Free The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel by Anita Stansfield Page A

kids as much as it suited him. But he took it out on her, too. And she just passed it on. She smacked us around herself now and then. They gave me life and kept me fed—barely. I left the minute I turned eighteen, and I’ve never been back.”
    “Not once?”
    “Not once.”
    “Do you call . . . write?”
    “I send a Christmas card every year to let them know I’m still alive. I do not include a return address. I have no desire to hear from any of them, at all.”
    “What about your siblings?” she asked with an astonishment that surprised him. He’d admitted to shooting a man, and it hadn’t phased her. But his avoidance of his family was apparently a felony.
    “I have one sister who ran away from home before I did, with a guy who was way too much like our father. There’s no hope for her. Could we change the subject?”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s none of your business.”
    “Maybe not, but I would at least think you could call your own mother. At least you have a mother.”
    Jackson leaned farther over the table. “You, who were raised by that amazing woman down the hall, have no right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. Your telling me that I should live my life differently than I live it sounds awfully judgmental to me.”
    “Your telling me that I’m judgmental sounds judgmental,” she countered, then softened her voice. “I’m not judging your decision. I just think a mother—even a bad mother—deserves to hear from her son once in a while.”
    “I send her Christmas cards.”
    “Okay.” She put her hands up. “I surrender. Don’t shoot.”
    “Not even a little bit funny.”
    “Sorry,” she said, and he could see that she meant it. “I wasn’t intending that to be connected to anything you told me earlier.”
    “Apology accepted. Now, can we change the subject to something a little less . . . volatile?”
    “Okay,” she said, and neither of them said anything for several minutes. “Wow,” she finally interjected. “We’ve known each other for one day and we’re arguing.”
    “You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”
    “A little stimulating disagreement over matters of principle keeps people on their toes, don’t you think?” She didn’t add that she hadn’t shared any such stimulating disagreement with anyone but Martin. She did say, “Granny and I disagree on a lot of things, but we don’t talk about most of that stuff. We only argue over things like . . . what color to paint the walls . . . which Dickens book is the best . . . which American Idol should win. Stuff like that.”
    “That sounds stimulating enough.”
    “So, what are the possible outcomes of this investigation?”
    Jackson sighed. “Is that your idea of a topic less volatile?”
    “I just figured it was something you should be prepared for, right? And maybe you should talk about it.”
    “Funny how you have everything figured out about me after twenty-four hours.”
    Chas noticed that he looked very intense—even mildly angry—and she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “We’re arguing again.”
    “And you’re enjoying it.”
    “Yes, actually.”
    “You are a strange woman, Chas Henrie.”
    “Yes, but since you’ll be gone in a week or two, you really don’t need to concern yourself with that.” Jackson wanted to contradict that comment, but just the thought of doing so was ludicrous. “So, what’s going to happen?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Tell me.”
    Jackson sighed. “If they conclude that I did something wrong, I will be without a job. I think my record will work in my favor. I suspect they’ll just ask me to resign, and they’ll give me an early retirement.”
    “And then what?”
    “I don’t know what. That’s the problem, Chas. I’m too old to start over. I don’t know how to do anything else.”
    “You’re not old.”
    “I didn’t say I was old; I said I was too old to start over.”
    “Granny would disagree with you, and she’s