Child of His Heart. Joan Kilby
into the darkened living room to stand before the picture window. From her twelfth-story apartment the lights of Seattle twinkled around the dark fingers of Puget Sound. “I’m running on empty, but I’ll survive. John’s not a bad guy—”
“He’s manipulative. I don’t know why you can’t see it. What did he do—put off the wedding again?”
“This is a bad time for him, workwise. As prosecuting attorney he has responsibilities, and now he’s thinking of running for Congress. Maybe I’m being too pigheaded. Gran isn’t the only stubborn one in the family.”
Kelly snorted impatiently. “All you wanted was a June wedding. After being engaged for over two years you’d think he could fit that on his agenda. You shouldn’t have to do things his way all the time. Love is about mutual respect and compromise—”
“I know. I know,” Erin cut in. She was grateful for Kelly’s support, but her sister had a blind spot about John. “It might do us good to have a break from each other for a while.”
“I thought you just said you’d split for good!”
“This could blow over given a little time.” Gut instinct told her John was never going to change, but she’d invested so much time and emotional energy in the relationship that letting go was hard.
“Oh, Erin.” Kelly gave an exasperated sigh and switched topics.
Leaving her new position as manager of the Loans Department would be a sacrifice, Erin had to admit. She’d worked hard for three years and had finally been rewarded with the promotion. Job opportunities appropriate to her qualifications weren’t exactly thick on the ground in Hainesville. Not only that, she loved the vibrancy, the variety a larger city like Seattle offered. She enjoyed the anonymity and the freedom to do what she wanted, to be who she was, without fear of censure or gossip.
Yet sometimes, like now, when her mind was weary and her heart sore, she longed for the cozy comfort of the small town she’d grown up in. A place without traffic jams and road rage, where the air smelled of blossoms and freshly cut grass, not diesel fumes; where people who’d known her as a child stopped on the street to chat. A place with memories and continuity, where life proceeded at a user-friendly pace.
“A job is just a job,” she told Kelly. “Family is everything.”
“YOU’VE RUINED MY LIFE. You know that, don’t you?” Miranda complained from the passenger seat of her father’s Suburban. She tugged irritably at a purple-streaked strand of curly auburn hair. “I’m not even thirteen and my life is over.”
Nick Dalton ignored his daughter’s histrionics and kept his eyes straight ahead on the northbound lane of the interstate freeway. Puberty. Would it never end?
Usually he laughed off her over-the-top statements because they were underscored with humor and affection. But she was more furious than he’d ever seen her, and he was tired. Instead of finishing his last week as battalion chief for Orange County with paperwork, he’d had to contend with a major blaze that had broken out at a chemical plant and had been on duty around the clock, coordinating three battalions of firefighters. Now he and Miranda had been on the road for three long days and she’d been at him every waking minute. According to her, he’d “ruined” her life so many times it was a wonder she’d survived preschool.
“So sue me,” he teased, trying to pull her out of the despair she apparently loved to wallow in. “Taking you out of a smoggy, overcrowded, crime-ridden city and into fresh air and open spaces ought to be good for at least a million dollars.” When she didn’t even crack a smile, he added, “Don’t be so negative. I grew up in a small town.”
“Exactly,” she said, as if his origins accounted for his every deficiency. Miranda slumped in her seat, arms crossed over her recently blossomed breasts. “Hicksville isn’t small—it’s microscopic.”
“Hainesville,” he corrected her wearily. He rubbed his jaw, his fingers rasping over the stubble of his heavy beard. “People are friendly in small towns. And I hear the fishing in the area is fantastic.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is there a mall? Or a movie theater?”
“Maybe you can get a horse. Join a sports team.”
“I still don’t see why we had to leave L.A. I only got a navel ring. You can’t punish me as though I were a little girl. You didn’t freak out like this over the nose ring or the eyebrow ring.”
True, he had controlled his anger over the first two rings, telling himself that what was done was done and sooner or later she’d grow out of this ridiculous phase. But the navel ring had been the last straw. Curving provocatively from her bare midriff, it drove him crazy with paternal anxiety. Even now, he couldn’t keep his voice from rising when he spoke of it. “What the hell is a young girl doing with a ring in her navel? Huh?”
“You’re afraid I’ll look sexy,” she taunted. “You’re afraid I’ll start having sex.”
The smirk in her voice sent his blood pressure soaring. She’d pushed his hottest button. Nick gripped the wheel with both hands and forced himself to breathe deeply. You weren’t allowed to strangle your daughter. Nor could you lock her up until she was over thirty.
He’d taken the job at the Hainesville Fire Department partly to get Miranda away from the gang of older kids she’d started hanging with. Sex, drugs—who knew what those lowlifes got up to. Grounding Miranda hadn’t tamed her; more than once she’d snuck out of the house after he was asleep. Even the housekeeper he’d hired hadn’t been able to control her. The only solution, in his mind, was to distance her from bad influences.
Twelve-going-on-twenty, Miranda was trouble with a capital T. The older she got the more she looked like her mother, all lush curves and pouty lips. And if she looked like Janine, he couldn’t help think she would end up acting like Janine. His late wife had always been flirtatious, but until she lay dying in the hospital from injuries sustained in a hit-and-run accident, he’d never seriously thought she had deceived him. Before she’d passed away she’d confessed to having an affair around the time of Miranda’s conception. The memory was a slap in the face every time he looked at his daughter—if she really was his daughter.
“This move isn’t only about you,” he reminded her. “I got a promotion, don’t forget. You should be proud of your old man. At thirty-six I’m probably the youngest fire chief in Washington State.”
“Only because no one else wanted to come here!”
“Miranda, that’s enough.” The warning edge to his voice still had the power to subdue her—just. This move may have been sparked by concern for Miranda, but the change would be good for him, too. In the two years since Janine’s death he’d turned into a hermit. He needed balance in his life just as much as Miranda did.
A meeker voice said, “You look tired, Dad. Want some coffee?”
Nick glanced over to see Miranda, contrite after her outburst, screwing the lid off the thermal jug. “Thanks, honey. Any of those doughnuts left?”
She handed him a travel mug, then picked up the paper bag at her feet and offered it to him. “Don’t eat the blueberry one.”
Grinning, he tickled her behind her ear. “Who’s going to stop me?”
Reluctantly, she giggled. “Da-a-ad.”
ERIN TURNED INTO Linden Street and parked in front of Gran’s house. The two-story Victorian home, set on a wide, deep corner lot, was painted white with blue trim. Lilac bushes flanked the steps, and colorful petunias lined the footpath. In the center of the front yard grew a tall maple, in whose sturdy limbs she’d spent half her childhood.
Erin entered quietly in case Gran was sleeping, and was assailed by the deliciously spicy aroma of homemade gingersnaps. She stooped to set her suitcases on the runner protecting the polished hardwood floor just as the antique grandfather clock in the foyer began to strike noon. Reverently