of … hot.”
“Hot?”
“Hot” Charlie said. “H-O-T. Not that I’d notice, being engaged to someone who’s even hotter.”
“Hot. Huh.” Tess shrugged to prove her disinterest, even if she agreed with her friends. “I suppose. If you go for tall, dark and brooding.”
“Who doesn’t?” Addie shared a knowing grin with Charlie. “Especially you, Tess.”
“Brooding gets old after a while.” Tess straightened with a sigh. “I know I’m getting tired of it myself, tonight. Time for some fun. Time to pick out a dress.”
“And flowers,” Addie said.
Charlie groaned and slumped in her chair. “I thought this was supposed to be a party in honor of Tess’s big news.”
“It is.” Tess poured a half inch of champagne into her cup. “And this is how I want to celebrate.”
“By making me miserable?”
“You know what they say about misery,” Tess said. “It loves company.”
“Thanks a lot,” muttered Charlie.
“Any time.” Tess grabbed a sugar cookie and snuggled back against the sofa cushions. “What are friends for?”
CHAPTER THREE
QUINN EDGED his way through his apartment door that night with his arms full of breakfast supplies and a fast-food dinner. “Hi, Neva.”
“Here, let me take that.” Neva Yergin, his elderly neighbor and part-time sitter, shuffled toward him to take one of the sacks and set it on the narrow counter in his tiny kitchen. “You’re back earlier than I expected.”
“Hope I didn’t interrupt Trivia Maze.”
She shook her head. “Commercial break. But I’d better scoot next door before they start round two.”
“Okay.” He pulled the quart of milk and canned cat food she’d asked him to pick up for her from one of the sacks and set them aside. “How’s that disposal working?”
“Like a charm. Thanks again for fixing it.”
“No problem.”
Neva slipped her things into her bulging tote and headed toward the door. “She got home right on time. Been sitting at that computer all afternoon.”
Quinn stopped short of a sigh. He didn’t approve of Rosie’s method for shutting herself away, but he couldn’t ask Neva to drag his daughter out of her room and force her to find something better to do with her time. His neighbor was doing far too much for him already, more than he could repay with the rent he subsidized, or the occasional repair or sack of groceries.
“Thanks, Neva,” he said as the door closed behind her.
He moved into the cramped space that served as a combination living and dining room and switched off the television. The radiator rattled and wheezed and coughed up traces of mildew and aging plaster. Beyond the tall, grime-streaked window overlooking Third Street, a siren’s wail competed with the hum of passing traffic. Not the best place for raising a kid, but he’d had his own needs in mind when he’d signed the lease for an efficiency apartment two floors above the Karapoulis Travel Agency storefront.
And if they moved away, there’d be no Neva a few steps down the hall to keep an eye on Rosie after school. “Rosie,” he called.
No answer.
He set the bucket of chicken on the table and headed toward his daughter’s room, pausing in the doorway. “Rosie.”
“What do you want?” She sat slumped in her desk chair with her back to him, reading a note on her monitor screen.
“It’s time for dinner.”
“In a minute.”
“Now.”
The only part of her that moved was her finger on the mouse as she clicked to another screen.
“Rosie.”
“What?”
“You didn’t set the table.”
“I didn’t know what time you’d be home.”
“I’m home now.” He held his breath and grasped for patience, trying to avoid another fight. Another scene. There’d been far too many of both since her mother had dumped her on his doorstep. “And it’s time for dinner. Now.”
“Okay.” She clicked to a page with a picture of a wild-haired rock guitarist caught in the glare of a gigantic spotlight. A tidal wave of electronic noise flooded the room.
“Turn that off.” He stepped through the door. “It’ll still be there after you’ve eaten.”
“All right.” She blew out a martyred sigh and whirled in her chair to face him. “Chicken again?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeez.”
“We can go to the store this weekend. You can pick out some things you like to cook.”
“I’m not your slave.”
“No. You’re my daughter,” he said, feeling foolish for pointing out the obvious. “And I want you to come and eat your dinner.”
“I said all right.”
He slid his hands into his pockets and watched her, waiting, praying she’d give in and walk through the door, promising himself he wouldn’t move a muscle or say another word until she did. He searched her face—that long, pale face dusted with her mother’s freckles and framed with his own dark hair—looking for the sweet, cheerful little girl he’d known so long ago. But she wasn’t there.
“Are you just going to stand there all night?” she asked.
“No. Just until you come to dinner.”
She rolled her eyes and shoved to her feet. “Jeez.”
He followed her back to the kitchen, dreading the nightly routine. Questions about homework, answers he didn’t trust. Conversation conducted in monosyllables and resentment hanging so thick in the air it seasoned every bite of food he swallowed. An argument about the cell phone, or bedtime, or something she wanted to buy, or whether a ten-year-old needed a babysitter—any-thing but the one topic he knew she really wanted to fight over: her mother, and when she was coming back to rescue her.
At times, the pain was unbearable. He wanted to keep his daughter here, with him, wanted to get to know her again, wanted to break through the walls she threw up in his face, wanted his love to matter, to build solid memories
