thereof with his father? Eric and Jenniferâs divorce?
The last option went to the head of the line when she spoke again.
âNo one truly knows what goes on inside a marriage. Sometimes,â Ella Stenner added softly, ânot even the two people who are married.â
Â
Trent couldnât pretend he wasnât surprised.
An apartment over a store.
That was where the phone book listing for J. A. Truesdale led him. Though when heâd tried calling, the phone had been disconnected.
Three businesses occupied the buildingâs first floor. A Warinke Hardware Store on the corner, Hair Today in the middle and on this end Bultonâs Antiques, with a sign that read Gifts, Jewelry, Crafts. Trade, Barter, Buy, Sell. That pretty much covered it, Trent thought.
Having examined the three store windows, he had nothing left to look at except a door tucked in next to Bultonâs Antiques. Its adornment consisted of the address in those stick-on angled rectangles with reflective numbers, a doorbell buzzer, a mail slot and a peephole.
Definitely not what heâd expected.
He rang the bell.
Nothing.
Rang again.
Still no response.
He hadnât achieved what heâd achieved by giving up easily. He tried the door. And damned if the knob didnât turn under his hand.
The door opened to a miniature landing with a steep stairway straight ahead. He had to take a few steps up before he could pull the exterior door closed behind him. At the top of the stairs an equally miniature landing presented a single door at a sharp right angle. It was painted a glossy, fresh green. Wooden letters painted with flowers and strung together by rope to spell out âWelcomeâ hung from a spindly knocker.
Not trusting that piece of hardware, he knocked loudly with his knuckles. He tried to imagine Eric living here. Not a chance.
He knocked again.
So Jennifer must have moved here with Ashley after the split. But what about his fatherâs declarations about Jennifer getting all the money?
This doorknob didnât turn when Trent tried it. Locked.
As he turned to start down, the exterior door abruptly swung open.
A girlâa young teenager, Trent guessedâstarted up at a good clip. Halfway, her head snapped up and she stopped dead, staring at him, with one foot on the next step and the other trailing behind.
He saw Jennifer in the girl. The coloring, sure. That blond hair that was so much more than yellow, because it had depths and shadings like finely polished wood. Only wood that swayed and swung. Also the hint of slender curves to come.
âWho are you?â she asked, her voice rising.
Her attitude appeared undecided, open to a number ofoptions, including flight. But some reluctance seemed to offset the urge to run.
âThat depends on whether youâre who I think you are,â he said.
She jammed her fists on not-yet-there hips. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
And now he saw his brother in her. In the cast of the jutted chin. In the sureness of the stance. In the curl of the lip.
Damn .
Before Trent could explore what had pushed that word to the upper level of his mindâor perhaps so he didnât have to explore itâhe decided he needed to deal with the girl in front of him.
âIt means that if you are Ashley Stenner, Iâm your uncle. Trent Stenner.â
For a moment, her eyes widened and her face softened. She looked almost as she had the last time heâd seen her, a chubby-cheeked toddler in coveralls that bulged out in back with diapers that also provided padding when her adventures in walking ended in an abrupt seat on the floor. Each time, sheâd hauled herself upright, using whatever prop was handy. Then sheâd stand clear, wide-eyed and pleased with herself when she found her balance, and head off, fast and unsteady.
âI know who you are.â She made it an accusation. Any resemblance to the remembered child