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“But it’ll be like having a sister.” She hugged the cat again, so hard he uttered a cry that sounded very much like “no-o-o!”
“Sisters,” her mother said dryly, “often get tired of each other.” Grace was very conscious of Claire’s father, silent and stiff.
“Not us. We never will.” Linnet set poor Lemieux down and twirled into the kitchen. The cat shot a look at David and bolted. “Can I call her?” Linnet begged.
“No. Dinner is almost ready. And Mr. Whitcomb and I haven’t made a decision. He and Claire need to talk. This is between them.”
“Oh.” She halted her pirouette and showed the whites of her eyes as she rolled them toward her friend’s father. “I didn’t mean…that is…I mean…”
“I think he knows what you mean.” Grace held out two plates with silverware piled atop. “In the meantime, please set the table while I show him out.”
“No need.” His face and voice were wooden. “I’m sure we’ll be talking.”
She’d hardly had time to set one foot in front of another when she heard the soft sound of the front door opening and closing behind him. She was left with the horrifying realization that she’d gotten herself into something she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to do.
It should have been Claire she was thinking about. Unsettled, Grace had to admit, if only to herself, that she was far more worried about dealing with the grim father than with the sulky teenage girl.
DAVID HEAVED CLAIRE’S SUITCASE out of the trunk of his Mercedes and found his daughter was already hurrying up the brick steps to the front door of the condo. Her step was light; he could feel her joy as she raced toward liberation from her father. The door was swinging open even before she reached it, the two girls squealing, vanishing inside with their arms around each other’s waists.
He was left with a lump of heavy, rough concrete where his heart should have been and with the certain knowledge that, once again, he had taken the low road.
He was her father, damn it. He’d walked away once, and here he was essentially doing it again. He wasn’t tough enough to see his own child through a bad patch. Despising himself, David thought, Hell, no, hand her over to someone else. Let them deal with her.
He wondered how sternly Claire’s foster mom would hold him to his part of the bargain. Would Claire meld gradually, naturally, into Grace Blanchet’s family? Or did she really expect him to somehow become the father Claire needed?
Grunting at the thought, David picked up the suitcase and started after his daughter. The woman was a legal secretary, for Pete’s sake! How the hell could he think she would do for him—and Claire—what licensed psychologists couldn’t?
But did it matter? his mocking inner voice asked. So what if he failed, again? At least Claire was out of his hair. He didn’t have to come home from work every day to the deep, obscene beat of rap music, to a kid who’d rather sneer “I’m not hungry” and starve than sit down to dinner with him.
Grace was waiting for him in the open doorway. This being a Saturday, she had her hair in a ponytail and she wore jeans and a blue flannel shirt tucked into them. Casual, but her loafers gleamed like her warm brown hair. A classy lady who invariably left him feeling unsettled for reasons he didn’t understand.
And wasn’t in any hurry to identify.
“Why don’t you take that right up?” she suggested. “The girls wanted to share a bedroom, but for now I’m giving Claire our spare.” She lowered her voice. “I’m guessing that they will eventually want their privacy, even if they don’t believe me.”
Now, how did she know that? The way those two had hugged and squealed had him guessing the opposite. But then, his insight into a thirteen-year-old girl’s mind had been skewed from the get-go. Grace Blanchet had the advantage, at least, of having been a thirteen-year-old girl once upon a time.
“Sure,” he said, and started up the stairs behind her.
Even burdened with his daughter’s possessions and his own foul mood, he found his gaze lingering on Grace’s tiny waist and gently curved rear end. In her usual conservative suits, she looked skinnier than he found appealing in a woman. Snug jeans and the soft flannel of her shirt made plain that she was more womanly than he’d guessed. Half memory, half imagination stirred, and his palms briefly tingled with the knowledge of how her bottom would feel gripped in his hands.
He was grateful to reach the top of the stairs and be distracted by her gesture as she stood aside.
“Second door on the left.”
Although she’d said it was for guests, this bedroom had as much personality as the downstairs. A puffy denim comforter covered the antique bed. The maple bedside stand with spooled legs matched the bed. On the wall above the bed hung a small quilt, beautifully hand-stitched even to his uneducated eye, and old, he thought. A lacy valance matched a doily on the carved oak bureau.
The girls had flung open the closet doors and pounced on the suitcase the moment he walked in. Ignoring him, Claire unzipped it while he headed back downstairs for another load.
He was carrying her CD player in when he heard Linnet say, “You can do whatever you want to this room. You can put posters everywhere and—”
“I don’t think so,” David said. “Claire, you’re a guest. You can’t punch holes in the walls.”
She gave him a spiteful look.
Behind him, Grace intervened, her voice easy. “Of course, you can put up posters, Claire. Just use the sticky stuff that peels off, if you don’t mind. Do you want me to take down the quilt?”
Claire held the blistering look for one more moment, then turned her back. “I don’t mind it, Mrs. Blanchet.”
Grace laughed. “Somehow it doesn’t look right for a teenage girl. You need a poster of…who, Freddie Prinze, Jr. there?”
He doubted very much that his daughter would choose anyone so innocuous to emblazon on the walls. She preferred men with multiple body parts pierced, lank greasy hair and foul mouths.
“Dad had me bring my posters,” she said. Her tone suggested he’d ripped them off the wall and shoved them down her throat. Where, in fact, she was the one to strip her bedroom bare, as if she never intended to come back.
He turned to fetch them. That was, apparently, his only acceptable role in this handoff. He couldn’t imagine coming back tomorrow or the next day and knocking on this bedroom door, going in for a chat. How, he wondered, would Grace deal with it when Claire refused to sit down at the dinner table if he was there?
“You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?” Grace asked, when he came back with the roll of posters.
He sensed Claire’s sharp movement without looking at her. “Thanks, but I have to go into the office. Another time.”
“Then dinner tomorrow,” she said with an air of satisfaction. “Claire, what’s your favorite dinner? I cook a lot of pastas. Do you both like Italian?”
He had no idea what Claire ate besides the microwave meals she’d pop in when he wasn’t around. “I do,” he said. “But maybe I should let Claire settle in before I start hanging around.”
The stubborn woman didn’t know when to let up. “No, the sooner the better,” she said. “We’ll expect you tomorrow. About six?”
His daughter’s eyes narrowed.
“Fine.” He made himself look at her. “Claire…”
It was hard not to flinch at the hatred blazing in her eyes.
Without expression, he said, “I hope you’ll be happy here,” and walked away.
His specialty.
SHE WAS SO HAPPY when he left without bothering with some fakey goodbye scene. She didn’t even know why she’d been worried about that. Look how glad he was to get rid of her.
Well, he wasn’t any gladder than she was to be gone! Claire told herself for the fiftieth time today that anything had to be better than his house.
Mrs. Blanchet had made him promise he’d come over all the time and play daddy. Yeah. Right. They’d see how long that lasted, she thought bitterly. He might come a couple of times, but then he’d cancel at the last minute and say he had to work, and finally weeks would go by without anything but a check from him. He’d pay whatever he promised. Why not? Like he wasn’t loaded. And if he didn’t pay, Claire might be dumped back in his lap. Which he wouldn’t want.
What she figured was, once he’d forgotten all about her existence, she’d get Mrs. Blanchet talking to her mom. That way, once they got tired of her here, she could just quietly go home again.
Daddy might never even notice.
She wished, Claire thought viciously, hating the sadness that squeezed her chest like the asthma she’d had as a little kid. So what if he didn’t love her? She had her mother. Mom was all she needed.
“What CDs do you have?” Linnet was digging in her bag. “You have hardly any!”
“I left most of mine at Mom’s house. I just brought a few.” She didn’t have that many there, either, because Mom didn’t make much money. If she’d asked him for money, he probably would have given it to her, but she wasn’t going to.
“Oh.” Linnet gave up looking and flopped on the bed. “You can just borrow any of mine you want.”
Like she’d want to listen to Britney Spears or ’N Sync. Music was one thing she and Linnet did not agree about.
“This is going to be so cool,” Linnet said dreamily. “We can talk whenever we want. And do our homework together, and borrow each other’s clothes, and…” She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “Hey! Would you like to take dance with me?”
“Me?” Claire scrunched up her face. “I am so-o clumsy. I’d fall on my face.”
“Yeah, but see, dance makes you less clumsy,” Linnet said earnestly.
“And I’d be in a beginner class. Not with you.”
“Well…” Linnet frowned. “Yeah, but there’s one at the same time as my jazz dance. I think it’s ballet, but that’s okay, because you should get training in ballet first.”
Claire pictured herself in a pink leotard, standing with heels together and toes pointing out in that dorky position, slowly bending her knees and straightening all to the tinkle of a piano. No, thank you.
“Dance isn’t my thing.”
“What is your thing?”
Claire jumped to her feet and yanked open a drawer. She wasn’t going to hang those posters, she wouldn’t be here that long, but she might as well put her clothes in the drawers.
“What do you mean, what’s my thing? I like music and hanging out. It’s not like everybody has to dance.” She knew she sounded disagreeable and was mad at herself. She didn’t have to take her bad mood out on Linnet, who had rescued her from purgatory.
“I’m sorry.” Her friend flushed. “I mean, I just thought you’d want…”
“To be like you.” She still sounded weird. Abrupt. “I can’t be.”
“I’m nothing so great! I just think dancing is fun.” Linnet was starting to look ticked. “Is that so bad?”
Collapsing onto the floor cross-legged, Claire wrinkled her nose in apology. “I’m really sorry! I’m just jealous because I know you’re really good at dance, and I don’t want to be the only beginner over eight years old. Besides, your mom shouldn’t have to pay for stuff like that.”
“No, but I’ll bet your father would.”
“I don’t want to take his money!”
Her friend rolled onto her stomach and hung her arms off the bed, her chin resting on the edge. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to owe him anything!” she said fiercely.
“Who says you owe him?” Linnet asked logically. “I mean, parents don’t expect to be paid back. He’s already giving Mom money for your food, right? Mom says he is. So why not lessons? Isn’t there something you’ve always wanted to do? Skiing? Windsurfing?”
“Horseback riding.” Where had that come from? It just popped out, a little kid dream. She had those plastic horse statues, now sitting on a shelf in her bedroom at home. She used to play with them for hours. Sometimes, with her eyes closed, she’d imagine herself on horseback, galloping like the wind.
“See?” Linnet crowed. “I knew there was something! That’s it! Ask to take horseback riding lessons.”
Part of her balked at the idea. But another part started thinking, why not? The temptation nibbled at her resolve. She could spend his money. Lots of his money. Maybe she could ride English. Learn to show-jump.
Uh-huh. Sure. Let him think he’d done something for her. Tell everyone he was a good daddy because he’d paid for horseback riding lessons.
“No!” She shoved the roll of posters in the closet, in her haste denting it. “No. I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything from him.”
“Wow.” Linnet sounded awed. “You must really hate your dad.”
“I told you I did.” And she didn’t want to think about him, not anymore. One of the Blanchets’ two cats gave her an excuse, poking his head into the bedroom. “Hey, Lemieux,” Claire coaxed, holding out her hand. “Here kitty-kitty. Maybe he’ll sleep with me.” She trailed her fingers down the big Siamese’s taupe back. “Listen,” she said to Linnet, “why don’t you set up my stereo while I put away my clothes? Okay?”
Linnet slid nose first off the bed, like a seal going into the water. As she hit the floor, the cat erupted under Claire’s hand and fled, thundering down the hall.
Both girls laughed, and Claire’s mood improved for the first time. This wasn’t home, but it would be okay.
For now.
CHAPTER THREE
DAVID HAD NEVER SO BADLY wanted to make an excuse as he did Sunday. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let himself. Leaving Claire with her mother, believing she’d be better off there, was one thing. Deserting her on a stranger’s doorstep was another. He might be a coward, but not that big a one.
Besides which, damn it, he’d promised.
What the hell, he thought with grim humor as he rang the doorbell, Grace Blanchet might as well find out now what her Good Samaritan plans would come to.
She was the one to open the door. She wore an apron again, like the other day. From inside her home wafted the smell of garlic and baking bread and a whiff of something sweeter. Apple pie? Behind her, on the stairs, lay a different cat from the other day, this one a fluffy brown Maine coon type with a white bib. It paused in the midst of some intricate grooming ritual and stared at him, unblinking and distinctly unfriendly.
He tore his gaze away from the cat and looked at Grace Blanchet, who was smiling like any good hostess should, even one entertaining this particular guest only because she felt she had to.
“I’m glad you made it.” That smoky voice completely belied her prim exterior. “Claire wasn’t so sure you would.”
Yeah. More likely, Claire had hoped.
When Grace turned, his gaze flicked to her jean-clad rear. The white bow of the apron was a saucy accent to her slender curves.
Hating himself for ogling, feeling the cat’s stare between his shoulder blades, David followed Grace back to the kitchen, into déjà vu. There she was, behind the tiled counter, the apron protecting her clothes from the marinara sauce bubbling on the stove, which she stirred. He stood in exactly the same spot, beside the sliding door, feeling as socially inept as he had that day. He hadn’t stuck his foot in his mouth yet, but he knew damn well what was to come and hadn’t warned this perfectly nice woman.
“If you want to go up and say hi to Claire,” she began.
“I was hoping to talk to you first,” David said truthfully. “Is she, uh…”
“Behaving herself? You bet. She’s very polite.” A faintly troubled look crossed Grace’s face. “She hasn’t exactly settled in, though. She doesn’t want to put up her posters, for example. I wish you hadn’t said that.”
He shook his head. “Usually, my opening my mouth would guarantee that she’d do whatever I suggested she not do.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
She set a wine bottle and corkscrew on the counter. “Would you open this?”
