Meg O'Brien - Crimson Rain

“Well, of course I’m always interested in that, but I didn’t mean—”

“Because my grades are okay,” she interrupted, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Rachel…” He sighed as she leaned against the refrigerator and glared at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t hear from you anymore. We used to write back and forth all the time—” Rachel’s voice broke slightly. “We used to write about things that were funny, and I got so I looked forward to it.” Turning her back to him, she added, “I guess that was my mistake.”

He set down his coffee cup and reached for her. His hands light on her shoulders, he turned her around so that she met his eyes. There were tears in hers, and he couldn’t stand it. “Rachel…oh, honey, it wasn’t a mistake. I don’t know why I haven’t been writing as much, except that I’ve been so busy the past few months.”

“I thought you were going to slow down now, spend more time with Mom. That’s what you said when I was home last summer.”

The tears brimming in her eyes ran down onto her cheeks. Paul wiped them away with his thumb, just as he had when she was a child. “Honey, your mom’s been busy, too. We did talk about retiring, but it seems that she’s been getting more work than ever. She hasn’t been home much.”

He didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism, or to put the blame on Gina for his own frequent absences, but Rachel took it that way.

“According to her, you’re the one who’s been too busy to retire,” she said testily.

Paul sighed. “Things are never one-sided, Rach. It takes a lot of work to make everything come together in a home.”

“Yeah? Well, it looks to me like both of you would rather work on other people’s homes.”

“Rach,” Paul said softly, determined that this not evolve into an argument, “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you. You’re entirely different from the girl you were last summer. And I’m sorry, but it’s hard to believe that you’re this angry just because I haven’t been e-mailing as much.”

“Well, in the first place,” Rachel said, mimicking his composure, “I’m not a girl, Daddy. I’m twenty-one, and I’ve been away from home almost two years now. I think I’ve reached a point where I can make my own mind up about some things.”

“Of course you have,” he agreed. “Just…honey, tell me what you want me to do. How can I make things better for you?”

He recalled having asked that same question far too many times over the years, always with the nagging feeling that he was becoming the kind of parent who didn’t know or care about his child’s feelings. Yet he did care. He apparently just wasn’t at all good at showing it.

If that was the truth, however, it was also true that Rachel had never seemed able to tell him, clearly, what she needed from him. Like a runner who sees the finish line ahead, he had always fallen just short of it—and the race, after so many years, had left him feeling winded. Inept.

Rachel had turned her back on him again, and Paul looked at her, so fragile-seeming, so young. His heart did a flip-flop. He loved her so much. Why had they never been able to reach each other?

And what might he be able to do about that now?

“Your mom wants us all to pick out the tree tomorrow,” he said. “Would you like to go to lunch, first? Just you and me? We could catch up on all the things you’ve been doing since summer.”

She didn’t answer immediately. But he saw her shoulders ease from their stiff, almost military posture, and when she turned back to him she put her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Sure, Daddy,” she said, her words muffled against his shoulder. “Let’s do lunch.”

The next day, Paul left Soleil Antiques early, determined to reach the Four Seasons before Rachel. They had planned to meet in the lobby, and he was afraid she would read too much into it if he were late. When he arrived right on the dot of noon, however, Rachel was already there, and she had other plans.

“I can’t stand this place anymore,” she said nervously, with a sharp look that scanned the lobby. “Let’s get out of here.”

Giving him no time to ask questions, she turned quickly and headed for the front doors. Out on the sidewalk, Paul said curiously, “The Georgian Room used to be a favorite of yours when you were little. What happened?”

“It’s just too…much,” she said. “All those chandeliers and things, I mean, after living on cheese puffs and burgers at school. Besides, I don’t think the Georgian Room is open for lunch.”

“You’re probably right,” Paul agreed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Well, we could go to any number of restaurants. I’m not in a hurry, are you?”

For a moment, Rachel didn’t answer. Finally, she shoved her hands into her pockets and said, “I’d just as soon get this over with.”

The chill in her tone was almost as bad as the way she turned on her heel and left him to follow her down the street. Paul had to hustle to keep up with her pace, and the ring of her boots as they tap-tapped ahead of him on the sidewalk seemed to sound an alarm. He noted how thin her shoulders looked in the old camel’s hair coat that she’d refused to part with for years. It got shabbier and shabbier, and the more it did, the more she seemed to like it.

She looks so thin, he thought. When did she lose so much weight?

And then, Dear God, don’t let her be anorexic.

His fears on that score, at least, were laid to rest when Rachel stopped in front of a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon and said, “This’ll do.”

The narrow little place had a green see-through shade on the front window, with aging black booths running along one wall and a bar along the other. The five men and one woman sitting at the bar looked as if they’d come in years ago and just never left. They eyed Rachel and Paul suspiciously, and Paul wondered if he and Rachel looked like cops. Inwardly he smiled. If I had a badge, I’d pull it out and flash it, he thought, just to clear the room. God knows, at least three of America’s Most Wanted could be sitting right here in downtown Seattle, drinking away the days till they were found.

Rachel took a seat in one of the booths. Paul hesitated, looking at the cracked vinyl seat. Carefully he dusted crumbs from it with a paper napkin. Looking at Rachel, he noted the slightly mocking grin.

He gave her a rueful smile. “And to think I wore my best suit to have lunch with you.”

She made no comment.

The bartender dried his hands on a stained towel he’d tucked into his waist and called out, “What can I get you?”

Rachel ordered a Pepsi and a chili dog with all the trimmings. Paul ordered a beer and a bag of chips.

“Aren’t you eating?” Rachel asked.

“Not anything that human hands have touched,” Paul said, smiling.

There were pool tables in the back, and the clicking of balls hitting each other resounded down the long, narrow room. Paul couldn’t resist saying, “You come here often?”

Rachel shrugged. “There are all kinds of dives like this in Berkeley. Students learn to seek them out. They’re cheap.”

“Rach, you know you don’t have to do that. We send you enough money to eat well. What are you spending it on?”

“What makes you think I’m spending it? Maybe I’m saving it for a rainy day.”

“Are you predicting rain?” he asked, attempting a smile again.

“You never know,” Rachel said with a tone of finality.

Paul wanted to follow up on that, but decided to change the subject instead.

“Come to think of it, I remember eating burgers and pizza when I was in school. I didn’t have much money, and—”