Stephen obviously wanted to take her on but thought better of it and chewed on the corner of his lip instead.

In J.D.’s opinion, the odds were better than ten to one that the kid wouldn’t make curfew. He knew what the boy was thinking; he’d been there.

“And your room is clean?”

“Clean enough.”

“Stephen,” she reproached gently.

“Clean enough for me and it’s my room, okay?” He was already through the front door and grabbing a beat-up skateboard that was propped against the side of the house. The board sported peeling decals of what J.D. assumed were the names of alternative rock bands. “I’ll see ya later.”

“Five. Remember.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Watching him leave, Tiffany worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Teenagers,” she said in a tone so low he almost didn’t hear the concern in her voice.

J.D. didn’t blame her for being apprehensive. Stephen needed to be sat down on, and hard. The kid had an attitude and it wasn’t going to get any better over the next couple of years.

Sighing softly, Tiffany shook her head as if she were having a private conversation with herself and losing. Badly.

“Since you’re here, I assume you wanted to see me.”

He tensed at her choice of words.

“Come into the kitchen,” she said curtly. “Christina, you, too.” Sandals clicking in agitation, she marched down the hallway, throwing herself through the pair of swinging doors.

J.D. hauled his bags with him and followed, catching one of the doors as it swung back at him. The kitchen was at the back of the house and looked like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. Sunlight spilled through the windows, giving the room a warm, golden glow. Shining pots and pans hung from the ceiling over a center island while bundles of fragrant herbs, suspended from hooks, scented the air. The refrigerator was adorned with a three-year-old’s artwork, notes about repairs that needed to be done to the house, and emergency phone numbers.

Homey.

Charming.

And as phony as a three-dollar bill.

Tiffany reached into the windowsill for a bottle of aspirin and shook two white tablets into her hand.

“Headache?”

“At least.” She turned on the tap, grabbed a glass from a nearby cabinet, filled it and tossed the pills and a huge gulp of water down her throat. “Now, what is it you want, Jay?”

J.D. set his bags on the floor and leaned a hip against one of the cupboards. A needle of guilt pricked his conscience as he thought about the deed to this house tucked into a pocket of his duffel bag. As much as he disliked Tiffany Nesbitt Santini, he didn’t relish adding to her problems.

“There must be something. You didn’t drive all the way down here from Portland just to say hello.”

“No, but I did come to see you.”