That Boy From Trash Town by Billie Green Page B

the past, he had come to depend on her.
    As he leaned his forehead against the glass, he tried to figure out why he felt so uneasy. It wasn't as though he was in the habit of seeing Whitney every day. They had been separated plenty of times—when she was in college, and when the Harcourts, en masse, went traveling. Several times a year they would take off for parts unknown to mingle with other wealthy, traveling folk.
    Why, then, did Dean feel that this separation was different? Why did he feel as though there was an emotional as well as physical distance between them?
    When the doorbell rang Dean turned away from the window and frowned. It couldn't be Whitney. She never bothered with ringing the bell. Since the house had become his, she always just walked in.
    On the other hand, maybe this was her way of showing that she remembered his angry demands for privacy.
    It wasn't Whitney.
    Anne Grant was the last person Dean would expect to find on his doorstep—she had always made a point of ignoring him if they happened to pass by each other on the street, as though she didn't want to acknowledge the fact that Dean even existed—but here she was, standing on his front porch.
    "Mrs, Grant," he said, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "What can I do for you?"
    She didn't meet his eyes. She looked around his porch—anywhere but at him—as she fidgeted with the clutch purse she held in gloved hands. "I need to talk to you," she said, her voice characteristically faint.
    Opening the door wider, he waved her inside. "Sure. Come in."
    After he had shown the woman to an armchair in the living room, he sat down and studied her, waiting for her to tell him what this was all about. Her uneasiness was evident in her posture. Anne Grant had always been stiff around him, but today she was positively rigid.
    "You— Your home is charming," she said finally. "You've done a beautiful job of restoration."
    "Thank you." He wanted to tell her to either fish or cut bait, but he knew that would make her even more uncomfortable. "How's Whitney? Is she still 'indisposed'?"
    Anne immediately dropped her gaze to her hands. "My daughter is the reason I'm here today," she said with obvious reluctance.
    Dean was instantly alert. A new element had crept into the woman's vague voice, an element that brought apprehension into the room with them.
    "What about Whitney?" Tension gripped the muscles in his neck and shoulders, but he kept his voice calm. "Where is she? Whitney's all right, isn't she? She's not really sick or—"
    "She's gone."
    For a moment Dean wasn't sure he had heard the soft words correctly. "What the hell are you talking about?" Politeness discarded, his voice was now harsh and abrupt. "What do you mean, she's gone?"
    "She left sometime in the middle of the night on Sunday. I knew she was upset, but I didn't expect this. She simply packed her bags and walked out." When her lips trembled slightly, she pursed them and continued. "She didn't even leave a note for me."
    Dean stood up, turning away from her as he raked his fingers through his hair. Packed her bags? Walked out? Whitney was gone? Whitney was gone.
    "Did she speak to you about our...disagreement?" Anne Grant asked.
    He turned back to the woman, his thoughts chaotic. Whitney's mother still wouldn't meet his eyes, but when he didn't answer, she added, "I knew she was on her way to see you when I saw her go through the hedge." Her lips tightened again. "Since she was a little girl, she has always come to you when something upsets her."
    How she hated admitting that, he thought, then glanced away from her rigid features.
    "She told me nothing."
    The words were low and tight with anger, but this time the anger was directed toward himself. Whitney hadn't had the chance to tell him anything. Damn it, he should have known something was wrong with her that day. He should have known something had hurt her.
    Dean had spent the past four days pushing the picture of how she looked in his