he’d departed. She wanted a proper goodbye, and it scared her how much that mattered. Although his final words swirled in her mind. Was she being contrary—like the old Celia—turning down a wise opportunity because Malcolm had made the offer?
She shook off the thoughts. Likely Malcolm just realized she was safely home, his duty done. After resetting the alarm, she turned back to face her dad. The familiarity of her place wrapped around her, soothing her at the end of a tumultuous day.
This little carriage house wasn’t as grand as the historic mansion where she’d grown up or the posh resorts Malcolm frequented—according to the tabloids. But she was proud of it. She took pride in how she’d decorated on her own budget. She’d scoured estate sales and flea markets until she pieced together a home that reflected her love of antiques and music.
Her home had become a symbol of the way she’d pieced herself back together, reshaping herself by blending the best of her past and her future. Shedding the dregs, taking responsibility for her own messes, which also gave her the freedom to celebrate her own successes.
And in finding that freedom, being around her father had actually become easier. She wasn’t as defensive, and right now, she was only worried—about him.
“What are you doing here, Dad? I thought you were at your doctor’s appointment.”
“News travels fast.” He nudged aside throw pillows and sank back on the couch, looking weary with bags under his eyes and furrows in his brow. “When I heard about Malcolm Douglas’s impromptu visit to the school, I told the doc to speed things along.”
His shock of gray hair still caught her by surprise sometimes. Much like when she’d been stunned to realize her indomitable father was actually only five-six. He’d always had a larger-than-life presence. Yet the day her mother had died, her father had grown frail in an instant, looking more and more like Grandpa Patel—without the Indian accent.
Intellectually, she’d always understood that her mom and dad were older than her friends’ parents. She’d been a late-in-life baby, born after her sister died. How strange to have a sibling she’d never met.
And yes, more than once, Celia had wondered if she would have been conceived had her sister lived.
She’d never doubted her parents’ love or felt she was a replacement for the child they’d lost to cancer. But that loss had made them overprotective, and they’d spoiled her shamelessly. So much so that Celia winced now to think of what a brat she’d been, how many people she’d hurt.
Including Malcolm.
She glanced at her slim silver watch. “He showed up at school less than an hour ago. You must have rushed right over.”
“As I said, small town.”
There weren’t many secrets around Azalea, Mississippi, which made it all the more miraculous that she’d managed to have a baby and give her up for adoption without the entire town knowing all the details. Malcolm had been sent off to a military reform school in North Carolina, and she’d been sent to Switzerland on an “exchange” program, actually a chalet where she’d been homeschooled until she delivered.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and sat on the arm of the sofa. “What did the doctor say about your shortness of breath lately?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Doc Graham wouldn’t have let me leave unless she thought I was okay, so all’s fine.” He nudged his round steel glasses in place, ink stains on his fingers from making notes. Her dad didn’t trust computers and backed everything up the old-fashioned way—on paper. “I’m more worried about you and your concerns that someone might be targeting you.”
Her concerns? Did he doubt her, too? “How bad is the Martin case?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“But it’s an important one.”
“Every judge dreams of leaving the bench with a landmark case, especially just before he retires.” He patted the top of her hand. “Now, quit trying to distract me. Why did Malcolm Douglas show up here?”
“He heard about the current case on your docket, and somehow word got out about my reporting the threats to the police, which I find strange since no one here takes them seriously.” Would they finally listen to her after today’s incident?
“And Malcolm Douglas—international music star—came running after not seeing you for eighteen years?” Concern moved through his chocolate-brown eyes.
“Seems crazy, I know.” She toed a footstool made of an old leather drum. “Honestly, though, I think it had more to do with the timing.”
“Timing of what?”
That he even had to ask hurt her heart. “Dad, it’s her seventeenth birthday.”
“You still think about her?”
“Of course I do.”
“But you don’t talk about her.”
She’d done nothing but talk about her baby in therapy—cry and talk more, until finally she’d reached a point where she could move forward with her life. “What’s the point? Listen, Dad, I’m fine. Really. I have end-of-the-year grades to tabulate and submit.”
Her dad thumped his knees. “You should move home.”
“This is my home now,” she reminded him gently. “I consented to letting you pay for a better security system. It’s the same one at your house, as you clearly know since you chose the pass code. Now, please, go home and rest.”
She worried about him, about the pale tinge to his dusky complexion, the tired stoop to his shoulders. His job would be easier if she wasn’t around since he wouldn’t have to stress about her. Not taking Malcolm up on his offer suddenly felt very selfish. “Dad, I’m thinking about taking a vacation, just getting away once school ends.”
“If you come to the house, you’ll be waited on hand and foot.” He continued to offer, and she continued to say no, a pact she’d made with herself the day she’d graduated from college at twenty-four. It had taken her an extra two years, but she’d gotten there, by God.
“I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to misunderstand or be upset.”
“Well, you’d better spit it out, because just saying that jacked my blood pressure a few points.”
She drew in a deep breath of fortifying air before saying quickly, “Malcolm thinks I should go on tour with him.”
His gray eyebrows shot upward, and he pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “Did he offer because of the reports made to the police?”
She weighed whether or not to tell him about the incident with the rose, but then given how fast he’d heard about Malcolm’s arrival, he would hear about the little “gift” in her car soon enough. “There was another threat today.”
He stopped cleaning his glasses abruptly, then slid them slowly on again. “What happened?”
“A cheesy black rose left in my car.” As well
