me. She shrugged and said it didn’t matter, that some popular ninth grader would get any good one.” Furrows formed in his forehead. “I tried to tell her they’d be crazy not to cast her. She went for the rude ‘Like you know anything about it.”‘
“But she was pleased. Just remember that.”
He shook his head. “Claire doesn’t believe me.”
“Maybe not this time, but if you say it often enough…” She stopped, realizing how preachy she sounded. “I don’t know why I’m lecturing you. I’m certainly no expert.”
“And yet, you’re raising a great kid yourself. You must be doing something right.”
“I’d like to think so,” she admitted. “But my two cents is hardly needed when you’re seeing a counselor.”
“Oh, yeah. We’re seeing one. Have seen.” His grimace carved a groove in one cheek. “Heck, make it plural. We’re on number three now. I figured Claire didn’t like the first one. Or the second one. Maybe she’d respond to someone else, I told myself. Now, I’m beginning to wonder. But do you know, plenty of these people don’t have kids themselves. I asked number one. Well, no, she admitted. She’s never had children.”
Grace’s hand paused on Lemieux’s sleek tan-colored back. “But she’s studied them.”
“Is that the same thing?” He sounded deeply cynical. “Claire isn’t mentally ill. How the hell does somebody learn from books how to raise a normal kid to be happy, self-confident and productive?”
Lemieux protested the lack of fingernails, and Grace automatically resumed scratching.
“I doubt anyone believes there’s a magic formula. And think about it. You can be knowledgeable about something you’ve never done yourself. Just remember all the coaches and movie directors and teachers, for example.”
“Maybe.” David’s eyes, clear and intelligent, pinned her. “Tell me what you were going to say earlier. Your two cents.”
Her cheeks warmed again. Wishing passionately that she had never opened her big mouth, Grace said diffidently, “Only that I believe the most important thing we can do is praise our children often, and tell them just as often that we love them.”
“Love and praise,” he repeated, deadpan.
He wanted some secret, and she had offered the equivalent of the ABCs. Something stupidly obvious. Her chest burned. She felt stupid.
“I’m sorry,” Grace began. “I’m sure the answer for you and Claire is far more complex.”
David let out a sound that might have been anything: a sigh, a grunt of wry laughter, self-disgust. She realized he hadn’t even heard her hasty apology.
“Love and praise,” he repeated. “Neither of which I have any talent whatsoever at expressing.”
Appalled, she began, “Oh, but…”
“My personal life, Ms. Blanchet, has not been an overwhelming success. Chances are, you’re right about why.” He looked at her without expression. “Perhaps we should go for dinner now.”
She couldn’t leave it at that. “Rebellious teenagers can happen to anyone.”
His eyes were opaque. “Can they?”
“And divorce sure as heck can. You weren’t the alcoholic.”
“Maybe I drove Miranda to drink.” He seemed to be musing, as though the subject were of merely academic interest.
“Did you?” she dared to ask, and then instantly wished she hadn’t. She already knew as much as she had to know to help Claire. The rest of this wasn’t her business. This man did not want her help, assuming she would have the slightest idea how to give it.
With sudden and ill-concealed impatience, he shrugged. “Who knows? That disaster is long past mending. Let’s stick to Claire, if you don’t mind.”
Translation: Keep your nose where it belongs. He might as well have waved a sign.
And he was absolutely right. She’d been nosy. Worse—although mercifully he couldn’t know—she had let herself be intrigued by David Whitcomb himself. Big mistake.
“I’ll go call the girls,” she said, rising hastily enough that she scared Lemieux, who shot out of the room. To top it off, Grace stepped carelessly on one of her shoes and lurched into the coffee table.
David started to rise. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah.” Just being her usual graceful, elegant, self. Why, she mourned, had her mother not insisted on ballet lessons? Pretending she didn’t feel ridiculously self-conscious, she said, “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t mind waiting about three minutes, I’d like to change clothes. If we’re really going out for pizza, jeans sound more comfortable.” Besides, poor Lemieux had dampened a goodly portion of her skirt.
“No hurry.”
“Right.” She ducked behind the coffee table and grabbed her navy pumps. Aware of his gaze on her back, she clutched at her dignity and strolled out. Only when she was out of his sight did she race up the stairs, banging her knuckles against Linnet’s bedroom door as she passed.
“Girls! We’re leaving for dinner in about two minutes.”
She stripped off her panty hose and suit with record speed, sighed over the skirt, which would now have to be dry-cleaned, and pulled on jeans. At least a full minute was wasted by her agonizing over which shirt to choose. Finally, annoyed with herself, Grace grabbed a vee-neck cotton sweater in a luscious shade of soft coral, brushed her hair firmly and slipped on a pair of clogs.
Linnet’s door was still closed. Grace rapped again. “Girls?”
“Can’t we just phone in an order?” her daughter called. “We have homework.”
Now, why did that sound canned? Could it be that someone else had planted the words in Linnet’s mouth?
Without asking permission, Grace opened the door. Both girls were sprawled on the rug with a teen magazine open in front of them. Linnet made a jerky motion as though to push the magazine out of sight under the bed and then blushed when she realized she was too late.
“We do,” she said hurriedly. “Have homework, I mean. It’s just that my YM came today, and we were only looking.”
“That’s fine,” Grace said equably. “You’ll have plenty of time to do your homework later. But right now, Claire’s dad is waiting to take us out for pizza. And I’m waiting to hear all about the audition.”
“Oh!” Linnet’s face lit and then clouded as quickly. She jumped up. “It was so scary. Wasn’t it, Claire?”
Before the other girl could answer, Grace smiled at her. “I hear you were fabulous. Your dad says you’re a natural.”
The pretty dark-haired girl squirmed. “It, um, went okay. But it was scary.”
“I
