Whirlwind (4 page)

“That explains the outfit, then,” Forrester said wryly. “It was the only thing you could get from the Salvation Army, right?”

“Who asked you for an opinion?”

He didn't react to her anger, but continued to drive along the pasture fences. “Why don't you just pay your rent?”

“I told you. I'm broke.”

“A grown woman like you can't balance a checkbook?”

“It's not that simple,” Liza said. “I'm an interior designer, see? I really wanted my last job to turn out great,
so I...well, I kicked in a few bucks of my own. It messed up my cash flow.”

“What did you do that for?”

“Because I wanted the job to be wonderful! You see, it was this great executive office—overlooking Lake Michigan, marvelous sunlight all day, this beautiful view from a dozen floor-to-ceiling windows—everything! I made the place look terrific. Everybody said so. It needed a sculpture, though, to finish the concept. An artist friend of mine had the perfect piece—this mother and child thing that's great—emotional, you know? Erotic, too, in a way that was very sophisticated. It was perfect for the office, and my friend needed the money very badly. So I—”

“So you spent your rent money on a sculpture that you're never going to see again.”

“It's not like that!”

Liza remembered the whole scenario in detail, but doubted she could make Forrester understand. Her artist friend, Julio Jakkar, had needed the money to finance a trip to a drug rehab clinic. Julio was ready to make it work this time, he said, but he'd refused Liza's offer to pay for the treatment outright. Buying one of Julio's pieces had seemed like the perfect solution to his problem. Except Liza hadn't counted on losing her job a few days later.

She couldn't make a tough loner like Cliff Forrester understand the complexities of a friendship with a sensitive, vulnerable guy like Julio, though.

On another sigh, she said, “I just had to do it, that's all.”

“So now you've got no apartment and no job.”

“I'm not running home to my mother, if that's what you're thinking! I've been in scrapes before. I can get myself out of this one.”

“Sure,” said Forrester.

“I'd never run to my mother for help, anyway. She's got troubles of her own, in case you haven't noticed.”

“She's stronger than you think.”

“
I'm
stronger than everybody thinks!”

Forrester didn't say a word at that, and Liza pretended to be interested in the passing scenery. Things hadn't changed much, she noticed sourly. People still treated her like a rambunctious child.

Other things hadn't changed, either. The same farms still stood along the road to Tyler, with even the same names painted on the mailboxes. German names and Swedish names, mostly. Old families that could trace their family trees back to the first settlers.

The history of Tyler was much like the history of other small towns in Wisconsin. Founded 140 years ago by German immigrants who fled autocratic rulers in their native land, the original town was called Tilgher, after one of the founding families. Years later, the name was anglicized to Tyler by an impatient official from the land office who couldn't pronounce the German word. Swedish immigrants followed the Germans, each family paying ten dollars to receive 160 acres of farmland.

One such Swedish immigrant had been Gunther Ingalls, who took his family by wagon train to his parcel. On the rugged trail, he stopped to help an Irish immigrant mend a broken wagon wheel. Jackie Kelsey and Gunther Ingalls became friends over that wheel and proceeded to Tyler together, where they split Gunther's acreage into two small farms. In the century that followed, the Kelsey family and the Ingalls family flourished side by side. And sometimes feuded, too.

Now Liza's grandfather, Judson Ingalls, was hailed as the town's most prominent citizen. Known by most of the citizenry as the venerable, though sometimes crotchety owner of Ingalls Farm and Machinery Company, Judson Ingalls commanded respect in Tyler. As his granddaughter, Liza had felt watched all her life—like a bug under a mi
croscope. Every twitch she made was news to the townspeople of Tyler.

As the truck rumbled past the elementary school playground and inside the boundaries of Tyler, Liza found herself automatically watching the streets for her grandfather. Judson's tall frame, his distinctive long-legged, slope-shouldered walk and shock of white hair—Liza expected to see him on the next street corner. He was as much a part of Tyler as the picturesque Victorian houses on Elm Street or the stately central square lined with the town hall, the old post office, the Fellowship Lutheran Church with its pretty facade and Gates Department Store. Even Marge's Diner—tucked on a side street just off the town square—didn't seem as much of a landmark as Judson Ingalls himself.

Liza realized she was holding her breath as Cliff Forrester drove through the intersection of Main and Elm Streets. She couldn't stop a cautious peek up the tree-lined boulevard where she had grown up. The huge Victorian home where she'd played as a child was obscured by a pair of giant elm trees, and Liza was glad she couldn't see the house. It might be too painful. And she didn't want to alert her mother that she'd come home. No use giving up her advantage.

As if guessing what was on her mind, Cliff Forrester said, “Want me to drive by the old place?”

“Heavens, no!” Liza collected herself, not wanting to reveal how stirred up she felt, arriving in Tyler for the first time since her last monumental blowup with her family. She said crisply, “Just take me to the nearest garage, please.”

Forrester leaned out the window to check the clock in the tower on the bank. “It's only seven o'clock,” he noted. “I'll bet Carl's garage is still closed.”

Exasperated, Liza snapped. “Small towns! Haven't all-night business hours reached the provinces yet?”

“We're not used to wild girls driving their convertibles around in the wee hours, I guess.”

“What about some breakfast?” Liza proposed, sitting up straight in the seat as the thought struck her. Anything to avoid stopping at her mother's house! Manufacturing some eagerness, she said, “Does Marge still make those yummy blueberry pancakes? We could go to the diner and have something to eat—coffee, sausage, the works! Do you know how long it's been since I had real Wisconsin sausage? Let's go. My treat. I'm starved.”

Obediently, Forrester whipped the wheel over and made a slow U-turn on Main Street, aiming for a lucky parking space right in front of Marge's Diner. He slipped into the spot and put the truck in park. But he didn't shut off the engine or make a move to get out.

“You go ahead,” he said, keeping both hands on the wheel.

“What?”

“Go get some breakfast. You can walk over to Carl's when you're finished. You know where his garage is?”

“What is this?” Liza demanded on a laugh. “A brush-off?”

“Go eat,” he said stubbornly.

“Look, Forrester, I'm sorry.” Firmly she said, “I'm sorry about that little scene back at the lodge. Maybe I
was
trying to manipulate you. I can't help it sometimes. It's a habit, I guess. I can be pretty brassy, and I shouldn't have pushed you—even if it was a pretty good kiss. But I'm willing to put the whole business behind me if that's what you want. What do you say? If you were going to eat those fish, here's a chance for something better. I'll buy you a real breakfast and we'll forget it happened.”

“I thought you were broke,” he said, looking out the window to avoid meeting her eye.

Liza laughed. “Well, I've got twenty dollars left, I think. Plenty for a couple of orders of pancakes. Come on.”

He shook his head mulishly. “I have work to do.”

“Like what? More fishing? Look, I'm trying to make it up to you! Come on.”

“No, thanks.”

“For Pete's sake, Forrester, what's the big deal?”

He turned to Liza and put his hand out, but didn't meet her eye. “It's been an education meeting you, Miss Baron.”

“You could call me Liza, at least,” she said dryly, not accepting his handshake, but impudently folding her arms over her chest instead. “I think we got to know each other well enough for that, don't you? I mean, that was one hell of a kiss you gave me.”

“I'm sorry about that,” he said, turning back to determinedly stare out the windshield. “I was annoyed and took it out on you. Let's forget it.”

Liza couldn't believe her ears. “That's it? You're throwing me out of the truck and saying goodbye?”

“It's nothing personal—”

“Nothing personal! I like that! Fifteen minutes ago you were kissing the stuffing out of me, and I've caught you looking at my legs—don't deny it! So you can't just say goodbye like this.”

“Miss Baron—”

“Liza!”

“All right, Liza!” he said, temper snapping. “I'm not hungry, get it? And I've got things to do, dammit!”

“Like what?”

“Just get the hell out of my truck, will you?”

“It's not
your
truck—”

“I've got more right to it than you do, so
get out!
”

Furious, Liza shoved open the passenger door. “You can't get rid of me so easily, you know! I've got to go back to the lodge to get my car. And don't try hiding in the trees when I come, Forrester! You won't get away with that!”

“Goodbye!” he barked as she got out of the truck.

“Good riddance!”

Liza slammed the door of the truck and stood breathing hard on the sidewalk while he pulled out and and drove back down Main Street without even waving in the rearview mirror.

“Jerk!” Liza shouted after him.

The door of Marge's Diner opened behind her, and a man stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was tall and white-haired, and he squinted in the bright sunlight. “Mary Elizabeth?” he demanded.

She spun around. “Granddad!”

Judson Ingalls stood under the canvas awning of the diner, fingering a toothpick and glaring up the street after the departing truck. Without further greeting, he said, “Was that Cliff Forrester?”

“Yes.” Liza strode to his side, absurdly happy to see her grandfather in the same old jeans and flannel shirt he had always worn despite his position of respect in the community. He looked just the same as ever—a gnarled but strong oak of a man with a sun-bronzed face, commanding Ingalls eyes and the firm Swedish jaw of his ancestors. “Oh, Granddad, I can't believe how wonderful it is to see you!”

Judson said, “You shouldn't be hanging around with a man like that, Mary Elizabeth.”

She laughed and reached for her grandfather with both hands. “I'm back in town for the first time in three years and already you're criticizing the men I see? Granddad, how about a hug?”

Avoiding the hug with a firm grip on Liza's shoulder, Judson met her eye at last and said abruptly, “That Forrester fellow is dangerous, Mary Elizabeth. You shouldn't be with him.”

Liza faltered. “Dangerous?”

Judson's brow was thunderous. “The man's violent—a crazy Vietnam vet who's still screwed up. Why, I'm sur
prised he even spoke to you. Usually he avoids people completely.”

“He was in Vietnam?”

“Vietnam or Cambodia or some such place. You stay away from him, my girl. I don't want you getting hurt by some fanatic! Keep away from Cliff Forrester, you understand?”

Liza blinked in confusion, hardly able to digest the information. But in the next second her grandfather gave Liza a big bear hug and turned hearty.

“What are you doing in town?” he demanded, laughing as he kissed her cheek and tweaked her chin. “You're looking prettier than ever.”

Liza gave him a shaky smile and allowed herself to be drawn into the diner for some breakfast. All hopes of slipping out of town without meeting anyone from her past evaporated as Liza was greeted by half a dozen of her grandfather's cronies. She should have known they'd all be having breakfast in the diner. Some things never changed.

Liza also recognized several familiar faces from her youth. Rose Atkins, the elderly lady known for riding her oversize blue tricycle all over town when Liza was still in high school, gave a cheery wave from a corner booth where she sat having breakfast with Tisha Olsen, the longtime owner of her own beauty salon, the Hair Affair.

“Why, it's Liza!” cried several voices.

“Judson, who's that darling little girl with you?” demanded one old gentleman. “That's not Alyssa's youngest, is it?”

“Sure is,” Judson called back, casting his arm across Liza's shoulder. “She's grown up taller than her daddy, don't you think? Take a seat here, Mary Elizabeth. We'll get Marge to get you some fresh orange juice.”

Quiet herself, Liza let everyone make a fuss over her. She was glad nobody forced her to talk just yet. She found she couldn't clear Cliff Forrester out of her mind right
away. His peculiar refusal of breakfast made sense now, if her grandfather's words were to be believed.

But Cliff a wild-eyed maniac? It hardly seemed likely. He appeared completely sane to her—saner than most of the men she met these days, in fact. Just a little erratic. Angry one minute, and kind of shaken up the next. His temper had exploded in the truck, but Liza had provoked that. Why did he have such a reputation around town?

Judson guided Liza to the most central table in the diner and made a show of pulling out her chair. When he'd sat down opposite her and ordered a large breakfast for her without benefit of a menu, he finally looked at her with a growing, indulgent smile and said, “All right, you can tell me what this is all about now. How come you just waltzed into town without warning?”

“Do I need to warn my family when I come to visit?”

He cocked a grandfatherly eye at her and said, “You know what I mean. Are you in trouble?”