in the works.
Could they all be more mature now? God, she hoped so. The thought of an ugly confrontation made her ill, especially at the tail end of a day that had already knocked her off balance in more ways than one.
Malcolm nodded to her father. “Good evening, sir.”
“Douglas.” Her father stood, extending his hand. “Welcome back.”
They shook hands, something she wouldn’t have believed possible eighteen years ago. Even if they were eyeing each other warily, they were keeping things civil. The last time they’d all been together, her father had punched Malcolm in the jaw over the pregnancy news, while her mother had sobbed on the couch. Malcolm hadn’t fought back, even though he was at least six inches taller than her father.
Nervous about pushing their luck, she turned to Malcolm and rested her fingers lightly on his arm. “I’m fine now. You can go, but thanks again, truly.”
She shuddered to think what it would have been like to find that macabre rose on her own and have her concerns discounted by the police again. This was not the work of some student pissed off over a failing grade. Malcolm seemed to grasp that right away. She hadn’t considered until just this moment how much his unconditional belief meant to her.
He dipped his head and said softly, “We’ll talk tomorrow. But don’t say no just because I’m the one offering.” Grasping the doorknob, he nodded to her father again. “Good night, sir.”
And that was it? He actually left? No confrontation? Celia stood there stunned at how easily 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
