Family Skeletons Read online

  The room emitted a snore.

  Chapter Two

  Sunny froze.

  No phone. No damned phone.

  Forget the phone and the baseball bat. Get the hell out of here.

  Another snore caught itself in the middle. She heard a huge intake of breath, a pause, and a loud exhalation. Sheets and blankets rustled, bedsprings creaked, and feet hit the floor.

  Keys! Where are the car keys!

  Not in your pocket—purse still on the passenger’s seat—the trunk. The keys are sticking out of the trunk’s lock.

  Brilliant, Sunny. Brilliant.

  She backed up a slow step at a time, gaze glued to the open doorway. The baseball bat was poised over her right shoulder, her fingers rigid around it.

  Cell phone! It’s in your purse.

  The floor creaked as someone walked across it, and he appeared in the doorway before she made it back to the top of the stairs. When his gaze lit upon her, he uttered an inarticulate sound and jerked to a stop.

  Run. Attack before he gets his wits together. Do something, Sunny!

  “Who are you? What are you—” He squinted. “You’re the girl from the other night, with the foul mouth. So you’re the one who’s been living here.”

  She swallowed.

  “Relax, whatever your name is. You don’t need that bat.”

  He moved slightly, probably just settling where he was, but she stiffened her stance.

  He grew still. “But if you feel better holding on to it, then by all means keep it.”

  Slowly, as if he didn’t want to startle her into attack, he held up one hand, then looked down at his t-shirt and boxer shorts. “Let me back up and put some clothes on, okay?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I asked you first. But we’ll play it your way. I own this place. I—”

  “Corday? You’re Jonathan Corday?”

  Smart, Sunny, you fed it to him.

  Calmly, he nodded. “Yes, I am. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’ll need to see identification.”

  “I gave you my card the other night. Remember?”

  “Oh. Yeah, but I didn’t look at it. I still need to see identification.”

  He appeared annoyed, but when she didn’t relax her stance, he nodded toward the room’s interior. “It’s in there. May I?”

  She considered, gaze not wavering, then gave him one curt nod of her head. He stepped back into the room and she followed as far as the doorway, afraid to let him out of her sight. He got a wallet from the dresser, withdrew a driver’s license and extended it toward her.

  She indicated the end of the bed with a flick of her eyes. He flipped it there and backed up to the far wall. She grabbed the license and got the basics with a quick glance.

  Jonathan Louis Corday. Five-eleven. One sixty. Hair brown. Eyes green.

  She checked the picture, him, then the picture again.

  “Okay.” She lowered the bat and felt her energy level lower along with it.

  “May I get dressed now?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay. We can talk over coffee. I think I mastered that old percolator in the kitchen.”

  “Never mind. I brought a new coffee maker with me. It’s still in the trunk. I’ll go get it.”

  She barely caught the curious look he gave her as she left.

  Outside, when she caught her frowning reflection in the car window, she forced her expression to clear. No sense wondering what he was doing here. Just ask him.

  While she was filling the glass coffee pot in the kitchen, the upstairs toilet flushed and the flow of water reduced to a dribble. Talk about poor water pressure. She turned the spigot off, waited a beat, then turned it back on and filled the pot.

  Corday still hadn’t shown when she poured the fresh brew into a cup. He was either deliberately giving her time or he was the slowest creature on two legs she’d ever met.

  Then he showed, dressed in tan slacks with a sharp crease and a button-down, pinstriped shirt. And clean-shaven. No wonder he’d taken so long. She pointed to the mug she’d placed next to the coffee maker. He filled it and sat at the table across from her. They stared at each other.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “How did you get the electricity on?”

  She squinted. “Huh?” There had to be more important considerations to discuss than that one.

  “Evidently you’ve moved beyond trespassing. I suppose the correct term for you would be squatter.”

  Her spine straightened. “I’m not a squatter.”

  “When I saw signs of someone living here I immediately thought of you, and I surmised you’d been scared off when you met me.” His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, not accusatory. “This is the only place I could’ve been going to.”

  “I am not a squatter!”

  He was remarkably unruffled. Being met at his bedroom door in his underwear by a strange woman armed with a baseball bat had thrown him for only a quick second.

  “And I need to see identification before I’m going to believe you’re closer to thirty than fifteen,” he went on. “Even in this light, it looks like I might have a runaway teen on my hands, and that puts me in deep trouble.”

  “You’re in deep trouble, all right. You’re pissing me off, buddy.”

  His facial muscles tightened.

  “You want proof?” She raised her chin in challenge. “In case you didn’t catch it, I knew your name before you told me. Thanks to good old Franklin Corday, a long lost uncle you probably didn’t even know you had, you now share ownership of Corday Cove with his equally notorious daughter, Laurel. Your cousin, twelve or twenty times removed. Now how is a...squatter...going to know that?”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out in a noisy rush. “You want some history to go along with that? After their divorce, Franklin’s wife won a judgment on their daughter’s behalf, stipulating that at his death Corday Cove would go to, and I quote, ‘surviving blood kin, including offspring, Laurel Frances Corday.’ It was that poorly written, and it gave him an out. He searched until he found another heir—you—just so he could stiff his daughter and her mother one last time.” She paused, then added, her voice dripping scorn, “You really lucked out, buddy.”

  “My name is Jonathan, not buddy.” Temper was beginning to show around the edges of that unemotional armor. Cold, controlled, but temper nonetheless. “And speaking of names, I still don’t know yours.”

  “Sunny.” She clipped off the word, giving him no more information than she had to. Her temper was a whole lot warmer than his, and she was glad to see his appear. She’d been as much miffed by the casual way he’d labeled her a trespasser as by the label itself.

  “Sonny?” His brow wrinkled. “As in sonny boy?”

  “No. I’m not someone’s male child. Apparently you haven’t caught on to that yet either. Sunny, as in sunshine.”

  He gave her a long look. “There is nothing whatsoever about you that reminds me of sunshine.”

  The precise delivery undid her. She fought the laugh but it got away from her.

  Though he didn’t smile back, he seemed to relax a bit. “Sunny sounds like it might be a nickname.”

  She nodded. As her mood eased, her stance did as well. She propped her elbows on the table, clasped her hands and rested her chin atop her knuckles. Openly, she studied him. “Yes, it is. But something tells me that you don’t go by John, Johnny, or Jack.”

  “Jonathan is preferred, thank you.”

  Yep. He wasn’t difficult to get a handle on. “Well, Jonathan, is that enough proof?”

  “Yes, you’re not trespassing. You’re here with Laurel’s permission...”

  She’d felt her face go blank, and he must’ve seen it.

  “Aren’t you?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

  She considered him for a moment, and then sat back. Wearily she lifted her shoulders.
“It was more her mother’s idea,” she said dryly.

  “And what exactly is it that you’re doing here?” His gaze drifted to the hall, then back. “The downstairs rooms are empty of everything but furniture. Are you preparing the house for sale?”

  “Uh-huh. You’d agreed to sell it.”

  “I didn’t realize it would be this fast.”

  “It’s not on the market yet,” she clarified. “When I’m through clearing out the personal stuff, painters and contractors have to be hired.”

  “Why you?”

  “Why me what?”

  “In what capacity are you here? As a friend of the family?”

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips. “Well, actually—”

  “You seem too young to be the real estate agent.”

  “In fact, I am an agent,” she informed him coolly. “And a successful one. You’d be amazed at how grown up I can look when I put my mind to it.”

  “Excuse me.” At her rebuff, his stuffy side made another appearance. “I stand corrected.”

  She waved it off. “But I won’t be handling the sale. I work out of San Francisco and don’t know the area here well enough to feel comfortable with it. Mavis Fairly lives here in Chester Beach and works out of Castleton City. She’s a family friend and will handle negotiations.”

  She got up, refilled her cup, then sat down again. “Now I need to know what you’re doing here. Do you by chance want to hang on to this place after all?”

  “You look apprehensive. Evidently you don’t want me to reconsider.”

  And that thoughtful look of his probably meant that he was reconsidering. Oh, great. One complication after another. She stood and pushed her chair under the table. “Call...Laurel, when you make up your mind. And consider the coffee maker a gift. I’ll get my suitcase and be gone.”

  “You don’t have to go, Sunny. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “This place isn’t big enough for both of us,” she mumbled as she emptied her cup into the sink. She stopped on her way out of the kitchen, turned back, and tilted her head as if to look down her nose at him. When annoyed, her habit was to annoy right back. “And I can’t help but wonder in what capacity you’re inviting me to stay, Mr. Corday?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, as if mulling over her meaning. Then his eyes closed briefly, showing her he’d caught on. Appearing impatient as well as irritated, he shook his head at the well-worn oilcloth that covered the table. “Are you always this prickly?”

  Sunny regretted making the implication. Her peppery side had gotten her in trouble more than once.

  “You’re not my type,” he went on, voice so dismissive his insult topped hers. He managed to give the impression of looking down his nose at her without even looking at her. Then that cool green gaze rose and caught hers. “And I haven’t changed my mind about selling. Your commission is safe. I live in Bakersfield.” He paused, then added, as if explaining to a child, “No ocean. I wanted to see this place before it was sold. Perhaps I should have contacted Laurel, but I was given a key at the end of probate so I just came ahead. And until you arrived,” he said and then hesitated, and she didn’t miss the hesitation. “I liked it here. If it doesn’t interfere with your work, I’d like to stick around. Perhaps we could tolerate each other.”

  She frowned. “My commission?”

  He frowned. “That’s the only thing you got out of that whole speech? This is prime oceanfront property. The commission alone will amount to a small fortune.”

  “Oh. But I told you I’m not handling the sale.” She jumped at a sudden strident ringing and then broke into a smile. “Hey! I don’t have to stay mad at the phone company.” She sprinted to the parlor, grabbed the receiver and spoke into it.

  “Hello, doll,” said the voice at the other end.

  “Ryan. Hi. My phone works.”

  “That seems a little obvious, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, shut up. Are you just checking, or what?”

  “My four o’clock appointment for tomorrow just called to cancel, and I don’t have anyone until noon the next day. If I’m still invited, I can make it by dinner tomorrow.”

  “Great. Come on up. You have that set of directions?”

  “Got it. See you tomorrow.”

  “Uh, Ry—” But the phone clicked in her ear. She’d explain and introduce Jonathan tomorrow. No big deal.

  “Expecting company?”

  She jumped, then spun to find Jonathan in the doorway. “Ground rule number one. Don’t sneak up on me.”

  His gaze flitted back down the hall toward the kitchen, then returned to her. “Perhaps we should rethink this. Tolerating each other may prove to be beyond us.”

  She’d caught the dry tone and realized he had humor as well as temper behind that reserved exterior, and that he was trying to be fair. It wasn’t his fault she felt so weighed down with this place and the hovering aura of the missing Franklin Corday, the father who’d unsuccessfully tried to disown her when she was in fourth grade. She’d spent a long portion of her life trying to disown him right back, yet here she was clearing out his house.

  “Sorry,” she told Jonathan, and formally extended her hand. The least she could do was meet him halfway. “You and I got off on the wrong foot, and we’re still dancing around on it. Truce?”

  It occurred to her then that telling him her legal name at this late stage might put them right back on the wrong foot again. Well, too bad.

  He took her hand. “Truce. Who’s Ryan?”

  “We share an apartment.” As she withdrew her hand she realized she’d invited company without first running it by the co-owner. Oops. “He, uh, hung up before I could tell him about you. And I didn’t even think about telling you about him.”

  “I won’t worry about it if you don’t.” He tilted his head. “Have you had breakfast? Or, more to the point, do you know how to cook?”

  She got the point but didn’t respond to it.

  “Cook,” he repeated carefully. “Do you know how to cook?”

  “Apparently you don’t.”

  “I can handle a coffee maker and a toaster, but that’s about it.” He looked hopeful.

  Another one who liked to eat but didn’t know how to operate a kitchen. Odd, but she felt almost grateful. The familiar role of being the cook in a party of two made her feel at home.

  “Would you like some breakfast, Jonathan?”

  He lost the stuffy look when he smiled, she noted, and she got the sudden urge to make him smile more often.

  Chapter Three

  “Thank you.” Jonathan dotted his mouth with the paper napkin, folded it neatly and replaced it at the side of his plate. He had excellent table manners. “You’re a good cook.”

  Sunny placed her elbows on the table and rolled her cup between her hands. She knew good manners when she saw them but wasn’t a stickler about using them. “You’re welcome. But scrambling a couple eggs and frying up a pan of hash browns isn’t exactly a culinary feat.”

  “If the food is edible, you know what you’re doing. The kitchen defeats me.” He looked pained. “I tried to make French toast once. Did you know that the bottles of chili powder and cinnamon are very similar in size and color?”

  She paused with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  She got the giggles. She could see it, smell it, and taste it. “Okay. I’m the chef. You’ll get no argument.”

  “Good.” He stood and picked up her plate to carry to the sink with his. “If you’ll do the cooking, I’ll clean the bathroom.”

  That also struck Sunny as funny, but she wasn’t sure why.

  “But,” he added as he rinsed plates, “that means you’d be preparing three meals a day. And I’d only clean the bathroom once.”

  You’re going to clean the bathroom every day?

  “So I’ll also do the sweeping and dusting,” he went on in that studious way of his. “I noticed there was no vacuum
cleaner.”

  “I’ve junked three vacuums. Not a one of them worked.” She had a hunch their bathroom was going to be just as pristine as any bathroom found in the most elegant of hotels.

  “Does that sound fair?” he asked, turning back around. “Is it a deal?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Do you want help washing the dishes?”

  “No, thanks. Your deal’s a fair one. I’ll manage.”

  Jonathan, you are going to make an excellent husband for someone some day. As she watched him exit the kitchen and walk down the hall, she noted the straight back, precise posture and measured stride. Once she gets past that starched-shirt exterior, of course.

  After they’d finished their chores, they walked through the house while she filled him in on what she’d accomplished so far. “After the divorce, Franklin wouldn’t allow, uh...”

  At her hesitation, he said, “If you mean Laurel’s mother, I think her name is Roberta.”

  “Uh. Yeah. She hadn’t been in the house since then and had no idea what might be here, and she didn’t want strangers pawing through everything. So I got appointed.” Well, here was her chance to re-introduce herself. “Which is only fitting,” she added as she opened the utility room’s door that led outside. “Because—”

  Sunny jerked as a flurry of color, which she quickly realized was the calico cat she’d been trying to tame, scampered around the side of the house. The cat must have been sunning itself on the outside stoop, and the opening of the door had startled the kitten as much as the cat had startled Sunny.

  “Your cat?” Jonathan asked. “I saw it a number of times yesterday.”

  “No, it’s wild. I can’t get it to come to me.”

  A black SUV with a dented fender loomed next to the shed. The vehicle was so big she wondered how she’d missed it, and then she realized that since it was directly in back of the house the porch would’ve hidden it as she’d driven up.

  With a nod of his head Jonathan indicated the dumpster sitting off to the side. “That one is empty, but I venture to guess you’ve filled a couple of them already.”

  “And you’d be right. That’s the third one. When Franklin replaced anything, he didn’t throw the old one away. He just put it somewhere. You’d be amazed.”