Janice Kay - The Daughter Merger

But this woman had seen how desperate Claire was to escape him, how pathetic he was as a parent and had been, presumably, as a husband. She had a clear gaze that seemed to see right through what few pretenses he still possessed to wear as protection. She must despise him, but unless she wanted to be saddled with Claire permanently, it was smart of her to encourage his effort to build some kind of decent relationship with his daughter.

He gave a soft grunt of rueful amusement. No, Grace Blanchet would not want his sulky daughter permanently.

In the interest of speeding up this obligatory social interlude, he took a gulp of his coffee.

Grace sat back down at her place at the table. “Tell me, what do you do for a living?” she asked, her gaze inquiring, interested, all that a good hostess’s should be.

“Didn’t Claire tell you?”

“She said you’re a businessman.” Enunciating the one word with a hint of distaste, Grace suggested the sneer his daughter had worn when she spoke it.

“I’m a vice president with International Parcel Service. We focus primarily on quick service for businesses, versus the birthday gift to Tulsa.”

She nodded. “The law firm where I work uses IPS.”

“I’m in charge of day-to-day operations as well as some long-term planning. If an airplane is grounded in Boston because of ice, it’s my problem.”

“That sounds stressful.”

“I like problem solving. I don’t find the job stressful in the sense that it’s affecting my blood pressure.” He made a sound. “If I’m getting high blood pressure, it’s this thing with Claire doing it to me.”

“Do you work really long hours?” She sounded tentative.

He realized with a start of irritation that she was, in a sense, interviewing him. He was being judged again. The counselor had asked him the same question. Was he supposed to quit his job? Claire was a teenager! It wasn’t as if he was leaving a two-year-old in day care fourteen hours a day.

“Sometimes,” he said tersely. After a moment, he decided reluctantly that she deserved better. Shrugging, he expanded. “Long days—and sometimes nights—goes with the territory. On the other hand, when the weather is good, the pilots aren’t threatening a strike, and we haven’t committed some PR faux pas, my schedule isn’t too bad. When a crisis threatens, sometimes whether I can get home for dinner or not is out of my hands. That’s a drawback when you’re a single parent.”

Grace made a face. “No kidding. I may be the only parent of a teenager in this town who can’t wait until her kid gets a driver’s license.”

Claire behind the wheel…he shuddered.

Almost apologetically, she said, “Linnet has common sense. Knock on wood. It’s always scary, I imagine, but she’s not the kind to drink and drive or speed.”

He could live without hearing about the perfect kid. The way Claire was going, by the time she was sixteen, she’d have her eyebrows and nose pierced, be pregnant by a nineteen-year-old boyfriend who played drums in band, and be a high school dropout.

Unless this woman, Saint Grace, could pull Claire’s bacon out of the fire.

He did hate having to be grateful.

Physically aching to be gone, he took another sip of coffee and said, “I understand you’re a legal secretary.”

“That’s right. Nine to five. The girls, by the way, should be done by four.”

Four. He hadn’t left the office that early in years, except for once when he had come down with the stomach flu and for the three times Claire had hit the road.

Hell, he was entitled. If it would make a difference to Claire…

He came back to the present to realize that Grace was studying him with crinkled brow.

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” David shook his head. “No. Of course not.” He took a last swallow of coffee. “Listen, you must have things you need to get done, and I have some paperwork waiting. I’ll pick up Claire and Linnet on Wednesday. Why don’t I take you all out for pizza afterward? You must hate to cook when you don’t walk in the door until six-fifteen or later.”

“What a nice idea.” She looked pleased—and surprised, which stung.

Apparently he wasn’t expected to be considerate. Which made him wonder what Claire had told her foster mother about him.

“Oh, I wanted to mention that Claire and I have an appointment with the counselor on Thursday. For what it’s worth,” he added sardonically.

“She seems to be making an effort.”

For you, he thought. Resentful yet again, he was then angry at himself for his pettiness. Grace Blanchet had generously taken on a difficult teenager. He had no business blaming her for what was his fault.

She walked him to the door, courtesy worn like skillfully applied makeup, making her hard to read, somehow remote despite her unfailing friendliness and warmth. An unworthy part of him would have liked to see her veneer crack. Surely she got mad sometimes, had moments of being spiteful, passionate, tired. He wouldn’t mind seeing one.

If for an instant he chose to imagine her not angry but passionate, her cheeks flushed, mouth soft, hair tangled, well, it wasn’t a picture he let linger in his mind.

“Thank you,” he made himself say again. “Not just for dinner, but for—”

“No.” A sharper note entered her voice. She closed her eyes, opened them again, said more quietly, “Please. We’ll both get sick of it if you feel you have to thank me every time you come. Let’s just consider it said, okay? I’m doing this for Claire’s sake, and for Linnet’s. I like kids, I’m comfortable with them. Having her is really no problem.”

“Then good night.”

He felt no less guilt, no less relief when he walked away this time.

SLUMPED LOW IN HER SEAT in the darkened auditorium, Claire chewed on her fingernail and pretended to listen to the guy auditioning for Benedick.

“‘Hath not the world,’ um—” he frowned at his script “‘—one man but he will wear his cap with sus…suspicion.”‘ He sounded it out carefully, then continued in the same monotone, one word at a time.

Totally tuning him out, Claire focused on her terror. This was worse than hitchhiking. Way worse. Not that she couldn’t do better than all these morons who’d already gone. But still. There must be forty kids trying out for parts, and half of them had friends hanging out, too. They were all listening. She’d have to stand up there on the stage and face not only the two teachers sitting in the front row who were going to be director and assistant director, but half the school, too.

So far nobody had been mean when someone screwed up, but probably they were all, like, buds. Everybody hated her. Claire knew they did. What if they laughed? Or booed?

Her stomach cramped and she had to scramble out of her seat, whispering, “Excuse me, excuse me,” six times to get to the aisle and race to the bathroom.

When she got back, a totally cute ninth-grade guy who was also—wouldn’t you know—president of the student body was reading Benedick. Josh Mc-Kendrick was really good. You could tell he actually understood what he was saying.

“‘I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter,”‘ he declared. And then, with a scowl, he demanded of Claudio, “‘But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?”‘

Please, please, please, she whispered to herself. It would be so cool to play Beatrice to his Benedick. People would look at her differently. Like she was cool.

This was taking forever. Finally they finished with the guys and started on girls reading for Hero. Linnet went sixth. Her voice was too soft, but she stood straight, without fidgeting, and read, “‘But nature never fram’d a woman’s heart, Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.”‘