one he’d recently purchased to replace the leather satchel he used to carry. The satchel made him feel like Indiana Jones. The briefcase made him feel like his father. Mark figured that was a good thing. Might make him more fatherly.
Like most Mondays, his daughter wasn’t alone. The tutor he’d hired for her a few weeks ago to replace the one who had quit to go on maternity leave was here. Nancy was a nice woman in her early thirties who had proved to be an outstandingly good hiring decision. She showed up when she was supposed to, never lingered when it was time to go. Sophie’s grades were being maintained at the highest level and Nancy was fairly cheap, all things considered.
Watching Nancy, wearing plain jeans and a conservative sweater, collect her books to leave made him feel better. He’d definitely made the right choice by hiring her, he thought. Which meant he’d probably made the right choice letting Josephine walk.
“Hi, Mark.”
“Nancy, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
Sophie sat on a stool at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. She was reading a textbook and didn’t look at him as he approached.
“Hey.” He tried a different greeting.
“Hey.”
“Did you hear me when I came in?”
“Uh, yeah. Was that supposed to be an I Love Lucy reference?”
“Too old?”
“Too lame, Mark.”
He hated it when she called him Mark. “You know I would really prefer it if you would call me Dad.”
She smiled then, but not the kind of smile he was hoping for. “Hey, I would prefer it if you had actually been a dad.”
“Okay, well, I’ll be going,” Nancy said.
Right. Who wanted to stick around to witness such familial bliss? “Thanks, Nancy.”
“See you, Sophie. Don’t forget—not a word less than five hundred.”
“No problem.”
Mark watched Nancy leave and wondered, not for the first time, how he and Sophie must seem to her. Dysfunctional didn’t begin to cover it. She probably raced home to...well, no one. He happened to know that she was single and not seeing anyone. It had been part of what he had dug up during the background check on her—that and her Match.com profile.
But no doubt she thought they were a mess. And that was the truth—he and Sophie were a mess. Their past—or more accurately, lack of a past—was the river that separated them. It seemed no bridge he could build would ever allow him to cross it. No matter how much he changed his life for her.
Because, in the end, for so many years he’d been nothing more than a name scrawled on the bottom of a card. Certainly not a father.
Despite that, he liked to think he hadn’t been a total ass to her mother. When Helen told him she was pregnant he instantly knew he had to do the right thing and offer marriage. Only Helen knew she’d done the wrong thing by deliberately getting pregnant to hold on to a man whose life ambition was the CIA.
He thought he’d done everything right by her. He’d volunteered to refuse the CIA offer and find a more stable career—possibly with another federal agency, or scrap those plans altogether and go to law school. He damn certain had put a ring on her finger.
In the end, Helen had been the one to back away. She must have figured out that no matter how tightly she tried to hold him, he would always be looking over his shoulder wondering what kind of life he could have been living.
When he’d been stationed overseas Mark had liked to tell himself that he remained a part of his daughter’s life. He’d sent her cards and presents on her birthday and holidays. He’d occasionally chat with her over the internet if he was in a place that had the capability. But no amount of justification could cover up the truth. Having spent the past fourteen years of his life outside the United States, he was the very definition of an absentee father.
Hell, he hadn’t even made it home in time for her mother’s funeral.
No wonder Sophie hated him.
But she was stuck with him. Dom and Marie, her grandparents, who had been in the process of selling their home to move into an assisted-living facility when Helen died, had tried to make a go of having Sophie live with them. After a few months it was easy to see that two aging grandparents in questionable health weren’t up to handling a fourteen-year-old teenager.
And not just any teen. Sophie was special.
“What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Surprise me, Mark.”
There it was again. That hint of sarcasm. His daughter would turn fifteen in a few months but there were times when she sounded like she was double her age. He figured it was expected. The girl was a prodigy. A piano master by age nine who had been touring the country and the world for the past five years with the most highly respected orchestras and conductors. Giving her unique gift to the world, yes. But growing up way too fast for his taste.
He’d seen her act sophisticated and gracious with some very important political and business leaders who came backstage to pay her compliments on her performance.
Mark had also seen her roll her eyes at him like he was the dumbest man imaginable. He was proud of his daughter and the way she handled herself, but he also appreciated the other side, too. It reminded him she was still just a kid.
“Okay, I’ll cook.”
“I said surprise me, not kill me. The last time you tried to cook it was a disaster.”
“It was hot dogs,” he said in his defense. “How bad could they have been?”
“They were still cold in the middle and made me gag.”
“Whatever.” Oh, my. Had he really stooped to responding to his daughter in her own teenage speak?
“Besides I shouldn’t eat. I had a big lunch and I have to watch my figure.”
The girl was tall and lithe with long straight blond hair. If there was an extra ounce of fat on her body, he didn’t see it. However, he had to appreciate that she was a performer who was conscientious about how she looked onstage.
Mark decided to avoid the conversation—always a good thing when it came to women and weight—and instead went to check the mail.
In the months that they had been living together they’d fallen into a routine. He couldn’t say it was a comfortable one, since Sophie was too prickly for that. However, Mark thought at least they were settling into some kind of normalcy, which he was convinced was a good thing. After all, she couldn’t hate him forever. It simply wasn’t practical.
She practiced every morning at a studio where he rented space. From there she usually went to rehearsal with the Philadelphia Orchestra—her current assignment—at the Kimmel Center for a few hours. Nancy came three times a week in the afternoon.
