Perhaps William left me the New Jersey house, Olivia thought, heading into the bathroom. She’d never thought of her father as “Dad”; she’d always referred to him as her father, or William. She had called him dad just once, thinking it might soften him, make him see inside her, listen to her, but it hadn’t.
Anyway, she was sure the bequest would come with some silly rules about doors to open and windows not to raise. Maybe she’d accept the terms of the will and donate the house to a charity close to her heart, as Amanda had done with her inheritance. Olivia would probably have to spend a month at the house—and the idea of spending a month in her father’s world made her faintly sick—but she could always commute to Manhattan from New HAUNTING OLIV IA
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Jersey. She’d need more time to handle all her boss’s work while she was on maternity leave anyway.
Olivia headed into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out the jar of $100-an-ounce cucumber nighttime moisturizer that Camilla had swiped for her from the beauty department’s goodie bags (the magazine got so many expensive freebies). She breathed in the fresh scent and looked at herself in the mirror. At times like this, when her face was fresh scrubbed and her hair was down (she liked wearing chignons at work) and her elegant outfits were replaced by an old “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” T-shirt and her comfiest yoga pants, she could still see the sixteen-year-old girl she was before her life changed forever. Before she began spending a part of every day in a playground—
sometimes just a few minutes, sometimes hours—
just to imagine what her baby might have grown up to be like at every stage, every age.
Chapter 2
What Zachary Archer needed was a guidebook: How to Deal with Your Thirteen-Year-Old Daughter without Scarring Her—or Yourself—for Life. Until now, he’d been doing fine as a single parent. More than fine. Great. If he did say so himself. He’d gotten through Kayla’s infancy and the terrible twos and the first day of school and her first broken bone and her first crush on a boy.
He’d even gotten through her first menstrual period, through an embarrassing ten-minute analy-sis of the feminine protection aisle (what the heck were wings? ) of a drugstore before a grandmotherly type saved him, loading up his basket with brightly colored packages and boxes.
He had no idea how he’d gotten through it. A few months ago, Kayla had come running out of the bathroom shrieking, crying, clapping her hands: “I got it! I got it! I’m not the last of my friends, after all!” At his perplexed expression, she’d said, “Duh, Daddy, my period!”
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But you’re just a little girl! he’d thought frantically, wondering how his baby had grown up so fast.
His first thought had been to call Marnie, his girlfriend, and ask her to bring over the necessary items and show Kayla how to use them, but before he could even mention Marnie’s name, Kayla had screeched, “If you tell whatshername I’ll never tell you anything again! Swearsies you won’t tell Marnie! It’s my private business!” By the time he’d returned from Rite Aid, Kayla was locked in the bathroom with a girlfriend and had half yelled, half laughed through the door that she didn’t need his help.
He’d gotten through all that. He’d get through her first cigarette. Repeat, repeat, repeat, he told himself as Kayla got into his SUV, a little too okay with having been suspended from school.
First cigarette. Ha. First cigarette he knew about.
“You can’t ground me, Dad,” Kayla said, twirling a long, blond spiral curl around her finger as she stared out her window. “I’m already grounded.”
At the moment she was actually thrice grounded.
For purposely pushing a girl at the ice-skating rink, which had resulted in a badly twisted ankle. For telling the six-year-old boy two houses over that she was sending a monster to eat him at night and soon there would be nothing left of him but his finger-nails. (Apparently, the Herman family had suffered through three sleepless nights before little Conner told them why he refused to close his eyes.) And for this tidbit to his girlfriend while he went to pay the check at a “give Marnie a chance lunch”: “My dad doesn’t love you, you know that, right? He told me it was just a sex thing—whatever that means.”
“Do you love me?” Marnie had asked later, which was 20
Janelle Taylor
what had driven him to ground Kayla for two weeks instead of the one he’d been planning. Whether or not he loved Marnie wasn’t a question he wanted—or was ready—to answer. Or that Marnie would have asked without Kayla’s dig.
Which meant that Kayla was grounded for four weeks. Of course, he’d lost track of when the punishments started and ended. And he had no clue where to fit in punishment for being suspended from school. Suspended. Even he himself, the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the kid from whom bad behavior was expected, had never been suspended from school. He let out a deep breath.
In the middle of an important meeting with a potential client, Zach had received a phone call from Blueberry Middle School’s assistant principal. Your daughter has been caught smoking on school property for the second time. She’s therefore suspended for one week.
And so he’d postponed his meeting—good thing the client was a parent herself and assured him they’d reschedule—and driven down to the school and sat in a stuffy room with a sullen, defensive Kayla; the gym teacher who’d caught her red-handed in the second-floor girls’ bathroom; and the assistant principal, who’d reminded Zach that she’d had to call him in to discuss Kayla’s behavior six times since the school year began.
So much for the New Year’s resolutions he and Kayla had made a month ago. Getting her to sit down and think about what she wanted from the coming year was hard enough, but she’d actually gotten into it, disappearing into her room, door closed as usual, music blaring. The next morning she said she had made her list but it was private.
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“Is one of them for you to try to accept that I’m dating Marnie?” he’d asked.
“No,” she’d said, grimacing, her hazel eyes narrowed. “Definitely not.”
He’d handed her a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. “Well, share one of them.”
“Okay,” she had said. “I resolve to make a certain boy, who’ll go nameless, like me by spring break.”
That he wasn’t so sure he would get through.
Now, as he pulled out of the school’s parking lot, Kayla’s triumphant smile over getting out of school for a week turned into a frown. “She thinks she’s so great,” Kayla said, staring out the window at a blond girl getting into her mother’s car. “Just because she’s popular. She’s only popular because she has big tits.”
Oh, God. Zach let out a deep breath and silently counted to ten, willing the powers that be to give him strength to get through the next—what? Five years? Ten?
“Kayla, I’d appreciate it if you’d use the proper words to describe parts of the body,” he said. “Your body is something to respect, not to put down.”
“Fine, breasts, ” she said.
Why was Kayla so comfortable talking about tits with him anyway? Shouldn’t she be fidgety and uncomfortable?
He really needed that guidebook.
“Are you popular?” he asked, having no idea what he was supposed to say or how best to deal with this new jealousy issue. His instincts told him to be careful with her self-esteem, give her some room with her thoughts, let her express herself without jumping down her throat.
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Janelle Taylor
“Who cares about popularity?” she snapped. “It’s totally fake. The popular girls aren’t even nice—
except to boys. At least I’m not a fake.”
Nope, fake she was not. What you saw was what you got.
So. She wasn’t popular. But she had a couple of friends: two girls from the neighborhood who were her best friends one week, her mortal enemies the next. It had
been that way since Zach and Kayla had moved back to Blueberry eight years ago. Right now, Kayla wasn’t talking to the girls, who’d dared to tell her that she had big feet.
They drove the few miles to their house, a white colonial that Zach built himself. He pulled into the driveway, hoping all the answers would magically come to him before they got inside.
“Kayla, I know you’re a smart girl,” he said, as they both got out. “I know you must be aware that smoking causes cancer. That’s not some lie parents make up to keep their teenagers from smoking.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I’m going to get cancer. I’m only thirteen. And I don’t smoke that much. Like one cigarette a day. Two maybe.”
“That’s too many,” he said. “And you could get cancer anytime, Kay. Kids younger than you have cancer. I’m dead serious. And I’m going to tell you right now so there’s no misunderstanding. You are not allowed to smoke. If I catch you smoking or if I hear you’ve been smoking, you will be disciplined.
And trust me, you won’t like it.”
She bit her lip, then pouted, then wrapped a curl around her finger. “So what am I—grounded for a year?”
“I’m taking away your iPOD for a week, Kayla.
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And no television for a week. And no going out for a week.”
Which meant he’d have to take the week off from work to supervise her.
“What?” she shrieked. “What am I supposed to do? ”
“Think,” he said as they headed inside. “About yourself. You can also do your homework, which I’ll make sure you receive each day. And you’ll help me clean out the attic. That should take about a week. And you’ll write a three-page term paper about the effects of smoking. You can do your research on-line.” With me looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not surfing or IMing your friends.
She rolled her eyes and let out a few exaggerated deep breaths, then flopped onto the couch and began braiding and unbraiding her baby-fine blond hair.
So like her mother’s. Out of nowhere, Olivia came to mind. Forget thinking for a second that Kayla’s mother would be better at all this than he was; aside from the fact that Olivia had never been interested in being a mother from day one of Kayla’s life, Olivia hadn’t been a rabble-rouser like Kayla was. She’d been something of a goody two-shoes. Except for dating him, of course. Until her father found out, anyway.
He quickly shook his head to clear his mind of Olivia Sedgwick. Not that it was easy. There were times—nights when he was alone mostly—that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He was grateful that Kayla looked exactly like him, except for her hair, which was all Olivia’s.
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Janelle Taylor
“So, since I’m grounded, I can’t eat dinner with you and whatshername and the snot, right?” Kayla asked without looking up.
“Kayla, being disrespectful—to me and to Marnie and to her daughter—isn’t going to help your case. It’s not going to help you, period.”
“Do I have to eat with you and them?” she asked, turning to face him, her expression betraying her, as it always did. She wasn’t so much angr y and petulant as she was just plain upset. Confused.
Thirteen. Her dad had been dating for one month and she was now finally old enough not to like it.
Not that he was making excuses for his daughter.
He knew what he was up against with Kayla.
“Kayla, I wish you’d give Marnie a chance. She really is a good person. And I care about her, okay?”
“Are you in love with her?” she asked, her hazel eyes nervous.
“We’ve only been dating a month and I’m still getting to know her,” he said.
She smiled. “That means no. At school if you just start dating someone at lunch, you know if you’re in love by the time the bell rings.”
He shook his head but couldn’t contain the smile. “I’m making my famous lasagna. Your favorite.”
“I’d rather miss it than sit across from that snot,”
she shot back.
The “snot” was Marnie’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Brianna, who was a little on the snotty side.
“Kayla, her name is Brianna. And, yes, you’re having dinner with us.”
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She flung her braid over her shoulder and ran into her room.
If only he had that guidebook.
Zach had just pulled the pan of lasagna from the oven when the doorbell rang. “Kayla, can you get that, please?” he called out.
No answer.
“Kayla, the door.”
No answer.
He eyed the lasagna. Perfecto. Unlike his daughter’s attitude. “Kayla, come out of your room right now.”
Her door opened and she poked her head out.
“I asked you to answer the door,” he said, his voice, his expression stern.
“I didn’t hear you,” she said, glancing away as she always did when she was lying.
He set the pan on the stove top and pulled off the oven mitts. “Well, go open the door now before our guests freeze on the porch.”
“Or we could just let them do that,” she whispered, shooting him a grin and stepping into the hallway.
He sighed inwardly. “Hysterical, Kayla,” he whispered back. “You know what else isn’t funny? Your T-shirt. Go change. Now.”
“What about your big speech last month about accepting me for who I am and my individuality?” she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest, upon which it said “I HATE YOU” in big block letters.
“Go. Change. Now,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll be who I’m not.”
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Janelle Taylor
How about a charming, delightful daughter, just for five minutes? he thought, heading to the door as the bell rang again. I’ll take that.
He opened the door; Marnie and Brianna stood on the porch, each carrying a container. “Finally,”
Brianna said.
Zach smiled. “Sorry. We were handling hot pans when the bell rang. Come on in.”
They stepped inside the small entry room, then slipped out of their coats and boots and hats and gloves. Marnie wore a fitted red fuzzy sweater and sexy jeans. Every time she lifted her arms he got a glimpse of her belly button. Zach was always surprised by how pretty, how sexy Marnie was. Once, she asked him if he thought about her a lot when they weren’t together, and he said, of course, how could he not, but the truth was he didn’t. So when he did see her, the fact that she was so . . . hot always took him by surprise. She was his age—thirty—and had gorgeous long, silky, dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, yet very fair skin. And as they were both single parents (Marnie was divorced; Zach had never been married), they had a lot in common.
On the surface, anyway.
Brianna was a budding Marnie. Ten boys had already asked her to the winter dance. If anyone had asked Kayla, she hadn’t mentioned it.
“Chocolate cream pie,” Marnie said, handing him the container and kissing him on the cheek.
Mmmm . . . She always smelled as delicious as she looked. He realized he was staring at her breasts, which were huge, and he quickly glanced away.
She smiled sensuously at him. “Brianna made her famous garlic bread.”
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“What is it famous for?” Kayla asked, coming into the foyer, her shirt normal. “Stinking up the house?
People’s breath?”
“Kayla!” Zach snapped.
Brianna rolled her eyes at Kayla. “You’re so immature.”
“Okay, you two,” Marnie said. “Let’s make some predinner rules right now. No name-calling. No insults. Just good food, good conversation, and a good time.”
Now both girls rolled their eyes.
Zach refused Marnie and Brianna’s offers to help and set Kayla to work instead. “Be good,” he whispered as he put Brianna’s garlic bread in a bas
ket for Kayla to take into the dining room while he carried the lasagna.
“I have nothing to lose by being bad,” she pointed out.
“Be good for me,” he said, “because I’m asking you to. Because it would mean a lot to me.”
“Fine. I won’t ask Brianna if she’s tried Clearasil on that giant zit on her chin.”
“Kayla, I’m warning you,” he said through gritted teeth.
She rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time.
“Yum, something smells delicious!” Marnie said as she and Brianna sat down at the dining room table. “Kayla, did you help cook?”
Kayla opened her mouth to make one of her famous snarky statements, he was sure, but she thought better of it. Good girl. “I’m a terrible cook.
Trust me, you wouldn’t want to eat anything I made.
I can’t even boil an egg.”
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Janelle Taylor
“Boiling an egg is so easy,” Brianna said. “You boil the water, then place—”
“Sweetie,” Marnie interrupted her daughter,
“would you please pass the lasagna?”
“I’m only having a little,” Brianna said, scooping a small square onto her plate. “I’m entering the town’s beauty contest, and I have only two weeks before I’ll be paraded on stage.”
“Inner-beauty pageant,” Marnie corrected.
“There’s a big difference, Brianna. Inner beauty is what we should all strive for.”
“Inner-beauty pageant?” Kayla repeated. “Is that some kind of joke?”
Haunting Olivia Page 2
