“That was totally selfish.”
“If I’d thought of you, I wouldn’t have been able to leave.”
Grace covered her ears. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that. A father is supposed to think about his kids. He’s supposed to be there for them. He’s supposed to love them.”
“I do love you,” Greg said.
Taking down her hands, she said, “Then I don’t know how you define that word.”
He looked at Deborah. “Is this you talking?”
“No,” Grace cried before her mother could respond, “it’s me—your daughter—who thought you’d be here for all the good things that were supposed to happen. I expected that, because you told me that, and I believed what you said.” Hearing her shrillness, she lowered her voice. “Only you didn’t come through. So you have no right to expect things from me. If I lie, that’s fine. If I drink, that’s fine. If I steal a pair of shoes, that’s fine.”
“You wouldn’t do those things.”
Her eyes opened wide. “I did. I did all of them. I was the one who was driving the car that night. Didn’t you guess that?” He looked stunned. “But no, you wouldn’t have guessed, because I’m your perfect child. Only here’s a flash, Dad. I’m not. I make mistakes, and I mess things up, and sometimes I hate what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. But everyone expects it, so I do it. What about my feelings? Am I going to get to the point you were and chuck it all away?”
Her mother was looking at Grace with something akin to respect. And though Greg was staring, she refused to take back her words.
But just when Grace was feeling like she had done something right, a gray car pulled in next to the Volvo. She watched enough TV to know that the men staring at her were probably cops.
“Omigod,” she said softly. “Mom?”
“They’re from the D.A.’s office, Greg,” Deborah said. Her voice was calm enough, but Grace knew she was frightened.
Her father got out of the Volvo and talked with the men. Terrified, Grace looked at her mother, who shushed her.
Grace waited only until he was back in the car. “What do they want?” she cried.
“To talk with you.” He slammed the door.
“I can’t talk with them.”
His voice was firm. “Routine questions, they said. I told them that if they wanted to talk with my daughter, who is a minor, they’d have to arrange a time through our attorney.” He turned to Deborah. “Hal’s coordinating this, isn’t he?”
“He will,” Deborah said. The gray car pulled out as Dylan returned with the drink Grace didn’t want. Her father took the drink, passed it to Deborah, and gestured for Dylan to get in the back. Then he drove home.
Deborah tried to appreciate how difficult returning there was for Greg, but she was more concerned about Grace. As soon as the car stopped, the girl jumped out and disappeared into the house.
Dylan had Greg’s hand and was pulling him forward. “You have to see my keyboard, Dad—and my iPod dock.”
Deborah followed them up the stairs and down the hall, but when they turned into Dylan’s room, she went to see Grace. The girl was on the window seat, looking out at the street. “Do you think they’ll come here?” she asked.
“The detectives? No. They heard your father.”
“Can they force me to talk?”
“No,” Deborah said, trying to sound nonchalant. “They’re just digging around to see if they come up with anything. They must be realizing there’s no case. They may just skip you and go home.” Wishful thinking? She hoped it was more than that. Motioning for Grace to make room, she sat beside her. “I’m glad you told your dad.”
“I’m glad those men showed up after I did. It’s giving him a chance to cool off.”
“He didn’t seem angry to me.”
Grace snorted. “He was shocked. The anger would have come next.” She stopped and listened. Dylan was playing his keyboard. “Does he know what he’s playing?”
Deborah smiled. “‘The Times They Are A-Changin’ ’? He knows the name of the song and the tune. Does he understand that there may be a deeper meaning? I doubt it.”
Grace looked out the window. “I wish they were. The times changing, I mean.”
Not so long ago, Deborah would have said they already had, but now that smacked of wishful thinking, too, so she just asked, “How would you like them to change?”
Grace didn’t hesitate. “I want the widow to drop her suit. I want my friends back. I want…” She stopped.
“Please,” Deborah begged. “Say what you’re thinking.”
“You’ll be upset.”
“More than I am already? Impossible.”
Grace still hesitated. “This has to do with Dad.”
“You want him back here for good,” Deborah said. “Oh, sweetie, that won’t happen. He and I are divorced. He’s married to someone else.”
“It’s not that.” She looked out the window again. “I want to know what Dad thinks of me.”
“He loves you. He told you that in the car.”
“But does he mean it?” the girl asked with such longing that Deborah’s heart nearly broke.
She stroked Grace’s hair. “You think he doesn’t? Oh, sweetheart, he does. He loves you. He’s always loved you. And why would I be upset about that?”
“Not about his loving me,” Grace said, seeming uncomfortable. “About my wanting it.”
Deborah caught her breath. “You thought I wouldn’t want that?”
“He left you to marry another woman.”
“Which was something he had to do, and maybe something that will prove right for me, too. But it had nothing to do with you and your brother. I want you to love your father, and I want you to know he loves you. He’s your father, Gracie. That will never change.”
“I feel disloyal.”
“Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way.” Greg had been right. She had been so hurt—so angry—when he left that she had wanted the kids to feel the same. Pathetic.
Taking Grace’s face in her hands, she said, “I want you to love your father.”
“Right now,” her daughter said brokenly, “I guess that isn’t the issue. Now that he knows what I’ve done, will he still love me?”
Deborah stood in the kitchen a short time later watching Greg and Dylan shoot hoops. Dylan didn’t sink many, not because of his eyes as much as his lack of experience. There were no town teams yet for children his age, and though Greg had shown him the basics in Vermont, he claimed he couldn’t practice alone. With his father here, he was trying again. Greg was showing him how to free himself up to shoot.
Basketball would be better than baseball, Deborah thought. The ball was bigger and the goal well-defined. This might be something Dylan could do. If he wanted it. She was going to have to ask, and then listen to what he had to say. It wouldn’t do to make the same mistake twice.
She made a pot of coffee—strong, the way Greg liked it—and sipped some from a mug. Over its lip, she watched Greg toss the ball to Dylan again and again, for Dylan to shoot. He snagged rebounds and sent them back to the boy. He also caught the ball when it missed the backboard and tipped it in when it was close. He was good. He was patient. He was encouraging.
He wouldn’t have done this three years before, Deborah realized. Sad that a father had to leave to be a better dad. But if patience and understanding came with distance, she was grateful. She and Grace needed both.
Greg gave an appreciative sniff when he came in from the garage. “Mm. Coffee. Dylan, find something to do. I need to talk with your mother alone.”
Dylan was crestfallen. “You said you’d watch my video.”
“Later.”
“You were gonna show me a picture of the puppies.”
Greg dug into his pocket and took out a small print.
“Oooooh,” Dylan breathed as he adjusted the print so he could see. “They are sooo little and sooo fuzzy. Mom, look,” he cried.
D
eborah leaned over his shoulder. “Very, very cute.”
“I want one, Mom.”
“They aren’t mine to give.”
“Can I have one, Dad?”
“They’re too little to leave their mother.”
“But can I when they’re old enough? I can do dogs.”
“Looked to me like you could do basketball, too,” Deborah said. “Better ’n baseball. It’s easier. I can compensate.”
“Big word,” remarked his dad.
“I know what it means,” Dylan said. “It means I can focus on large shapes until I get close enough to see the small ones. It’s like when you’re outside in fog. You can’t see anything until you get close.” He looked from one parent to the other. “You’d understand, if you had eyes like mine.” With that, he left the room.
Duly chastised, Deborah fixed Greg’s coffee, and for a time they both sat silently nursing the brew.
Outside in fog. Deborah was there. Can’t see anything until you get close.
“It was pouring that night,” she began. “I couldn’t bear the thought of dragging Dylan out in the car, so I left him here and went out to get Grace…”
Chapter 21
Deborah told him everything, right up through the shoplifting that had brought it all to a head. She refused to let him interrupt, needing to get out every last word. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” she summed up in defeat. “I thought I was protecting Grace. I didn’t understand what the lie would cost us. She’s been choking on the guilt, and I haven’t helped. Our relationship was nearly destroyed.”
In the silence that followed, he stared at her. She didn’t look away, didn’t shift or fidget or offer more coffee.
Finally, he sighed and sat back. “You’ve made a mess,” he confirmed quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? It might not have gotten this bad.”
“I wanted to handle it myself.”
“Don’t you always?”
“No, Greg,” she insisted. “Not always. When we were married, it was expediency. Once you left, that changed. I was hurt. I felt like I’d failed. I needed to show you, me, the kids, all of Leyland, that I could do it myself.”
“You left your father off that list. Didn’t you need to show him, too?”
“Definitely. He always expected so much. But expectations can be dangerous. Grace feels the same pressure I did. She hates it. How could I have forgotten what it was like?”
“We want our kids to do well,” Greg said. “Expectations are a powerful motivational tool.”
But Deborah had thought about that. “There’s a difference between expectation and hope. You hope your children will achieve certain things, knowing that what you wish for may or may not happen. Expectation involves demand. Your children produce, or else.”
“Or else what?” Greg asked.
“Or else they lose your love, which is why Grace is so upset. She needs to know we still love her. The divorce hit her hard. She felt rejected.” When he seemed about to argue, Deborah held up a hand. “I know. She hasn’t given you a chance to explain, but try to understand. Her way of protecting herself from further hurt is to build walls. She’s done the same thing now with her friends.”
He sighed. “Tell me more about the booze. Two beers?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Has she been drinking with friends before?”
“At parties. She’s never been drunk.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“No,” Deborah conceded. “When she sleeps over at a girlfriend’s house, I don’t see her ’til the next morning. She comes home tired, but that’s all.”
“Do you ask?”
“If she was drunk? No. That feels like I’m making an assumption.”
“Maybe you should.”
She shook her head. “I know what you’re getting at, Greg. You’re thinking that we need to address her drinking by punishing her, but she has already suffered so much.”
“She wants punishment. Isn’t that what the shoplifting was about?”
“She wants to admit guilt.”
“Publicly?”
Deborah sat back. “I don’t know. That’s the dilemma. I need your help here. What do we do?”
Grace was sitting on the floor with her back against the bed and her arms around her knees when there was a soft knock at the door. She said nothing. The door opened, and her father came in.
She couldn’t tell him not to—didn’t want to tell him not to. It was his turn to talk.
Putting her forehead to her knees, she waited until he crossed the carpet. She was surprised when he slid down to the floor next to her.
“I screwed up,” he said.
“That’s my line,” she murmured.
“I screwed up before you did. I should have talked to you more about the divorce when it first happened. My leaving had nothing to do with you and Dylan.”
“Only Mom,” Grace said bitterly.
“Only me,” he corrected, “and yes, I was selfish. I’ve been that way all my life. It’s not a good way to be.”
She shrugged. “You got what you wanted.”
“At the expense of other people. That’s not good.”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Then why did you do it?”
“I didn’t see the harm.”
“And you do now?” she asked doubtfully.
“My therapist told me in no uncertain words.”
That surprised Grace. “You see a therapist?”
“Rebecca made me. She said I would blow a second marriage if I didn’t resolve certain issues. I need to understand why I can’t focus on others. Why I can’t do something someone else wants if it’s not my own first choice.” He grabbed her hand. “The problem is that even when you know what’s wrong, it takes a while to fix it. Even though I know I should have talked with you, I didn’t. I can blame it on thinking you weren’t old enough. But if you can go out drinking with friends, you’re old enough.”
Grace pulled back her hand.
“Hey,” he said with a smile, “that was a joke.”
She tucked the hand between her knees. “You don’t make jokes.”
“Which explains why I’m bad at it,” he said. He was quiet for a minute, then added, “I wasn’t sure you’d accept what I had to say.” He paused. “Would you have?”
“I don’t know. But you’re the father. You should have tried and kept trying.”
“Well, I’m trying now. I do love you, Grace.”
“But don’t you hate what I’ve done?” she cried.
“Yes. But only the drinking part. And maybe the shoplifting part.”
“What about the race I blew and the French test I tanked and the English paper Mr. Jones made me rewrite?”
“What English paper?” he said sternly, then abruptly smiled and raised a brow. “Was that better?”
“This isn’t funny,” Grace cried, though there was something to be said for his trying to be.
“I don’t hate you for those things, Grace,” he said. “I feel badly, because they didn’t need to happen, but your mother and I are as much at fault for that as you are. As for the accident, your mother said you were driving perfectly.”
“I had two beers.”
“And you were wrong to get behind the wheel. But that’s another issue. Right now, we have to decide what to do.”
“What are our choices?” Grace asked nervously.
“I’m trying to figure that out.”
He sounded into it. But Grace kept waiting for the other shoe to fall. “You don’t seem angry.”
He looked at her in surprise. “I thought we settled that.”
She shook her head and stared at him, waiting. By way of answer, he drew her into his arms. Grace was no expert, but her gut told her this hug was real, especially when she started to cry and he continued to hold her. For an hour.
Well, maybe not an hour. Maybe only a quarter of that, but her old dad wouldn’t have la
sted more than five minutes.
Deborah, too, was feeling better. There was something to be said for sharing the responsibility. When Greg suggested taking both kids back to Vermont with him Saturday morning, Deborah didn’t object.
They were gone by eight. By nine, Deborah was with patients. By noon, she was doing paperwork. By one, she was walking up to the house to see her father. He was in the backyard, raking the beds around Ruth’s hydrangeas.
He gestured toward bunches of dried stumps that had the barest beginning of green growth in the middle. “Hard to believe these’ll ever amount to anything,” he said by way of hello. He wore old khakis and an even older flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Anything interesting growing on your end this morning?”
Deborah smiled. “Two streps, one bronchitis, two annuals, and more allergy complaints than you’d want to hear. How’re you doing?”
“How do I look?”
“Chipper,” she decided. His eyes were clear, his complexion healthy. He looked ten years younger than he was.
He resumed his raking. “How’s Grace?”
“Less upset,” she said. “Thank you, Dad. Whatever you said to her yesterday helped.”
He combed a rakeful of dried leaves to the edge of the bed. “She was worried about seeing Greg.”
“That wasn’t all,” Deborah said, wondering exactly how much her father did know. She hadn’t grilled Grace. Yesterday, she had been more concerned with the outcome than the process. Today the process mattered.
He shot her a glance but kept on with his work. “No. That wasn’t all. She’s been carrying quite a load. I take it she told Greg everything?”
“In no uncertain terms,” Deborah said. “And what she didn’t tell him, I did. It was time.”
“Long overdue,” Michael corrected in a Dr. Barr tone, then seemed to catch himself and softened. “It’s hard for a girl her age, halfway a child, halfway a woman.”
“It’s hard for me. I made a mistake.”
“Oh, Deborah,” he chided, “we all make mistakes.” He paused. “Want me to talk to John?”
She smiled sadly this time, and shook her head. “The widow’s already accusing the police of giving us special treatment. We’d better deal with John ourselves. I’m still not sure where this will end, but at least Grace is on the mend.”
The Secret Between Us Page 25
