a suppressed laugh, buried in her napkin.
“I know that one,” David said, straight-faced. “Beatrice and Benedick. The wimpy Hero and the jerk…what’s his name?”
“Claudio,” Linnet supplied. She frowned. “You think Hero is a wimp?”
He saw the error of his ways. Hero was undoubtedly her dream part, and with reason: she was no Beatrice. “Actually,” he said hastily, “she is probably a realistic product of her time and class. She didn’t have much choice but to marry the man her father chose.” Not an idea Claire would embrace, he realized belatedly, and not a good idea as a topic at this dinner table. Turning to her, he asked, “Which part were you thinking about?”
Her chin shot up. “Beatrice.”
She had the fire, in a preteen sort of way. He found that he badly wanted her to go out on a limb and try for this.
He nodded, managing to make his expression subtly doubtful.
Fury on her face, Claire said to Grace, “I am going to try out.”
“Oh, good.” She smiled warmly. “Darn. I wish I could see the audition. Except Linnet would be embarrassed if her mom was there. For which I don’t blame her. Listen, do you want me to be an audience tonight when you practice?”
“Yeah, cool,” they said almost in tandem.
“Then I’ll clean the kitchen if you two want to go take your showers and get ready for school.”
Silverware clattered and chairs scraped on the wood floor as they raced for the door. David watched them go, then braced himself yet again. He hated this feeling, as though he was a high school kid in trouble waiting outside the principal’s office. He resented the fact that this woman, a stranger, was able to sit in judgment of him.
Grace said not a word until the thunder on the stairs was followed by a slammed door upstairs. Then she grinned. “Well done.”
Some of the tension in his neck eased. “I expected you to chew me out.”
“It’s hardly my place.” She laughed. “Well, maybe I would, in my bossy way. But I could tell what you were doing. You won’t get away with it very many times. She’ll start to catch on.”
David grimaced. “I just hope she actually gets a part. If not Beatrice, at least the maid who plays foot-sie with the scumbag. What’s his name. Don John.” He got back to the point. “Her ego is delicate right now, to put it mildly.”
“Mmm,” she agreed. “I hope they both get parts. They’re getting along great right now, and we don’t need any jealousy to interfere.”
Another horrifying possibility.
Slowly he said, “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Heavens, no!” Grace stood. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ll just clear the table and—”
“I’ll help.”
Against her protests, he gathered dishes and even insisted on rinsing them and loading the dishwasher while she put leftovers in the refrigerator and got out cream and sugar for the coffee.
There seemed to be no polite way to excuse himself although he guessed she was no more excited about a further tête-à-tête than he was.
He felt raw in her presence. She knew more about him than anyone but his closest friend. Not many people knew even the basic facts: that his ex-wife was an alcoholic, that he’d sloughed off responsibility for his daughter, that she’d come to live with him because she was in trouble at school. Never mind that she had run away three times.
But this woman had seen how desperate Claire was to escape him, how pathetic he was as a parent and had been, presumably, as a husband. She had a clear gaze that seemed to see right through what few pretenses he still possessed to wear as protection. She must despise him, but unless she wanted to be saddled with Claire permanently, it was smart of her to encourage his effort to build some kind of decent relationship with his daughter.
He gave a soft grunt of rueful amusement. No, Grace Blanchet would not want his sulky daughter permanently.
In the interest of speeding up this obligatory social interlude, he took a gulp of his coffee.
Grace sat back down at her place at the table. “Tell me, what do you do for a living?” she asked, her gaze inquiring, interested, all that a good hostess’s should be.
“Didn’t Claire tell you?”
“She said you’re a businessman.” Enunciating the one word with a hint of distaste, Grace suggested the sneer his daughter had worn when she spoke it.
“I’m a vice president with International Parcel Service. We focus primarily on quick service for businesses, versus the birthday gift to Tulsa.”
She nodded. “The law firm where I work uses IPS.”
“I’m in charge of day-to-day operations as well as some long-term planning. If an airplane is grounded in Boston because of ice, it’s my problem.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“I like problem solving. I don’t find the job stressful in the sense that it’s affecting my blood pressure.” He made a sound. “If I’m getting high blood pressure, it’s this thing with Claire doing it to me.”
“Do you work really long hours?” She sounded tentative.
He realized with a start of irritation that she was, in a sense, interviewing him. He was being judged again. The counselor had asked him the same question. Was he supposed to quit his job? Claire was a teenager! It wasn’t as if he was leaving a two-year-old in day care fourteen hours a day.
“Sometimes,” he said tersely. After a moment, he decided reluctantly that she deserved better. Shrugging, he expanded. “Long days—and sometimes nights—goes with the territory. On the other hand, when the weather is good, the pilots aren’t threatening a strike, and we haven’t committed some PR faux pas, my schedule isn’t too bad. When a crisis threatens, sometimes whether I can get home for dinner or not is out of my hands. That’s a drawback when you’re a single parent.”
Grace made a face. “No kidding. I may be the only parent of a teenager in this town who can’t wait until her kid gets a driver’s license.”
Claire behind the wheel…he shuddered.
Almost apologetically, she said, “Linnet has common sense. Knock on wood. It’s always scary, I imagine, but she’s not the kind to drink and drive or speed.”
He could live without hearing about the perfect kid. The way Claire was going, by the time she was sixteen, she’d have her eyebrows and nose pierced, be pregnant by a nineteen-year-old boyfriend who played drums in band, and be a high school dropout.
Unless this woman, Saint Grace, could pull Claire’s bacon out of the fire.
He did hate having to be grateful.
Physically aching to be gone, he took another sip of coffee
