Jane's Gift

by Abby Gaines

  Her smile was grim. “Oh, I know. My dad lives in Bentwood.”

  Kyle froze.

  Bentwood might be marked as a town on the map, but everyone around here knew that 90 percent of its residents lived in one building—guests of the Colorado Department of Corrections at the Bentwood Correctional Facility.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “YOUR DAD’S IN JAIL?” KYLE demanded.

  “Yep.” Jane checked on Daisy, and found her still happily riding her horse. “Not for the first time, either.” She saw Kyle’s struggle not to overreact.

  “What did he do?”

  “Armed robbery,” Jane said. “Though he said he was only driving the getaway car.” She believed it—her dad was not exactly a criminal mastermind.

  “It’s not...” He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault he did whatever he did. And ended up in jail.”

  “He’s Daisy’s biological grandfather,” she said.

  She’d done it, used one of the big words.

  And Kyle didn’t like it, not one bit. He sat upright, rigid on his horse with that silly blue mane, his brows drawn together. Jane didn’t blame him.

  “My father was horrible to my mom,” she said, “and not much better to us kids. I lost touch with him when I left Pinyon Ridge—I no longer see him. In fact, I don’t see any of my family.”

  He nodded jerkily.

  “I don’t know where Darren is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in jail, too,” she said, pushing him harder. “Cat, my sister...we text occasionally, and she visits me once in a blue moon.” She grimaced. “When she wants money. Johnno, the youngest—he’s the one who got the fire chief’s daughter pregnant.”

  “If I remember rightly, that was a consensual sexual act,” Kyle said. “The gossip was all over town, and everyone was clear that she was crazy about your brother.”

  “Who agreed to marry her, then snuck out of town in the middle of the night...with the proceeds of the fireman’s ball,” she reminded him.

  He turned, and held her gaze. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “Saying these things?”

  “Because they’re the truth. This is Daisy’s DNA, even if no one other than you or I ever knows it. Whatever trust or respect or liking you have for me will always be vulnerable to the reality of my family.”

  The carousel began to slow.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Kyle said.

  A part of her appreciated that he didn’t rush in with platitudes that would ultimately prove meaningless. Another part of her was hurt that he didn’t immediately assure her—and mean it—that her family’s antics made no difference at all.

  “Don’t say anything,” Jane said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  * * *

  AFTER THEY GOT OFF the carousel, Daisy skipped ahead to the junior bumper cars, and got the last one. She waved to Jane—not Kyle—as the attendant checked her harness. When the green light came on, she sat still while the other cars took off.

  “They’ll smash her.” Kyle tensed, ready to jump the picket fence and drag his daughter out of her car.

  “Look, she’s moving.” Jane touched his arm. Instead of looking at Daisy, he looked down at her hand. He couldn’t believe how badly that conversation had gone, couldn’t believe... Not now. He corralled his thoughts and focused on his daughter.

  As Jane had said, Daisy was moving through the traffic. Tentatively, but definitely not a sitting duck for a case of juvenile road rage. Kyle winced as a kid in a red car bumped her. Daisy circled the perimeter, slowly. A girl in a yellow car bounced off her right wing, then Daisy bumped hard into the girl.

  “You go, Daisy,” Kyle called.

  “Get her, Daisy,” Jane said at the same time.

  They traded glances. Kyle imagined his was as sheepish as hers.

  “I had a lousy upbringing,” she said. “What’s your excuse?”

  He chuckled...then it died away as he caught sight of Daisy. “What the hell?”

  The other girl, the one in the yellow car she’d just bumped, had ended up at the side of the track. Daisy had followed—or chased?—and now rammed hard into the side of the girl’s car. Instead of driving away, Daisy backed up and rammed hard again.

  “Oh, dear,” Jane said in total understatement.

  “Daisy,” Kyle yelled. Even if there hadn’t been the noise of the cars and the music, she wouldn’t have heard him.

  Her mouth was wide-open. She was yelling, or screaming, he couldn’t tell which.

  Jane ran around the side of the bumper car rink. Good idea—Kyle followed.

  By the time they got there, the other kid’s mom was there, too, leaning over the fence, trying to reach her daughter, whose face was contorted with tears. The operator finally noticed what was going on, and cut the power.

  At which time, Daisy’s screaming could be heard by everyone.

  Kyle jumped the fence and went to grab her. Daisy’s hands were clenched around her steering wheel; he had to pry them free.

  “Control your kid, mister,” the girl’s mother spat. “She’s a psycho.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Jane ordered.

  Busy unclipping the harness, Kyle appreciated her defense of Daisy. But the fact was, Daisy’s behavior had been inexcusable.

  He glanced up and found Susan Tully watching him with undisguised fascination. Great. It would be all over Pinyon Ridge tomorrow that his daughter had lost the plot. He knew how the comments would play.... “The man can’t run his own family, how can he run our town?” Plenty of people would think that. Heck, even he thought it.

  Then at last Daisy was free and he pulled her from the car. “What was that?” he asked.

  She was as silent now as she’d been loud a minute ago.

  “Dammit, Daisy—”

  Jane touched his arm again, shutting him up. Oddly, her presence soothed him, even though she’d just been doing her level best to show him how poorly she fit into his life. He stretched his mouth into one of those fake grins she was so keen on and said, “You better make that therapy appointment.”

  Once again, he was screwing up as a dad. It had to stop, for Daisy’s sake. But also because if he wanted to win the election, he had to be the kind of guy who could care for his daughter right. At this moment, neither of those things seemed possible.

  * * *

  “I DON’T OFTEN SEE YOU at this time of day.” Micki set Charles’s coffee in front of him. It was four o’clock on Tuesday. She was about to close. Ordinarily, she’d stay open for him. But Jane was due any second for another coaching session.

  “I didn’t get to talk to you this morning,” Charles said. No, he grumbled.

  Her heart leaped. Two days running, she’d had Margaret cook his breakfast. His disappointment had been obvious, but she suspected it had more to do with her ability to perfectly poach an egg than any attraction to her. Today, she’d gone a step further and told Charles she couldn’t sit down with him at breakfast, as she was late with her pantry staples order. Had he missed their conversation so much, he’d had to come back?

  “We can talk now for a couple minutes before I close up.” She slid in the other side of the booth, and he smiled. It almost gave her the confidence to follow Jane’s next piece of advice.

  Touch him.

  Just the thought made her palms perspire. Wouldn’t that make for a pleasant touch?

  “I wanted to ask you what you think
of the plan to hold Sunday school after church instead of before,” Charles said. “Reverend Thackeray is concerned about so many of the younger people moving to Gabe’s church. Obviously I have divided loyalties,” he said ruefully. “I figured you could give an objective view.”

  So she had clammy palms for nothing. Micki rubbed them against her jeans. Charles was here as an elder of her church, wanting to sound out one of the members about a new policy. Nothing more. “I’m in favor,” she said. “But my reasons aren’t particularly holy. I have early starts every other day of the week. Sunday is my only morning to sleep in.”

  There was a pause. In her dreams, the pause was Charles thinking about her sleeping. In bed. In reality, it was him sipping his coffee.

  He set his cup down again. “You work hard, you deserve that sleep-in.” His eyes lingered on her cherry-colored blouse with the top two buttons undone. Not revealing anything at all, but possibly hinting. He didn’t look away.

  His hand rested on the table, curled in a loose fist. She could reach out and touch it....

  “Maybe you work too hard,” Charles blurted. “Cooking and serving from the crack of dawn, and then you have all that admin on top. Like that order you were doing this morning.”

  He was still hung up on the fact she hadn’t had time to talk to him this morning. Interesting. Micki reached across the table and placed her hand over his. His eyes jolted from her blouse down to her hand, then up to her face, wide with surprise.

  “Thanks for your concern, Charles, but I’m fine.” She struggled to speak through the breath-shortening physical contact. She’d seen him pretty much every day for the past four years, and she’d wanted him for the past year. But she’d never touched him before, not with deliberate, personal intent. Now, the rugged strength of his hand beneath hers, the contour of knuckle and flesh, fascinated her. She couldn’t resist the impulse to squeeze, just a little. A friendly squeeze. “You’re very thoughtful, a good friend. I appreciate it.” Yikes, she was babbling.

  Charles’s hand jerked away. “I, uh, need to go—I forgot to tell Kyle...something. Something important.” He slid out of the booth and stood. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  He charged out of the café without looking back, leaving behind his almost untouched coffee. Leaving Micki with her hand sitting on the table, bereft.

  She’d reached out to Charles, literally and figuratively, and he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  * * *

  BACK IN HIS OWN KITCHEN, Charles put the kettle on the stove. His coffee was nowhere near as good as Micki’s but it would have to do. He needed the edge taken off his dissatisfaction.He needed...something. Something to settle the churning in his gut.

  Probably he should brew up some decaf, but Micki despised the stuff, so he’d let her talk him out of keeping it in the house.

  He didn’t want to think about her. But he didn’t know what he did want to think about.

  Blast it. The past couple of weeks, he’d had this nagging feeling of something missing, and it had intensified the past couple of days. Since he wasn’t a guy who analyzed his own feelings much, he didn’t know what to make of it. He could tell you when he was happy, or mad or mildly ticked off. He could say when he felt proud of his sons or worried about them. But this feeling...

  Whatever it was, it was producing strange longings. Charles took a mug from the cupboard and set it on the counter with a thud. Micki had touched him, and he’d had the wildest urge to flip his hand over and capture her fingers. Sweet little Micki—he’d known her since she was knee-high!

  “I’m a pervert,” he muttered.

  “Did you just say what I thought you said?” Gabe asked from behind him.

  Charles wheeled around. “Dammit, Gabe, why are you sneaking up on me?” What the heck? Now he was cursing and yelling at his son? Dear God, am I ill? He’d heard brain tumors could change people’s behavior....

  “I’m not sneaking, I told you I’d call in and update you about Kyle’s campaign,” Gabe said mildly. He pulled another mug from the cupboard. “I’ll have one of those, thanks.”

  Charles added another scoop of coffee to the French press.

  He stood in silence until the kettle boiled, then he poured the water into the press. “Are Kyle and Micki dating?” he asked.

  Gabe reached into the pantry for the sugar. “Not that I know of. That stunt they pulled last week was... I don’t know what it was, but I don’t think it meant anything.”

  “Good,” Charles said.

  “I thought you wanted Kyle to ask Micki out?” Gabe reminded him. “Or would you rather I did?”

  Charles gave the coffee a vigorous stir, then pushed the plunger down. “I’m starting to think she’s too busy with that café to have time for a relationship. Kyle needs someone who can put some focus on him and Daisy.”

  “I guess. Maybe she just needs to find the right guy who can distract her from her work.”

  Charles pushed the plunger too hard the last inch, and coffee spurted out the spout. He only just managed not to curse again. He wasn’t a cursing man, never had been, not even when he was dealing with lowlifes like Mike Slater, Jane’s father. Maybe I have Tourette’s. Can that come on suddenly?

  “Why this concern about Micki?” Gabe asked with the perspicacity he seemed to have developed since he’d become a pastor. Was it a divine gift? It was annoying, that was for sure.

  “My concern is for Kyle,” Charles corrected him sharply. “Do you think he’s interested in Jane Slater?”

  “If he was, why would he have kissed Micki?” Gabe asked with an obliqueness Charles didn’t like.

  “He can’t seem to keep his eyes off her. That Slater girl seems nice enough now, but she has bad blood,” Charles said.

  “Dad.” No mistaking the reprimand in Gabe’s voice.

  Charles felt himself flushing. That hadn’t come out right, but everything was topsy-turvy these days. “I’m just saying, background matters. What does she know about raising a decent family? If she and Kyle got together and had a baby...”

  “Whoa, Dad, they’re not even dating.” Gabe grabbed a cloth and wiped the spilled coffee. “And even if they were, anyone can put their past behind them. With God’s help,” he added.

  “Don’t you preach to me.”

  “I don’t need to,” Gabe said. “You told me that when I had those couple of years messing around. I don’t imagine you’ve forgotten the lesson yourself.”

  Had he really said that? Charles supposed he had—the theory sounded great, and when it came to his own son, the evidence stood right in front of him. But those Slaters...

  Gabe kept on looking at him with patience and more understanding than he should have at his age.

  Charles shook his head. “Whippersnapper. There’s a fine line between righteous and obnoxious, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” Gabe grinned. “I’m far too obnoxious for the Episcopalians.”

  Charles chuckled. “You need to find yourself a wife—it’s easy to see things in black and white when you only have yourself to think about. Once you have a wife and kids, things get complicated.”

  “Think I’ll stick with the simple life for now,” Gabe said. “You ready to talk about Kyle’s campaign?”

  “You bet.” Charles realized it must be his concern for Kyle that was unsettling him. He didn’t like to see his older son worried. He was relieved his angst was nothing more serious. Kids.

  * * *
<
br />   DR. BRENDAN FRANKS, family therapist, had his practice on the second floor of a two-story block at the far end of Frisco. The walls were covered in murals, and mobiles hung from the ceiling.

  Jane went with Kyle to the appointment at his request. Although he’d conceded they needed professional help, he didn’t necessarily want Daisy talking to a shrink. He’d told Jane he didn’t care if that made him old-school. At the very least, Kyle thought he should talk to the doctor himself first.

  She wanted to be here, too.

  Since the disastrous—in more ways than one—evening at the funfair, he’d said nothing further about her remaining in some way involved with Daisy. Possibly, either Daisy’s outburst or the unvarnished truth about Jane’s family—or both—had deterred him. Which, really, would be for the best. Because she’d meant it when she said she wouldn’t let herself get hurt again.

  And yet...she didn’t think he’d abandoned the idea. He’d put it in the too-hard basket, maybe, but he wasn’t hostile, or even cold toward her. On the contrary, their conversations seemed underpinned by a cautious warmth. One that fit her own mood perfectly.

  Now, on Thursday afternoon, they sat side by side on the couch in Dr. Franks’s office, a good two feet of space between them, with Kyle relating the background to their visit, from Daisy’s conception right through to how Jane had been advising Kyle on showing his feelings for Daisy. He ended with the bumper car incident. A few times, he asked Jane to comment; once or twice, she chipped in uninvited. Dr. Franks had the most mobile eyebrows Jane had ever encountered. During the story, which admittedly had its more outlandish points, they roved all over the place. A couple of times, it seemed they might leave his head altogether.

  Shouldn’t a psychologist be a little more inscrutable?

  “That’s quite a tale.” Dr. Franks steepled his fingers at the end of Kyle’s explanation. “I’m sensing a fair amount of tension between you two.”

  Well, duh.

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” Jane said.