Kathy Altman - Making It Right

He snatched up his beer, took a swig and shook his head. “She’s here for another charitable contribution, not a reconciliation. I know my daughter, Genie.”

No, he didn’t. Not anymore. Now all Eugenia could do was keep her fingers crossed that he would give himself the chance to.

“All righty, then,” she said stiffly.

He tipped his bottle in silent invitation and she shook her head. She missed him, God help her. His strength, his solidity, even the stupid cinnamon smell of his chewing gum. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d find herself bawling into that horrible flannel shirt. She marched back to the door. “I won’t bother you again.”

“Genie?”

She stilled, her hand on the doorknob.

“There’s a difference between dead and dormant. That tree on my porch. It’ll come back. You think I killed it, but I didn’t.”

Eugenia squeezed her eyes shut. Harris Briggs was far from the beat-around-the-bush type. The last time they’d talked...the things she’d said... She’d made him tentative.

“I knew you loved me, Harris,” she said. She touched her palm to the smooth coolness of the door. “Just not enough to compromise. On pretty much anything.”

“That was all up to me, was it?”

Wearily she faced him. “I didn’t come here about you and me. I came about you and your daughter. But it was a mistake and I apologize.”

Harris gave a strained chuckle. “This is payback. That’s what this is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You asked me to marry you. I said no. That’s when our troubles began.”

“Our troubles began when you refused to include your daughter in our lives.”

“She made that choice, not me.”

“Bull crap,” Eugenia said crisply.

Amusement flashed across his face. “You never did give me a chance to explain why I turned you down.”

“This isn’t about that.” The remembered pain of his rejection knifed into her lungs. “This is about your daughter and how much she needs you.”

His nostrils flared and he turned a disturbing shade of red. “What about how much I needed you? How do you think I felt when I walked into Snoozy’s today?”

“Harris.”

“You know what?” He pressed a palm to his chest. “I’m not feeling up to this tonight.”

“Harris,” she repeated, unable to keep the alarm out of her voice.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “Don’t go gettin’ your dress over your head.”

“You’re not the one I’m worried about.” Abruptly she dropped a hip onto the little table beside the door. Something was wrong. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart beat too fast as she tugged at the neckline of her sweater. Did he have the AC on? She really needed some AC. “I think you’d better call 911.”

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