Midsummer Night's Mischief by Jennifer D. Hesse

glanced at the floor.
    What’s with the evasive maneuvers ? I wondered.
    He shrugged again. “He’s staying with some friends or something, I think. Look, Keli, I gotta finish up with inventory and check on things in the kitchen. See you later, okay?”
    â€œYeah, okay.” I said it to myself, as he had already closed the door. Strange.
    But I didn’t waste any time worrying about Jimi. I hurried out to my car, where I could sit quietly and call Wes. Nervously, I punched in the number and waited. Two rings, three rings, four.
    â€œHi. This is Wes. Can’t take your call right now. Leave me a message and I’ll catch up with ya later.” Beep.
    With my heart in my throat—What was I? Twelve years old?—I left a message. “Hi, Wes. This is Keli Milanni. Give me a call when you get a chance. I’m calling from my cell. Um, I know your mom is upset with me. And, uh, I was hoping I could talk to you. Bye.”
    Ugh. I felt like such a dork. I immediately called Farrah, but she didn’t pick up, either. So I started driving, no clear destination in mind. Sitting at a stoplight, I absentmindedly fingered the charm Mila had given me, which now dangled from my keychain. When the light changed, I turned left and soon found myself heading toward Woodbine Village. It seemed doubtful that Wes would be staying with his brother, considering the chilly relationship they seemed to have. Still, maybe I would learn something from Rob.
    From the outside, number 103 looked like a lot of the other apartments. Except this stoop had a lawn chair instead of potted flowers. The worn welcome mat looked like an artifact from the 1970s, and the black handrail suffered from rusty measles. A crushed beer can lay forlornly on the ground by the steps. Classy.
    On the other hand, the trees surrounding the complex were mature and beautiful. Before knocking on the door, I fixed my gaze on the leafy branches and took a deep, centering breath. Now I was ready for whatever reception I might get from this Callahan son.
    Rob opened the door as I raised my arm to knock a second time. For a moment I felt a little flustered, as I took in how cute he looked, standing there barefoot, in gym shorts and a fresh white T-shirt. His sandy hair was damp, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.
    â€œHi,” I said brightly, recovering myself. “Rob, I’m sorry to drop in unannounced like this. I’m Keli Milanni. We met at your grandmother’s house on Sunday.”
    â€œSure. I remember,” he said. Was that an amused look in those crinkly blue eyes? “You’re the lawyer, right?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”
    â€œUh . . .” He paused, looked over his shoulder, then ushered me in. “Sure. Uh, don’t mind the mess. I’m barely home long enough to clean.” Moving quickly, he cleared off a fuzzy brown armchair, tossing a stack of newspapers to the floor and wadding up a wrinkled shirt, which he then lobbed into an open doorway around the corner. “Have a seat.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, trying my best not to look at the crumpled tissue lying on the floor by my feet. “Is this a bad time?”
    Still dashing around the room, Rob gathered an armful of empty cans and tossed them noisily into a kitchen trash can. He spoke to me through an opening under some cabinets built over a countertop bar that divided the living room from the kitchen. “No, it’s fine. I just got home from the gym a little bit ago. I worked just a half day today. The job was slow. Want a beer?”
    â€œOh, sure,” I said. Might as well be sociable. “What kind of work do you do?”
    Rob came around the bar with two cans of beer. He handed me one, then sat on the couch and popped open the other. “I’m a CPA,” he said. “I work for Boone, the tax preparation service. It’s