Laurel leafed quickly through the book to the sports section and her own favorite page. She was surprised the book hadn’t fallen open to it. Through the years, she’d made quite a study of all Jase’s photographs, but this was the one she liked best.
The varsity team was pictured in a group photo on the left page, with Jase seated next to his fellow linebackers, Ray Espinoza and Ahmed Quisenberry. But on the right-hand page, the players were featured in small individual photos. Most of the guys looked like human bulldogs, no doubt as instructed by Coach Gifford. But by some quirk of fate, Jase had been caught smiling, not the full-blown Redlander dazzler, but a soft, warm, almost wistful smile. Laurel could never look at that picture without smiling back at him, without her heart turning over, without thinking of that morning in the house on the edge of town and what had almost happened.
Laurel allowed herself a cynical sniff. It may not have happened with her, but Lolly was living proof that it had certainly happened with some other girl.
She flipped back to the individual class pictures, barely skimming the seniors to concentrate on the juniors, Jase’s class. Which one was Lolly’s mother? Running her finger down the photos, she stopped at each fair-haired girl, trying to remember which blondes were natural. Betty Jean Powell? She stared at the picture of a towheaded girl with five earrings in one ear and eight in the other. Sarah had told her that Betty Jean had a butterfly tattoo on her behind and would do anything with anyone.
Remnants of freshman biology began to permeate Laurel’s brain. It could be that Lolly had been the result of recessive genes of both sides, that her mother was just as dark as Jase.
But her finger continued its trek.
Tammy Spivak? Sarah had said she was doing it too, and her family did move out of town right after Jase left.
“Laurel?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. The annual toppled to the floor. Lolly stood in the doorway, her hair hanging loose and her clothes rumpled, but her face bright and blooming from a full night’s sleep.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, but I wanted to take a bath and couldn’t figure out how to make the stopper work right.”
Laurel stood up. “Of course. That one’s kind of tricky. Just a minute.”
She picked up the album from the floor and laid it on her bed, hoping that Lolly hadn’t realized whose picture she was studying so intently. “Would you like some fresh clothes? I’m taller than you are, but you could wear some of my stuff if you’d like.”
“Cool. That’d be great. This shirt feels pretty grungy.”
After helping Lolly with the tub, Laurel went through her wardrobe for appropriate teenage attire. Her bottom drawer yielded up a sequined and star-spangled tee, but Lolly would have to wear the same shorts she had on yesterday.
She deposited the shirt on Lolly’s bed, then rapped on the bathroom door. “Breakfast will be ready when you are.”
Now to get rid of the evidence. Grabbing the annual from her bed, she hurried downstairs and dropped it in the den before returning to the kitchen to set the table with bright yellow paper plates on top of woven turquoise-colored placemats. Then, after reclaiming Mama’s apron, she waited. The burner went on at the sound of the sound of Lolly’s foot on the stairs.
“Hey, something smells good.”
Lolly entering the room was like the sun coming out all over again. It wasn’t just the color of her hair. There was something about her, a glow of energy that seemed to make the air sparkle around her.
Laurel couldn’t help but smile at the twin ponytails bouncing on either sides of her face. “You’ve got doggie ears.”
Lolly touched one of the masses of curls. “Yeah. I change my hair around a lot.”
“Take a seat. I’ve poured you some orange juice, and breakfast will be ready in a minute. Hope you like French toast.”
Lolly’s face clouded. “I’ve never tried it. Aunt Maxie and I always have Cheerios at home.” She took a seat at the big table.
Laurel was glad the old table was getting some use. It had been here since Kinkaid House was built, but it was yet another item that would be up for sale if she didn’t get a buyer for the house soon. She’d never need anything that large for herself, and oak tables were scoring good prices these days.
Wielding a spatula, she lifted the eggy toast onto a serving plate and brought it to the table. Lolly eyed the concoction suspiciously. “It’s sort of soggy.”
“You eat it with a fork. Try it.” Sitting down next to her with her own plate, Laurel demonstrated the technique.
Lolly, still looking doubtful, cut the toast and speared a small piece. She glanced at her hostess for encouragement, then grimaced as she lifted it into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
Her expression cleared. “Gosh, it’s good!”
Laurel laughed, enjoying Lolly’s surprise.
What a sweetheart—she’d been willing to try her cooking just to please her.