Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

School and Agnes Morris's residence, where I had lived while studying.
    The cab brought us to the address, and we got out. Jimmy paid the driver, and then we turned and contemplated the dark oak doorway with its stained glass window. Now that we were actually here we were both so nervous that we had to hold onto each other as we went up the steps. I saw the tension in Jimmy's eyes, the way the skin around them narrowed and tightened. He straightened into his military posture and pressed the doorbell button. We heard the chimes clang, and immediately a small dog began to bark.
    Moments later Clayton Osborne opened the door, chiding the gray French poodle at his feet to be still, but the dog wouldn't stop barking until Clayton lifted him into his arms. It whined and squirmed in Clayton's long, graceful fingers but didn't bark.
    Clayton was still dressed in his pin-striped suit and tie. He was tall and good-looking with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He was a slim man who held himself confidently, perhaps exaggerating his stiffness because of the occasion.
    "Good afternoon," he said. Jimmy had been right about his arrogant nasality. It wasn't a cold. He held his head back when he spoke and immediately tightened his jaw, as if he were anticipating an argument after each and every word.
    "Good afternoon," Jimmy replied. "I'm James Longchamp, and this is my wife, Dawn."
    "Pleased to meet you." He offered me his hand first, shifting the dog under his other arm. Then he shook Jimmy's hand quickly. "Come in," he said, stepping back. After he closed the door behind us he paused. "Just so we all understand clearly," he said, "Kelly knows nothing about her sordid past. As far as she is concerned, you two are friends of mine, friends I've made through business. You were in the neighborhood and stopped by," he instructed. "But you can't stay long. You're going to a Broadway show or something and have to get ready, if Kelly should ask."
    I felt Jimmy stiffen beside me. I didn't like the condescending tone in Clayton Osborne's voice either. He spoke with a pompous air, as if we should be forever grateful for the favor he was doing us.
    When neither of us spoke, he added, "I've had a discussion with my attorney, and he was not happy about this. However, your locating us was surely inappropriate, if not out-and-out illegal. There are laws protecting the parents of adopted children and the children themselves, laws specifically against this sort of thing."
    "We're not here to cause anyone any trouble, Mr. Osborne," I replied quickly, before Jimmy could speak. "I'm sure you can sympathize with our feelings and understand why we want to see Fern now."
    "Kelly," he corrected. "Her name is Kelly," he repeated firmly. "You must not say Fern," he snapped.
    "Kelly," I corrected. His eyes fell more heavily on me as he shifted the dog to his other arm. "Are you two husband and wife?"
    "That's right," Jimmy said. A tremor of confusion passed through Clayton Osborne's face, but he quickly recovered.
    "One other thing," he said. "Don't refer to me as Mr. Osborne. My name is Clayton, and my wife's name is Leslie. Kelly is a very perceptive and"—he turned to Jimmy—"precocious young girl, as I explained to you on the phone. She would pick up something like that immediately and become suspicious."
    "Clayton?" a female voice called.
    We all turned. Leslie Osborne had come into the hallway. She wore a jade-green blouse and jeans. I thought she had the figure of a dancer—small-breasted with a narrow waist and long, sleek legs. She had very light brown hair tied behind her head with a turquoise ribbon and wore no makeup, but she had the sort of face that didn't require much. Her lips were naturally bright red, her blue eyes crystalline and her complexion perfect, her skin as smooth and as clear as alabaster.
    "Why are you staying in the entryway so long?" she asked.
    "We were just greeting one another," he explained quickly. "This is my wife, Leslie," he said. She stepped toward us, extending her hand. I saw she wore two diamond stud earrings in her pierced ears.
    "How do you do?" she said.
    I took her hand in mine. Her fingers were long and thin, but her palms were puffy with muscle. Artist's hands, I thought. I felt she was a substantially warmer and less threatened person than her husband, and even though her eyes scanned me quickly, they were friendly eyes.
    "Forgive me for staring," she said, smiling. "I often forget I'm doing it. It's an