Chapter 2

I WAS FEELING THAT special lethargy I get from a day of sun and water. Slouched on the sofa, feet up, the television on some nameless sitcom, I sipped beer and thought about the day.

It hadn’t gone quite as planned. Rory seemed to be having fun but, at some point in the afternoon, she wasn’t. Despite her laughs and smiles, I knew her too well. I could tell something was bothering her. Was it Peter? He’d been focused on her and obviously attracted to her. Yet Rory hadn’t responded in more than her usual polite way.

Maybe it was something else. She’d been unusually cool towards Hannah. Had Hannah snubbed her in some way? Teenagers are complex animals.

Somewhat frustrated and disappointed in myself for not making the day special for her, I switched the TV off, turned the light out, grabbed a fresh beer from the fridge, and, with a low kitchen light providing illumination, went out onto the back patio. The air was thick, humid, the scent of vegetation strong. Sitting at the patio table, I inhaled the smell of salt water. Perhaps the soft sound of waves slapping onto the beach would relax me.

I knew whatever was bothering Rory would eventually come out. That was her way. She’d never been one to keep things bottled up. Rory would mull it over, dissect it, then talk to me about it. She’d always been that way, even at seven years old when she’d come to live with me. And I was grateful. It made my life easier, although Rory wasn’t easy at all.

I caught myself smiling. I called her my little panther. She had a feline quality touched with a hint of danger. Her eyes were rare; very dark with tarnished flecks of pure 24 karat gold, intense and penetrating. Glossy dark hair added to the impression of a panther. But it was her teeth that really completed the image. Rory’s canines were slightly longer than her other teeth, so when she smiled in a particular way and her eyes flashed, I felt like raw meat being contemplated for dinner.

I quite liked it - my feral cat. The way she moved only strengthened the image.

The sound of the screen door sliding back distracted me. Glancing over my shoulder, I watched Rory step out. Barefoot, wearing a thin cotton pajama top and loose pajama shorts, she walked over, sat in the wrought iron chair next to me, and propped her feet up on another chair without saying a word, her bronzed legs bare.

Silence.

I waited.

“Sorry,” she finally said.

“For what?”

“For being a party pooper.”

“They couldn’t tell,” I assured her.

She turned to look at me, her dark eyes almost glittering in the cast-off kitchen light. “But you could.”

I nodded.

Knowing Rory, I remained silent. After a few moments of listening to the crickets singing their nightly song, she spoke again.

“Hannah embarrassed me.”

“How?” I asked, giving it some thought. Aside from mild flirting - a common trait with fifteen-year-old girls, she’d done nothing embarrassing that I could remember.

Rory answered, “She was shamelessly flirting with you. It embarrassed me.”

“It was harmless,” I countered. “It’s natural for teens to flirt.”

“Not the way she was doing it! She was practically eating you up!” Rory exclaimed, incensed. “It was SO inappropriate!”

Smiling at her reaction, I told her, “Relax. I’m an adult. I can handle it.”

Rory shifted in her chair as if dissatisfied with my comment. Suddenly, she announced, “I’m going back to bed. Night.”

Watching her walk back to the house, I admired how adolescence was becoming more evident day by day. Rory was still growing. She was going to be a tall woman, with her natural slenderness adding to the perception of height. She’d been a late developer, much to her chagrin. Puberty had held off until she was almost thirteen years old and had dragged its feet ever since.