Since he seemed to be settled in, Spring decided she might as well play hostess. "Can I get you something to drink, Clay?"
"No, thanks. Maybe later." He smiled at her, apparently quite content to be with her on this pleasant afternoon.
She relaxed a bit, silently admitting that she was content with his company, as well. If only she weren't so aware of how very attractive he looked in the afternoon sun, how well the soft fabric of his shirt and worn jeans defined his lean muscles. "Have you heard anything more about Thelma?" she asked to distract herself.
He shook his head. "No. I've got a lot of feelers out, but no leads so far. I'm pretty sure she's still in the area, but she's well hidden."
"I hope she's all right."
"So do I. What are you reading?" he inquired, deliberately changing the solemn subject.
"It's a new one by?
?" She stopped when the cordless telephone that she'd carried out with her earlier rang. Derek was expecting a business call later, and he'd asked her to take a message if it came in while he was away. She reached out to answer the phone, picking up the pencil and pad beside it. A moment later she held out the receiver to Clay. "It's for you. It's Frank."
"Thanks. Hi, Frank, what's up? What? When? Where is she? Yeah, I know where that is. Okay, I'm on my way. I'll call you later. Thanks."
He was on his feet immediately, dropping the phone onto the glass-topped patio table. "Frank's got a lead on Thelma. One of her friends broke down and told him where she's been staying. He thinks she may be ill. Tell Summer I'll call her later, will you?"
"Clay," Spring said suddenly, when he appeared to be on the verge of leaving. "Would you...?" She faltered when he turned to look questioningly at her.
"What is it, Spring?"
"I could go with you, if you'd like," she offered in a rush of words. When he looked surprised, she hurried to add, "I just thought I could help. If you think I'd only be in the way, I'll understand."
He smiled at her, that deep-cornered, male-model smile that made her leg bones soften. "Why, thank you, Spring. I would like for you to go with me."
"You're sure?"
"If you are. We won't be going into the nicer part of town."
She nodded, gathering her things and the cordless telephone to carry them into the house. "I didn't think we would be. Just let me leave a note for Summer."
"I'll wait for you in the car."
Even as she scribbled the note for her sister, Spring asked herself why she'd volunteered to accompany Clay. He obviously didn't need her help. Spring grudgingly suspected that the reason she'd suddenly offered to join Clay had been that she hadn't wanted to see him walk away. She had definitely left her common sense back home in Little Rock, she concluded, even as she grabbed her purse and locked all the doors.
Spring wasn't particularly surprised to discover that Clay's car was a fire-engine-red Mazda RX-7. It was exactly the type of car that she would have expected him to drive. Of course, she would have been no more surprised to find him in a psychedelic-painted van, circa 1968 San Francisco. Come to think of it, she mused, there wasn't much Clay McEntire could do that would surprise her.
"How old are you, Clay?" she asked as the powerful sports car sped them across the Golden Gate Bridge.
He shot her a sideways glance before answering the first question she'd asked since they'd left her sister's house. "Ill be thirty-five in June. How old do you think I look?"
She thought about that one for a moment before answering honestly. "Anywhere from mid-twenties to late-thirties, depending on your expression."
He grinned. "Guess I'll have to practice that mid-twenties expression."
She didn't bother to tell him that he looked equally devastating either way. She figured he already knew it. There had to be mirrors in his home. She wondered where he lived. And then she wondered with whom. Shifting in her seat, she searched her mind for an innocuous topic of conversation, something that would keep him from worrying about Thelma until they reached their destination, finally settling on his work. "Summer tells me that you have a Ph.D. in adolescent psychology."
"Yes."
"Do you enjoy counseling in public schools?"
"I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't enjoy it."
"No," she murmured. "You wouldn't, would you?" She couldn't imagine Clay doing anything he didn't enjoy. Unlike herself, who often acted from her overdeveloped sense of duty and responsibility at the price of personal pleasure. People like Clay, and like Summer, had a way of taking whatever life handed them and making it suit their own purposes. Spring wished she knew their secret.
"What about you?" Clay asked suddenly.