Her charming attempt at imperiousness delighted him so much that he stopped right in the middle of the crowded mall to kiss her, earning himself a glare and another one of her rosy blushes.
“I’m hungry,” she told him when they were back in the car. “Why don’t we have some lunch somewhere?”
He agreed very cooperatively and took her to Fisherman’s Wharf, spending the quiet time during the meal learning more about her childhood years in Arkansas. She answered his questions stiffly at first, but Derek’s genuine interest in her words put her quickly at ease. Soon she was chattering away, making him smile and once even laugh with her stories of her boisterous childhood.
Summer even managed to draw Derek out enough to talk a bit about his own childhood. He admitted that he had been quite a handful, always tumbling into trouble and making frequent visits to the emergency room.
“When did you turn into such a respectable citizen?” Summer asked him with gentle mockery.
He grimaced at her but answered semiseriously. “Probably about the time Connie was born. My father told me that I had to set a proper example for my baby sister, since I was so much older.”
“How did you feel about having a little sister after being an only child for so long?” Summer asked curiously.
Derek lifted one shoulder, his expression almost wistful. “I thought it was nice. She was cute, as babies go, and I used to enjoy playing with her. But then I ended up in Nam and drifted into the government job, and before I knew it, she was grown-up and practically a stranger. I don’t know what happened, exactly.”
Her heart twisting at the sadness in his eyes, Summer reached across the table to touch his hand. “You made a good start at repairing the damage last night, Derek. The two of you were a little more relaxed together this morning.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” he answered, looking faintly pleased.
Summer released his hand, aware of her reluctance to do so. “How do you really feel about Connie dating Joel?” she asked Derek, forcing herself to keep her mind on their conversation.
To Summer’s surprise Derek broke into a broad grin. “I find it very amusing,” he informed her cryptically.
Summer frowned in confusion. “Why?”
But Derek only shook his head. “I’ll tell you another time,” he told her, refusing to say another word about it.
When the meal was over, Derek asked again, “Where to?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I hope you’re feeling rested and refreshed. Our next stop is Halloran House.”
He frowned. “Halloran House?”
“It’s a home for children with emotional or behavioral problems. It’s Clay McEntire’s pet project—he spent some time in a similar home when he was growing up, and he doesn’t mind telling people that he would have ended up in prison by now if he hadn’t received excellent counseling and guidance at the youth home. Anyway, the kids at Halloran House are putting on a talent show. Clay volunteered my services to them when he found out that I’d been a theater arts major. They’ve been rehearsing on Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings, but they’re putting on the show this coming Friday and they wanted to work in one extra rehearsal today. You can just drop me off if you don’t want to stay.”
“I’ll stay.” The words were spoken decisively. Derek was vaguely aware that he was enjoying himself more than he could have imagined. The more time he spent with Summer Reed, the more she fascinated him. And the more he wanted her. “What’s the address?”
8
HALLORAN HOUSE HAD been established in a large, renovated Victorian home by a wealthy industrialist who had lost a son to a drug overdose, Summer explained as Derek drove. It relied on donations for its continued existence, many of which were obtained from wealthy families whose children had been in trouble with drugs or other serious adolescent problems. Though most of the children in residence at Halloran House were from low-income families, there were some there from the middle and upper classes. Mostly between the ages of eleven and sixteen, these were kids who, either because of neglect at home or the influence of their peers, had gotten beyond the control of their parents and teachers, though they had not yet been convicted of any real crimes.
Summer was greeted warmly by the Halloran House residents, though Derek was not welcomed with open arms. The troubled young people there did not trust adult strangers, and they looked him over thoroughly when Summer introduced him. Derek was grateful that he’d chosen to dress in leather jacket and jeans that morning. His short, almost military haircut earned him enough suspicious looks. His usual crisp white shirts and dark, creased slacks would have put him in contempt with these defiantly ragged youths with their too old eyes.
In the cavernous, one-time ballroom, which now served as a recreation room, a stage had been erected and a stereo, with huge blaring speakers, set up. Young people were practicing all over the room, oblivious to the chaos around them. At least half a dozen different pop songs were being mangled simultaneously, dancers were leaping like demented deer, a teenage girl dressed like Cyndi Lauper was swaying sinuously, another was twirling a baton and a group in one corner seemed to be loudly practicing a comedy skit. Summer had told Derek that there were only twenty full-time residents. Ten more attended counseling sessions there after school while living at home. Not all of those would be involved in the show, but to Derek there seemed to be hundreds of noisy adolescents in the room.
Through the confusion they heard a male voice yell “Summer!” and the rugged blond that Derek remembered from Connie and Summer’s party broke away from the crowd and came quickly across the room. He greeted Summer with an enthusiastic kiss on the mouth, which brought a murderous scowl to Derek’s tanned face.
“Derek, do you remember Clay McEntire?” Summer asked. “Clay, this is Connie’s brother, Derek. He was at our party last weekend.”
The two men shook hands—Derek with some reluctance—but before they could do more than murmur appropriate greetings, another man approached. A prematurely balding fellow of about thirty with thick glasses and a seemingly permanent grin, he was introduced by Summer as Frank Rivers, the director of Halloran House.” ‘Bout time you got here, Summer. We’ve got a madhouse on our hands.”
“No problem,” Summer assured him airily, then cupped her hands and shouted, “All right, you animals, the director’s here. Let’s show a little respect.”
Magically the chaos subsided. Laughing, the kids gathered around Summer, who ordered them to sit on the floor in front of the stage. Derek was rather astonished when they obeyed her without question. Summer dispatched him to a straight-backed chair in one corner of the room to watch the proceedings. Like the kids, he did as she told him without protest.
For the next two hours Derek watched in fascination as Summer turned the eighteen insolent delinquents attending the rehearsal into surprisingly adequate performers. Laughing, teasing and cheerfully insulting, she had the kids eating out of her hand, even as she managed to maintain control of the rehearsal with very little help from Frank and Clay. She applauded each performance, offered suggestions when needed, even walked through the Cyndi Lauper routin
e with the girl, smoothing out the rough edges of the lip-synched pantomime. Despite the enforced awkwardness of her movements, Summer maintained a graceful fluidity that Derek knew had been developed through long grueling hours of therapy and practice. The talent that had won her the role of Eliza Doolittle was very much in evidence.