talking about the accident yesterday. Not even to me.” Isadore Whitman finished her coffee. “Of course, you were so worried about that Professor Dickerson from the college who had a heart attack that you rode with the first car leaving for Wichita Falls to check on her.” Isadore stopped long enough to spread her lipstick just wider than her lip line. Her own private answer to BOTOX.

      Trying to keep her voice calm, Lora corrected, “First, Mother, it wasn’t an accident. A ten-pound drill bit almost the size of a football isn’t something that just flies into a window. Second, Sidney Dickerson didn’t have a heart attack. We feared she had, but the hospital checked her out.”

      Lora knew she was wasting her time. Isadore lived in a fairy-tale world. Oh, not with giants and dragons, but the kind of make-believe with parties and parades. In Isadore’s fairyland, streets could be named Candy Lane just because she bought the only house on the block and daughters grew up and married well. And never came back home to live.

      “Morning, ladies.” Calvin Whitman’s booming voice entered the room a few seconds before he did. A large man, he leaned back a little more each year to accommodate his ever-expanding belly.

      He patted Lora’s shoulder as he passed. “How’s my little girl feeling today?”

      Lora nodded her hello. She’d always be her daddy’s little girl. Unlike Isadore, he hadn’t wanted to give her up to marriage and seemed happy to have her back home. In fact, Calvin would be happy if nothing ever changed in his world but next year’s Cadillac colors.

      “I’m fine.” Lora stood. “I thought I’d go in early and see what landed on my desk yesterday while I was out.” She was never sure if she truly helped her father’s business, or as the boss he simply found work for her. In either case, she didn’t complain. Her ex-husband had served her with papers, cleaned out all their accounts and packed her things so fast she hadn’t been able to give notice. She was lucky to find work, period.

      “This early?” Isadore glanced at the clock. “Don’t even think about work yet, Lora.”

      Calvin helped himself to breakfast laid out in silver dishes along the sideboard. He rattled one of the lids and peeped in as if fearing what might be inside.

      Isadore glared at him with disgust but spoke to her daughter. “Aren’t you going to have more than coffee, Lora? I know the magazines say you can never be too thin, but you’ve lost so much weight since the divorce. You look like a coat hanger. If you get any thinner, you’ll never catch another man.”

      To Lora’s dismay her father joined the assault.

      “That’s right, hon.” Calvin didn’t look up from his food. “Men like their barbecue and their women with just the right combination of meat and fat.”

      Though Isadore slapped at his arm, he didn’t bother apologizing.

      Lora thought of telling her mother that she planned to get a doughnut on the way to work, but didn’t want to hear the lecture. Isadore had set out the same breakfast for her family all her married life. Lora could go down the neat little silver servers and tell what was in them without opening the lids. Eggs, always in the first. Ham, if a serving fork rested beside the second dish. Bacon if there were tongs. Toast, if butter and jam were on the table. Muffins if only butter sat out. On weekends, pancakes, or if company was there, Belgian waffles. Always served with fruit Isadore bought frozen and never bothered to let thaw before serving.

      “I really have work to catch up on.” Lora put her coffee cup on the silver tray closest to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

      Calvin set his plate at the far end of the table. “Let her go, dear,” he mumbled, giving equal support to his girls. “It’s a fact, she’s got work waiting.” He turned his attention to Lora. “I signed on as one of the rodeo sponsors yesterday. Told them you’d give the new president a hand. Real nice fellow running the show this year. Talk is he’s planning to run for the state senate next year, so being in charge of the rodeo will get him in front of the public.”

      Lora wasn’t surprised. Her father had always been an easy touch for any fund-raiser. He seemed to believe a marketing degree made her an expert in the field.

      In the six months she’d been home, she’d talked him into giving Cadillac Cash instead of real money. Some charity would auction off a thousand dollars in Cadillac Cash or have it as their special door prize. The clubs wrote thanking him for the donation, which the business wrote off. He honored the “cash” on any new car. Everyone won and at worst the dealership sold a new car for a few hundred less than they’d planned.

      “Is he single, by any chance?” Isadore asked.

      “I have to run.” Lora moved fast, knowing that if she didn’t, Isadore would snare her in meaningless conversation. Her father had already opened his paper. At least he could read while he pretended to listen.

      “But—” was all Isadore got out.

      Lora grabbed her case at the foot of the stairs and hurried through the side door leading to the garage. She climbed into her Audi, adjusted her seat from where her mother had played with it the day before, and backed out of the driveway as if she were auditioning for a part in a chase film.

      At the café near the downtown square, Lora ordered her usual chocolate-covered cinnamon roll and black coffee before she spotted the reverend at the counter, with a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as he read the paper. Yesterday, he’d been all calm and strong. This morning he looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all.

      She hesitated. He hadn’t seen her. She could grab her food and run. But, to her surprise, she wanted to talk to him. She needed to touch base, make sure he was okay, learn any news. She slid onto the swivel stool next to him and motioned for Polly to bring her order to the counter.

      Polly turned away, but her head wobbled back and forth as it always did when she talked to herself about all the extra work she had to do. If friendliness determined tips, Polly would be working for pennies.

      “Morning, Preacher.” Lora returned his smile as he glanced up from his paper. “How’s today treating you?” His eyes didn’t seem so sad when he smiled. He blinked as if she’d caught him deep in thought. Studious. That was the word for him.

      “Morning, Miss Whitman. How are the battle scars?”

      She twisted on the stool and showed him the huge Band-Aids covering her knees. “They hardly show under my hose.”

      He glanced down, then looked away.

      “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and straightened.

      “For what?”

      “Guess I shouldn’t be showing my legs to a preacher.”

      He lost his grin. “Guess not,” he answered. “After all, we’re not men. Not quite human.”