sorry,” she offered finally.
“For what?”
“For how I must sound. As I said—”
“You’re not used to company or want it. That makes two of us.” The words were sensitive as winterkill.
He turned and stepped out onto the deck, pushing wool-socked feet into his boots. Without bothering with the laces, he walked down the steps, into the rain.
She wanted to call out. Invite him back. Wanted to explain it wasn’t him, but another that had her fluttering worse than a nervous house wren. Silent, she went to the edge of the porch. Self-control was difficult to teach, arduous to learn. At the moment, she needed strength. If it looked cowardly, she didn’t care. She clasped her hands in front of her.
Halfway across her lawn, he stopped. Rain lashed his heavy shoulders and skimmed from an implacable chin.
“Good-bye, Rianne.”
Securing the laundered shirt under an arm, he shoved his hands into his pockets and disappeared through the hole in the juniper hedge. He had known who she was. Why hadn’t he acknowledged her yesterday? Or had Seth sitting on those steps confirmed it today?
“You remember me.”
She’d never forgotten.
She listened to the downpour on the roof. Heard it gush in the eaves. Watched a mini waterfall at the side of the porch.
Chilled, she went back into the house, where she finished the groceries, working efficiently, rolling up the plastic bags and tucking them into a drawer. From the skinny broom closet, she hauled out the mop. After wetting the sponge under the tub tap in the bathroom down the hall, she set about tidying up puddles left by big, work-battered boots. He means nothing to me. Nothing.
Then why did you put him in your journal?
She clenched her jaw to an aching point.
God help me, I’ll erase it tonight.
But she heard again her name, submerged in a deep quiet timbre.
Chapter Two
Phone to his ear, Jon propped a hip on the counter in his spacious kitchen and stared absently at his reflection in the dark glass shielding the wet night. Three rings.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Pick up.”
Five rings. “Hi,” said a familiar, breathless voice.
“Hey, Colleen.”
A pause. “It’s you.”
Who were you expecting? “It’s me,” he acknowledged. “Brittany around?”
“She’s busy watching TV.”
He tamped down a flash of ire. “Could you get her please? I’d like to talk to my daughter.”
Muffled tones told him his ex-wife had covered the mouthpiece. Then, “Brittany would rather not tonight. She’s not feeling well.”
To hell with it. “Just get her, Colleen. If she doesn’t wanna talk she can tell me herself. Or should I drive up this minute and see what the problem really is?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Again silence, again the muffled conversation. “Fine, I’ll get her.”
He winced as the receiver slammed the light-green counter he knew so well. In the background, he heard a male voice comment, “Don’t let him hassle you, Col.” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to two hundred by fives. Finally footsteps, running ones, came closer. The phone scraped off the counter.
“Daddy?”
“Hey, peanut. How ya doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Not feeling so hot, huh?”
“No.”
“Got a cold or a tummy-ache?”
“Uh-uh.”
Pause.
“You can tell me, sweetheart.”
“Mom said I shouldn’t talk to you.”
Anger leapt, a fresh flame. He curbed the urge to bellow through the phone for his ex-wife. “Why not, Brit?”
“I dunno.” He imagined her tracing patterns along the countertop. “Mom said it gets me mixed up. Especially now that she’s gonna marry Allan.”
With effort Jon pulled in a calming breath. He didn’t give a flying fig who his ex married, but to play on Brittany’s feelings made his blood pump. He forced his fingers loose on the receiver. “Do you want me to stop phoning, honey?”
He felt her hesitate. His heart disintegrated.
“When I’m with you—” her voice was tiny “—I don’t want to come home. But I don’t want Mom to be alone either.”
“Aw, peanut…”
He heard her sniff. God, he wished he had Harry Potter’s broom to zip himself there. But what good would that do? Right or wrong, good or bad, he and Colleen were divorced. End of story.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, love.”
“I don’t like Allan,” she whispered.
Jon’s inner antennae shot up. “Why, Brit?”
“I dunno. Just that he pretends he’s you, and I don’t like that.”
He emitted a relieved sigh. If that was all—
“And Allan says things about Nicky.”
A chill spiked Jon’s skin. His son. His beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed son. Who at fifteen had attracted girls, gloried in the attention, but still found time to read his sister a bedtime story. Who would have grown into a fine, upstanding young man had his father been there to guide him.
He swallowed the burl in his throat. “What things, Brit?”
“Mean stuff. Like, if we’d had him for a father Nicky would still be alive. Stuff like that.”
Jon squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together. The SOB was right. If they’d had anyone but Jon as a father, his son might very well still be kicking a football or slam-dunking baskets with his high school buddies. But then, if they’d had anyone else, Nick wouldn’t have been his son, and Brittany—with her little freckled nose and long, pale hair—wouldn’t be his daughter. The proverbial catch-22.
One
