Stroke Of Fortune. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
right, then.” She produced a card and handed it to him. “Here’s the name of the lab in town where they’ll take a cheek swab. Can you get over there tomorrow, say, some time after noon? I’ll make sure they’re ready for you when you arrive.”
“After noon. I’ll be there.”
“Good. The sample will be sent out for evaluation, and we should have the results in ten to twenty business days.”
“That’s fine.”
“You’ll have to bring the baby with you, of course, so they can collect a sample from her, too.”
“No problem.”
Flynt knew she was about to tell him he could keep Lena—at least till the results of the test came through. But before she got the damn words out of her mouth, the house line buzzed.
It was the housekeeper. A deputy from the sheriff’s office was waiting for him in the foyer.
A deputy, Flynt thought with some relief. He wouldn’t have to bow and scrape to a Wainwright for Lena’s sake, after all.
He had the three officials served coffee and sweet rolls in his sitting room and he answered all their questions, except for the one concerning the mother’s identity. He promised he’d get to that, after the test proved he was Lena’s father. Since he had the social worker and the detective more or less on his side by then, Flynt had little trouble getting the deputy to go along, too.
The three left about an hour after the deputy had arrived. They all had what they needed to write their reports and they were all in agreement that the abandoned female infant called Lena would remain in Flynt Carson’s care, at least until the results of the paternity test came through.
Flynt walked them out to their vehicles. It was a little past noon by then. The gorgeous, mild morning was turning to the usual blistering South Texas afternoon. Flynt stood in the shade of a proud old oak that had been planted by his great-grandmother, watching the dust the cars kicked up as they disappeared down the driveway.
His pickup still waited where he’d left it, a few yards away. That pickup was not only fully loaded with all the luxury extras, it was also a V-8. The thing could move. He wanted to climb in it and roar off down the drive into town.
He knew where to go looking for Josie. First, he’d try her mother’s house. If she wasn’t at Alva’s, he had a pretty good idea where to head next.
The way he’d heard it, once her mother got out of the hospital, Josie had taken a waitress job at the Mission Creek Café, which served down-home country fare and had stood for decades near the corner of Main and Mission Creek Road, in the heart of town. If Flynt remembered right, the café was open till eight or nine at night, seven days a week. But it did most of its business weekdays, for breakfast and lunch. As a relatively new employee, Josie would probably draw the less desirable weekend shifts.
He could make it to town in half an hour—less, given that he’d be burning rubber all the way.
But no.
If he showed up at the café now, looking for her, there would be talk. Even dropping in at that shack of her mother’s in broad daylight was too chancy. He was a Carson, after all, a rich man, a power in the community. And she was young and poor and pretty. Only one reason, folks would say, why a man like Flynt Carson would come looking for a girl like Josie Lavender.
A voice in the back of his mind whispered, What does it matter? Why not go after her right now? When the truth comes out, everyone will know about us anyway….
He ignored that voice. That voice was just making excuses for him to do what he wanted, not what was best for Josie.
Better to wait till after dark, keep it just between the two of them. He owed her that much.
Hell. He owed her more. A lot more. He’d tried to make it up to her, a little anyway, with that ten thousand dollars he’d pressed into her hand when she’d left. She’d taken it then. But six months later, she’d sent him a cashier’s check, paying every penny back. The postmark on the envelope had said it came from Hurst, Texas, up in the Dallas/Fort Worth area.
He’d looked at that postmark and felt just about the way he felt right now—that there was a way to her, that he could find her if he wanted.
And he wanted. As much as—no, more than—he wanted to draw his next breath.
But he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t. Not then, not now. Not until tonight.
He looked at his watch. Barely twelve-thirty. The day stretched before him, endless hours of it, until he could go to her and get the truth out of her.
Flynt muttered a low curse and turned back to the house.
Three
Josie Lavender had the closing shift that night. She hung around to do her cleanup work, marrying ketchups, filling salt and pepper and sugar dispensers, setting up the tables for the morning girls. She left the café at 9:20 and she got home about ten minutes later.
Her mom was lying on the old green sofa in the front room, watching TV. “Hi, sweetie.” Alva Lavender lifted the mask that covered her mouth and nose just long enough to get the words out, then slid it back into place and sucked in a difficult breath. Alva suffered from emphysema. She spent a lot of time each day hooked up to the oxygen tank that helped her breathe a little easier.
Josie locked the front door. Mission Creek didn’t have all that much street crime, but what little there was tended to take place in her mother’s neighborhood. “Mama, did you eat?”
Her mother held the mask in place and nodded.
“Want me to—”
Alva didn’t let her finish. She slipped the mask aside again. “Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
Alva, behind the mask once again, nodded some more, and then waved her thin hand. She pointed at the television, indicating she wanted to concentrate on her program. It was a Law and Order rerun, from when Benjamin Bratt was on the show. Alva had a thing for him.
“Okay, Mama,” Josie said softly. “If you’re sure you don’t need me to fix you something, I’m going to have a nice, long bath.”
Alva waved her hand again, but never took her gaze off the television screen.
Josie went through the open arch opposite the front door and into the tiny, square hallway. From there it was two steps to her bedroom.
She flipped on the switch by the door. Her room was just big enough for her bed and her dresser and the small pine desk she’d found at a yard sale while she was still in high school.
Josie’s computer sat on that desk. It was a nice one, with a big screen and the newest software and tons of memory. She’d bought it when she was living up in Hurst. Mostly she used it for word processing, keeping her small bank balance in order and for e-mail. It made her feel hopeful, somehow. That she was hooked in to what mattered, and on her way up. She had a car—a not-so-great one, but a car, none-the-less—and she had a computer. And she wouldn’t always be working the worst shifts at the Mission Creek Café. She was dealing with the obstacles life had put in her path, step-by-step, one day at a time.
Josie grabbed the hem of the snug black T-shirt with Mission Creek Café written in orange across the front of it. She was just about to yank it off over her head when she heard tapping on the window behind the desk.
She froze, with her arms crossed, still holding the hem of the shirt in each hand.
There it was again. Three sharp raps.
Josie stared at the yellowed blind pulled down over the window and debated. Should she see who was out there? Probably not. Who could it be but someone looking to make trouble? Anyone on the up-and-up would just walk up the front steps and knock on the door.
But