Linda Lael Miller Bundle Read Online Free PDF Page A

bring herself to mention that the beautiful house beside the sea, with its playhouse and its gazebo and its gardens of pastel rhododendrons, had been sold.
    She stepped over the threshold of her mother’s pleasant room and let the door whisk shut behind her, blessing Garrett’s father, Riley Thompson, for being willing to pay Seaview’s hefty rates. It was generous of him, considering that he and Rosamond had been divorced for some fifteen years.
    “Hello, Mother,” she said quietly.
    Rosamond looked up with a familiar expression of bafflement in her wide eyes and held the doll close. She began to rock in her small cushioned chair.
    Shay crossed the room and sank into another chair, facing Rosamond’s. There was no resemblance between the two women; Rosamond’s hair was raven-black, though streaked with gray now, and her eyes were violet, while Shay’s were hazel and her hair was merely brown. As a child Shay had longed to be transformed into a mirror image of her mother.
    “Mother?” she prompted, hating the silence.
    Rosamond hugged the doll and rocked faster.
    Shay worked up a shaky smile and her voice had a falsely bright note when she spoke again. “It’s almost dinnertime. Are you getting hungry?”
    There was no answer, of course. There never was. Shay talked until she could bear the sound of her own voice no longer and then kissed her mother’s papery forehead and left.
     
    The box, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk in front of Shay Kendall’s house, was enormous. The name of a local appliance store was imprinted on one side and, as Mitch approached, he saw the crooked coin slot and the intriguing words, Lemmonad, Ten Sens, finger-painted above a square opening. He grinned and produced two nickels from the pocket of his jeans, dropping them through the slot.
    They clinked on the sidewalk. The box jiggled a bit, curious sounds came from inside, and then a small freckled hand jutted out through the larger opening, clutching a grubby paper cup filled with lemonade.
    Mitch chuckled, crouching as he accepted the cup. “How’s business?”
    “Vending machines don’t talk, mister,” replied the box.
    Some poor mosquito had met his fate in the lemonade and Mitch tried to be subtle about pouring the stuff into the gutter behind him. “Is your mother home?” he asked.
    “No,” came the cardboard-muffled answer. “But my baby-sitter is here. She’s putting gunk on her toenails.”
    “I see.”
    A face appeared where the cup of lemonade had been dispensed. “Are you the guy who brought my mom home last night?”
    “Yep.” Mitch extended a hand, which was immediately clasped by a smaller, stickier one. “My name is Mitch Prescott. What’s yours?”
    “Hank Kendall. Really, my name is Henry. Who’d want people callin’ ’em Henry?”
    “Who indeed?” Mitch countered, biting back another grin. “Think your mom will be home soon?”
    The face filling the gap in the cardboard moved in a nod. “She visits Rosamond after work sometimes. Rosamond is weird.”
    “Oh? How so?”
    “You’re not a kidnapper or anything, are you? Mom says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. Not ever.”
    “And she’s right. In this case, it’s safe, because I’m not a kidnapper, but, as a general rule—”
    The box jiggled again and then toppled to one side, revealing a skinny little boy dressed in blue shorts and a He-Man T-shirt, along with a pitcher of lemonade and a stack of paper cups. “Rosamond doesn’t talk or anything, and sometimes she sits on my mom’s lap, just like I used to do when I was a little kid.”
    Mitch was touched. He sighed as he stood upright again. Before he could think of anything to say in reply, the screen door snapped open and the baby-sitter was mincing down the walk, trying not to spoil her mulberry toenails. At almost the same moment, Shay’s Toyota wheezed to a stop behind Mitch’s car.
    He wished he had an excuse for being there. What the hell was he going to say