âYou and I are friends.â
Jillâs voice trembled.
âI want to be more than your friend,â
Dan said.
âBut we agreedââ
âI didnât agree to anything,â he interrupted. His gaze still held hers. âMy feelings havenât changed. I want to see where our attraction leads us.â
Denying she was attracted to him would be fruitless. Even if she hadnât already admitted as much, he might be able to tell that little goose bumps had popped up on her skin where heâd touched her.
âWeâve already been over this,â she said, âand Iâm not staying in Indigo Springs.â
Dear Reader,
Almost everyone is familiar with the fable about the boy who cried wolf. In That Runaway Summer, Jill Jacobiâs ten-year-old brother is a variation of that boy. Except when he comes to Jill with a fantastic tale others have discounted, she believes him. She even goes on the run to protect him.
Jill and her brother wind up in Indigo Springs, which may well be the end of the road for them. I know it is for me. That Runaway Summer is the final installment in my five-book series set in the scenic Pocono Mountain town that isnât nearly as tranquil as it looks. Then again, if it were, visiting there wouldnât be quite as interesting!
Until next time,
Darlene Gardner
P.S. Visit me on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.
âHEâS HIRED a private investigator to track you down.â Her motherâs voice was breaking up, not entirely due to the scratchy reception.
A shuddering sound reverberated, so raucous it seemed to shake the cramped living room in the furnished apartment Jill Jacobi had rented six weeks ago. Her eyes flew to the door as if her pursuer would burst through any second.
But it was the air conditioner sputtering and rattling before finally blasting her face with semicool air.
âDid you hear me?â Her motherâs familiar Southern drawl came over the phone, the connection clearer now. âHe said if you called me I should tell you itâs only a matter of time before his private investigator finds you.â
Jillâs knuckles showed white on the prepaid cell phone. She loosened her grip and reminded herself she could find a kernel of good in even the worst news.
He hadnât called in the cops.
âDonât worry, Mama,â she said, her tone deliberately light. She parted the pretty yellow-and-white-gingham curtains sheâd hung to brighten up the room and studied the Columbia, South Carolina, street below. A few cars passed by, but the businesses were closed and the sidewalks empty. No one was watching the apartment building. âA private eye canât find me.â
âHow do you know that, darlinâ?â Her mother sounded worried, the way she had every time Jill checked in. Then again, her mother had been anxious about something or other since her divorce from Jillâs father. That had been a full two decades ago when Jill was eight. âPrivate eyes are like bird dogs. You donât know the first thing about throwing one off a scent.â
Jill was more savvy than sheâd been in the last town, when sheâd taken into her confidence the friendly young mother who lived next door. Sheâd barely escaped Savannah in time after discovering her so-called friend had tried to exchange her whereabouts for reward money.
âI know a little something about covering my tracks, Mama,â Jill said. âI withdrew all the money from my bank account, I donât list my address anywhere and I donât use credit. Iâm even using money orders for my car payments.â
Who was she trying to reassure? Jill wondered. Her mother or herself?
âI hate that youâre living this way,â her mother said. âYou were so happy in Atlanta. You were going to buy into that bike shop and you had all those nice friends.â
âI can make friends wherever I go.â Jill refused to dwell on her lost business opportunity. âI can be happy anywhere.â
She wished that were true of her mother, a nurse who had long operated under the hope that the next hospital job or the next condo or the next man held the key to her happiness.
âHow can you be content when youâre always looking over your shoulder? Thatâs no way to live.â
âItâs the way it has to be.â
âNo!â Her mother was probably shaking her head, the curly dark hair that was so like Jillâs rustling from side to side. âNo, it isnât. You can go on back to Atlanta and get your life together.â