The man tripped a little, but rebounded and caught himself as Izzie launched to help him.
“You son of a bitch,” Allen said, wiping his face. “You must really want to go back to prison. Call the cops, Izzie.”
“No, no, Allen, no.”
He glared at her. “You said he assaulted you!”
“He did…not. You can’t do that to him. You can’t make him go back to jail. It’s not right.”
Now she thought about what was right?
Allen Phillips gave him a murderous look, his sizable chest rising and falling with fury. “Get the hell out of this town and don’t ever come back. Ever, you hear me? If I ever see your face again, I will make it my personal duty to see your ass back in prison. You want to give me that pleasure? Stay. I will make your life and the lives of anyone around you a living hell.”
With that, he went back into the blinding lights, slammed the door shut, and drove off.
“You better do what he says, Trace,” Isabella said as she walked toward her car. “He’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“Why’d you marry him?”
She shrugged. “Why do we do anything? I was lonely. Still am, obviously,” she added with a mirthless laugh. “Bye.”
She climbed into the car, started it up, and drove out of the driveway slowly.
Trace stood stone-still as the lights turned to watery red splotches in his eyes.
He’d made a promise, and now he had to keep it.
Chapter Twenty-two
Wow. Trace must really be anxious to get to work.
It wasn’t even seven thirty in the morning when Molly pulled up to Waterford Farm and spied the dog van inside the front gates, more than a half mile from the house. Only then did she realize Trace sat at the wheel.
Her mind zipped through a list of possibilities, landing on the obvious one. He knew she’d be there early since Pru wanted to get to school at seven that morning to do one more run-through in the auditorium before her after-school presentation. He wanted to meet her…in the van.
For old times’ sake? Didn’t he realize she’d have Meatball with her?
Still, she liked the way he thought. Maybe they could take a drive after lunch.
“Come on, Meatman,” she said to her attentive passenger in the back. “Let’s go see your real master.” Smiling, she parked way off to the side, well behind the van, and climbed out. The dog followed, bounding to the passenger door.
There, Molly stopped cold at the sight of Trace behind the wheel, head in hands, completely unmoved by Meatball’s happy barks.
She tapped very lightly on the glass, and her veins went icy when he turned and she saw red-rimmed eyes, bloodless cheeks, and nothing that looked like a smile on those beautiful lips.
Something was very, very wrong.
He didn’t reach for the handle to let her in, so she slowly opened the door and stared at him. Meatball climbed in, heading straight for Trace, who barely acknowledged him.
“Trace?” Her voice was taut, her throat closing up at the abject sadness in his eyes.
“I need to talk to you, Molly.”
“Okay.” She pulled herself into the seat, nudging the dog toward the back and turning her whole body to face Trace. “What’s the matter?”
He exhaled slowly, a ragged, pained breath dragged from deep in his chest. “I’m leaving Bitter Bark.”
She blinked at him, hearing the words but hoping she’d misunderstood. Even though she knew she hadn’t.
“I almost left without saying goodbye, but—”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I have to.”
She reached for his arm, but he jerked away like her touch burned him. “Well, that did.”
He closed his eyes. “Molly, listen to me.”
She didn’t say a word, staring at his face. He hadn’t slept, shaved, or changed since yesterday. “Trace, what’s going on?”
“I am going to ask you to do something for me—”
“Anything.”
He turned and shot her a look. “Wait until you hear what it is.”
Silenced, she nodded.
“I need you to, I mean, I am begging you to never tell Pru I’m her father.”
Her heart dropped with a thud into her stomach.
“Trace, I can’t do that. I won’t go one more day with this—”
“She’s my daughter, too,” he ground out. “I have a say, don’t I? I get a fifty percent opinion in deciding what she knows. Don’t I?”
Maybe he did. She’d never thought about it that way. “Why?”
“Because I love her. And I love…” His eyes shuttered. “I love the dream of you, I guess. The job, the life, the… No. You. I’m asking this because I love both of you.”
She clasped her hands, squeezing tightly, the only way to keep herself from reaching for him, holding him, loving him back. But she didn’t want to be rebuffed, even though he just said…
“I’m confused,” she admitted with a humorless laugh. “You love us, so you don’t want her to know you’re her father and you want me to live a lie. Oh, and you’re leaving.”
“It’s not confusing, Molly. Something has kept me from telling her the truth all these weeks. I had to come to terms with it. The fact is, I am what and who I am, and I will never, ever be good enough to be that girl’s father or your—” He stopped himself.
“You are my lover,” she reminded him.
“I’d want more.”
Her heart flipped, because hadn’t she been thinking the same thing all night? “Then why would you leave? Why would you ask me not to tell her? Why wouldn’t you give yourself a chance to live a normal, happy life, Trace?” Her voice rose, strangled by frustration.
“Because I can never live a normal, happy life. I cannot undo my mistakes, I cannot erase my past, I cannot be the kind of father Pru deserves or…or…the man you deserve. People will always judge me harshly, but fairly. And I can’t hang that shame on you or her.”
She tried to breathe. Failed. “I don’t care what people think.”
“You say that now. But what about tomorrow?”
“I won’t care what people think tomorrow or the next day or the next year. I care about my family, and they have shown you that they don’t judge. I don’t care what strangers think. You’ll show them they’re wrong.”
He turned to her, agony darkening his eyes. “Okay, let me be blunt. I don’t want Pru to know. Please. It’s my choice as her father, isn’t it? If she knows and hates me for it, it will hurt her.”
“That won’t—”
“And if she knows and I leave, it will hurt her in a different way.”
“Why would you leave?” She searched his face, aching for an answer she somehow knew he wasn’t going to give.
“I have to,” he said coldly.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his dismissive tone cutting her. “What matters is Pru. And you. Please do this for me, Molly. Please make up some great guy who stole your heart but then he died. Tell her he died. Give him a heroic death. Tell her he was strong and smart and good and kind and so excited to be a father he couldn’t breathe.”
“None of that would be a lie.”
He dropped his head back with a grunt. “I knew you’d make this difficult.”
“Me? I’m making it difficult?” She practically choked. “You’re walking out on me, on her, on a job, on people who believe in you. And you won’t even tell me why.”
He turned and tentatively reached for her hands. “Because I made a promise that I will do whatever I have to do, whenever I have to do it, at any sacrifice to myself, to make sure you and Pru are happy and safe. I have to keep that promise, and this is the way to do it. Trust me, I’ve been awake all night trying to come up with something better.”
A promise? “You made one to me, too,” she whispered. “Remember? ‘I’m in it for the long haul.’”
He grunte
d softly. “Molly, please. You two can’t be safe or happy with me.”
How did he know that? She didn’t know what to say to that, not that she could talk. Her throat was closed, her eyes stung, and an old burn of grief and disbelief started low in her belly. She hadn’t felt like this since the day Dad called and said he’d taken Mom to the hospital with chest pains.
Totally and completely devastated.
“So, this is what I’m asking you, Molly.” He narrowed his eyes, but not in anger, more because she could see them growing moist as he looked at her. “This is what I, as Pru’s father, want most.”
“For her to think her father is some dead fictional character?” How could he think that would be better for her?
“I never want her to know I’m her father. Never.”
She pressed her knuckles to her lips to keep from crying out. “Trace.”
“Please.” His voice cracked and tears welled. “Please. It’s my request.”
“Where are you going?” she finally asked, zeroing in on the easiest of the million questions hammering in her head.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out, but I have to return the van.”
“And your job? Tashie and Bo?”
He shook his head, unable to answer.
“You and Meatball are just going to walk out of here?” Her tears fell now, as much in sorrow as frustration.
“Only me,” he said, so quietly she could actually hear her heart breaking. Or maybe that was his. “He loves you.”
She glanced into the back, where Meatball had stretched out next to the dog crate, taking in the exchange.
“And so do I,” Trace whispered, touching her chin. “If I didn’t, I’d stay. If I didn’t care about Pru’s well-being, I wouldn’t go anywhere but home with you. Believe me.”
Right then, she couldn’t believe anything. “Please don’t do this, Trace.”
“I have to. And you have to promise me you will tell her her father is dead.”
“I can’t—”
“Molly, promise me!”
She stared at him. “I’m not making any promises I can’t be sure I’ll keep.”
After a moment, he dropped his hand, reached behind the seat, and grabbed his duffel bag. Molly watched in silent shock.
He looked back at the dog, mouthed, “Goodbye,” then took one more look at her. “God knew what he was doing when he gave Pru to you,” he said. “You are a stunning mother and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, inside and out.”
“Then why…” Her voice trailed off, and he gave a tight smile, pushed the door open, threw the duffel bag over his shoulder, and started walking down the road.
Meatball got up to look out the back window, barking a few times for Trace to turn around and come back.
“Shhh,” Molly said, automatically reaching for the dog. “He’s gone, baby.”
He’d left her sitting in a dog van, confused, sad, and very much alone, exactly like he had fourteen years ago.
* * *
As the applause filled the tiny middle school auditorium, Pru nodded her thanks and scanned the audience one more time, biting back a sting of disappointment. She could see her mother, of course, who’d come in so late she was in the back row, not with Gramma Finnie and Grandpa, who sat closer. She loved that they’d come to support her, but where was Trace?
They’d practiced so much, and he’d seemed entirely comfortable with the idea of her telling the school that the man who lived in the house had been incarcerated—unfairly, in her opinion, but he hadn’t wanted her to say so. And the presentation had been great. She hadn’t been nervous a single bit.
And based on the applause when she finished? She had this. Nobody else’s project had the creativity or scope of hers. The only competition came from David Hellman, who’d worked at a food bank every single day in the month of January, which was ambitious, but not original. Hailey Moore got ten abandoned cats adopted, but Pru was sure she’d stretched her hours. Corinne Phillips had given manicures to old ladies in assisted-living homes throughout the county, which was probably as much fun as it was work, and Joshua Gruen collected travel-sized toiletries and sent them overseas to the troops. The other five who’d made it this far weren’t that impressive.
And no one else had made a house livable for a former prison inmate! Yes, he worked at Waterford Farm, but he hadn’t when she’d started, and Mr. Margolis had already cleared that.
So now there was nothing to do but wait for the panel of teacher-judges to vote on which three projects got sent to the state competition to represent the county.
From her seat on the stage, Pru peered into the back and saw her mother check her phone for the twentieth time. If Pru had been allowed to bring her phone up here, she would have texted Mom to ask about Trace. He’d said he’d arranged with Shane to leave work early so he could be here.
Maybe he was embarrassed because he was the ex-convict who needed community service? But who cared about that? He was—
“We have our winners,” Mr. Margolis announced, taking a piece of paper from one of the judges and heading toward the podium where Pru had just presented. The kids on stage all looked at each other with nervous smiles and whispered good lucks.
Pru scanned the audience one more time. Her gaze landed on Gramma Finnie, who gave her two thumbs-up, and next to Gramma, her grandpa beamed with pride. And way in the back, Mom looked…awful. It was hard to see from here, but was she crying?
Pru’s chest suddenly squeezed as she put two and two together and came up with…they had a fight? They broke up? If Mom was upset, and Trace wasn’t here—
“Every one of these service providers have legitimately invested the minimum of twenty-five hours in the month of January, making them all happy recipients of free passes to Carowinds.”
They cheered, along with the audience, the five of them taking one another’s hands and holding them up in victory.
“But only three will go on to compete in the state competition and be eligible to win an all-expense-paid trip to the Mouse House in Orlando, Florida!”
That got a big laugh, and all the kids squeezed one another’s hands, lowering them but still holding on while they waited for the names.
“Our top three have accrued the most points for project creativity, inclusion of other students, scope of work, and a bonus for positive impact on the town of Bitter Bark.”
“Better Bark!” Gramma Finnie called out, making everyone laugh, including Mr. Margolis. “Better Bark,” he corrected himself. “Our winners are, alphabetically, Josh Gruen…”
At the applause, Pru squeezed her eyes closed. Still a chance if they did K next.
“David Hellman.”
More applause, and Pru let out a breath. They still hadn’t passed K. Or N. She looked over at Corinne Phillips, who was staring daggers at Pru. Wow, didn’t know she wanted it that bad, Pru thought.
“And Prudence Kilcannon!”
Even though the blood rushed in her head with relief, she could hear Gramma Finnie hooting all the way from her seat. Grandpa was practically standing while he clapped, and Mom was wiping her eyes again, which Pru hoped were tears of joy.
On stage, the kids were congratulating each other, the losers looking dejected.
“Good job,” Pru whispered to Corinne, who still looked like she might kill someone. No, not someone—Pru. “Sorry you didn’t win.”
“Sorry you cheated,” she shot back.
“What?”
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” At the voice, the commotion started to die down as people turned around. “Excuse me for a moment, please! We have a problem!”
Everyone looked now, spotting a tall man marching down the center aisle, waving his hand. Wasn’t that Corinne’s dad?
Pru whipped around to look at Corinne, who looked every bit as shocked to see her father climbing the stairs to the stage where the judges sat.
“One of these winners must be disqualified for gross neglig
ence and a disregard for competition regulation 14B, as stated on page three of the Community Service Outreach Competition Rules.”
That silenced everyone, including Mr. Margolis, who was shaking hands with Josh Gruen. He cleared his throat, frowning from behind his horn-rims, and let go of Josh’s hand.
“Can you be more specific, Mr. Phillips?”
“I most certainly can.” He settled right behind the podium and raised the microphone like he was going to make a big old keynote speech or something.
Pru stared at him, only realizing then that her head felt light and her palms were officially drenched. She was going to get disqualified because Trace worked at Waterford. She knew it.
She looked at Mr. Margolis, ready to plead her case. He’d told her it was fine. He’d told her—
“There is a strict regulation, spelled out with complete clarity, that service projects cannot be generated by or in aid of a family member.”
Oh. Pru exhaled with relief. It was that rule. Well, she was in the clear, then. It must be one of the other kids.
“So Prudence Kilcannon is disqualified.”
“What?” The word came out of Pru’s mouth like a croak.
“How is that possible?” Mr. Margolis asked, stepping closer.
“The recipient of the service is a family member.”
“He is not!” Pru said. Yes, he was dating her mother, and maybe she should have told Mr. Margolis that, but their relationship also didn’t happen until the project was nearly done.
From the podium, Corinne’s father turned and glared at her. He leaned close to the microphone, but stared at her. “Trace Bancroft is your biological father, Prudence. How long did you think you could keep that secret from everyone?”
She heard the collective gasp of the audience. Felt all that blood drain from her head down to her stomach. And was vaguely aware that she swayed a little in shock.
It took everything Pru had to make sense of what he was saying.
“My…” She shook her head slowly. “No, he’s not. He’s seeing my mother—”
“Yes, he is,” Mr. Phillips insisted. “He impregnated your mother just one day before he murdered a man in West Virginia, which would be ‘the felony’ you glossed over in your presentation. Unless you were referring to his father, a known felon, but still your blood relative.”
Bad to the Bone Page 25
