Open Season by Linda Howard

have you hauled in if you so much as jaywalk. Is that understood?”
    “I don’t jaywalk,” she said triumphantly. “I’m so law-abiding I could be the poster child for responsible citizens. I wouldn’t even let you come in through the employees’ door, would I?”
    “People like you need counseling.” He glanced at the computer screen, then heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s finished.” He checked his watch. “That didn’t take any-where near forty-five minutes. More like fifteen. So I guess you do have a fault, Miss Daisy.”
    She felt her back teeth lock together at the “Miss Daisy.” If he made another joke about her name, she might just smack him. “What’s that?” she asked as she quickly unhooked the computer. The faster he left, the better.
    He took the laptop from her. “You lie like hell,” he said, leaving her speechless, and he strode out before she could think of a good reply.

SIX
    J ack. Russo was in a good mood when he left the library. Sparring with Miss Daisy was a lot of fun; she pokered up, blushed, but didn’t back down an inch. She reminded him a lot of his great-aunt Bessie, with whom he had spent many of his summers right here in Hillsboro. Aunt Bessie had been as straitlaced and starchy as they came, but remarkably tolerant of having an energetic boy with her for at least two months every summer.
    Though at first he’d been agonized at being stuck in the sticks!—as he’d thought of Hillsboro back then—he had grown to love both his great-aunt and his time here. His parents had thought it would be good for him to get out of Chicago and find out there was another type of world out there, and they’d been right.
    At first he’d been bored to tears; he was ten yearsold and away from his parents and all his friends, all his stuff. Aunt Bessie had been able to get a grand total of four—four!—channels on her television, and she did things like crochet every afternoon while she sat in front of the tube and watched her “stories.” She went to church twice on Sunday, washed her sheets on Monday, mopped on Tuesday, shopped for groceries on Thursday because that was double-coupon day. He didn’t need a clock to tell time; all he had to do was check what Aunt Bessie was doing.
    And it had been hot. God, had it been hot. And Aunt Bessie hadn’t had air-conditioning; she didn’t believe in such foolishness. She had a window fan in each bedroom and a portable one she moved around the rest of the house as she needed it, and that was enough for her. Her screened windows were open to let breezes flow through the house.
    But after he’d gotten over his tears and sullenness, he had gradually discovered the fun of lying in the sweet-smelling grass at sunset and watching the fireflies—or lightning bugs, as Aunt Bessie called them. He’d helped her in the small garden she tended every summer, learning to appreciate the taste of fresh vegetables and the work involved in getting them to the table. He had gradually gotten to know the neighborhood boys and spent many a long hot afternoon playing baseball or football; he had learned how to fish and hunt, taught by the dad of one of his new friends. Those six summers, beginning at age ten and ending when he was fifteen, became the best times of his life.
    In a way, he had never become absorbed into Hillsboro culture; because he came only during the summer, he never met any of the kids other than the boys in the neighborhood. Since he’d been back inHillsboro, he’d met only one man who remembered him, but over twenty years had passed since he’d stopped visiting Aunt Bessie except for lightning stops during the holidays, when people were busy with their own families and he hadn’t had time to look up any of his old pals.
    Aunt Bessie lived to be ninety-one, and when she died three years ago, he’d been both startled and touched to find she’d willed her old house to him. Almost immediately he’d made up his mind to make the move from