A Daughter's Trust

by Tara Taylor Quinn

“Is your dad still in town?” she asked Joe, instead. Their conversations were generally short-lived, over the phone and strictly about business. Specifically, the books she kept for him.

  Joe replied with a brief nod.

  “Has he said how long he’s staying?”

  “For good. Are you going in there or not?”

  A fresh wave of panic washed through her. “You’re coming, aren’t you? Just to meet my folks?”

  He hesitated and Sue was afraid he was going to refuse. Then he opened the car door.

  “WHO WAS THE HOTTIE?” Belle asked. “Someone new you forgot to tell me about?”

  Joe had met Sue’s parents, a polite, uneventful moment considering all of the effort she’d taken in high school to keep them away from each other. And then, making sure they could take Sue home before heading back to their hotel in the city, he’d excused himself.

  Sue gave her cousin as much of a grin as she could muster and shook her head. “That was just Joe.”

  About sixty people were milling around Grandma’s huge living room, spilling over into the formal dining room and out onto the deck. Her mom and dad were there somewhere. Uncle Sam and Aunt Emily, too.

  A lot of the rest Sue didn’t know.

  “Joe Fraser?” Belle asked, as they watched people from their vantage point at the foot of the white-banistered curving staircase that led to the three bedrooms upstairs: Grandma’s room and, at one point, Jenny’s and Sam’s.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah…” Belle sipped the wine she’d poured from a bottle out of Grandpa’s rack on the wall opposite the fireplace. “The Joe,” she added. “I didn’t realize you guys were friends again.”

  “We aren’t. We’re friendly, but that’s about it. Joe hasn’t confided in me in years.” She sipped from the glass Belle had poured for her. “If not for the fact that he needed a bookkeeper when I needed a job that would allow me to stay at home with the babies, we probably wouldn’t be in touch at all.”

  They’d made their peace. She’d just never again been welcome in the inner circles of Joe’s heart.

  “It’s a shame,” Belle said. “He’s gorgeous. Available. And you guys were such good friends.”

  “Joe’s changed a lot. And besides, I’ve never been in love with him. Not in that way.”

  Belle nodded, and Sue knew she understood. Belle had recently gone against her overbearing father’s wishes and broken up with the man her dad had wanted her to marry. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to fall in love with the young lawyer.

  The sound of a glass shattering on Grandma’s hardwood floor made Sue wince. She moved toward the sound, intending to clean up whatever had spilled before it had a chance to soak in, but saw Aunt Emily had got to the mess in the dining room first.

  “I’ve already done some checking and found that on average, it’s taking homes a year or more to sell…”

  Sue froze, just around the corner from the voice. Her uncle Sam’s.

  “So you’re planning to sell?” She didn’t recognize the other voice. It was male.

  “Of course. What would I want with this old thing?”

  “Nadine and I wondered if perhaps you and Emily would move into it. The place is beautiful. And the views exquisite.”

  They were talking about Grandma’s home.

  “God, no! I wouldn’t live in a seventy-year-old house. I want copper pipes and insulation that works.”

  This is your mother’s home, you jerk. His childhood home. Not that sentimentality had ever mattered one whit to Uncle Sam.

  “So it is going to you, then?” The other man continued to butt in to family matters that were none of his business.

  “Of course.” Uncle Sam’s voice boomed with confidence. “We meet with the attorney this week, and I’m sure I’m executor of the estate. I am Robert and Sarah’s only biological child. Their only heir.”

  “Oh!” The other man’s surprise was evident. “I didn’t realize…I mean, Jenny’s always…”

  “Been adopted,” Sam said drily. “I am the only true Carson and I know my father well enough to be sure that while he’ll have taken care of Jenny, the bulk of the estate will come to me….”

  “Oh, God, Sue, don’t listen to him.”

  Sue jumped as Belle spoke just behind her. Her cousin put a hand on her arm, resting her chin on Sue’s shoulder. “He’s an ass. It means nothing….”

  “He’s right,” Sue said. “He is the only Carson by blood.”

  “So?”

  “I never realized he resented my mother so much.”

  “He resents the world because he’s not God,” Belle said, mimicking her father’s tone.

  Turning, Sue met her cousin’s caring gaze. “Did you ever resent me, growing up?” she asked. “I was two years older, and so close to Grandma. And your dad’s right, you had blood ties. I didn’t.”

  “As if it mattered,” Belle said, flipping Sue’s ponytail affectionately, “to anyone but him. And I was as close to Grandpa as you were to Grandma.” They walked toward the kitchen—and relative peace. “The only thing I resented about you, my dear, was that you had parents who really loved each other. And you.”

  Sue could have placated Belle with meaningless words, but they both knew the truth. Emily Carson loved Belle with all her heart. At one point, she’d probably loved Sam that way, too.

  But somewhere along the way Sam Carson, the heir apparent and new head of the family, had become one very difficult man to love.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THIRTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD Assistant Superintendent of Schools Rick Kraynick was slowly getting used to eating alone. Living alone.

  Thinking alone.

  What he didn’t usually do was drink alone. Or drink, period. He’d seen firsthand what substance abuse could do to a person. And while there were days, too many of them if he was honest with himself, when he didn’t much care about his health and well-being, he wasn’t going to be a burden to society.

  So he should have felt right at home at the Castro Country Club Friday night. On 18th Street, the club wasn’t far from Twin Peaks, one of Rick’s favorite jogging spots in his younger days. And a favorite picnic place for him and Hannah….

  Look out there, Daddy. You can see the whole world from here!

  Nodding to the folks—mostly men of varying ages—hanging out on the faux marble steps leading into the old white Victorian mansion whose first floor housed the Castro Country Club, Rick tried not to let his mind wander. To think beyond the moment. The current goal.

  He’d spent the afternoon trying to find the woman who’d given birth to him. She wasn’t at the address he had for her. No one had been home in the place where she supposedly rented rooms. Her phone service had been shut off—again.

  He had no idea where she was working. If she still was. Just because Nancy Kraynick had had a job last week didn’t mean she’d still be employed today.

  The older woman who’d been hanging clothes out at the house next door had eventually suggested he check “the club” for his mother. After some prompting, and a five-dollar bill, she’d remembered the name of the place.

  Turned out Castro House was a coffeehouse that held substance abuse recovery meetings. And offered former addicts a place to hang out and talk, to bond with others fighting the same battles.

  What she hadn’t told him was that it was largely a gay men’s establishment. Which might be fine for his female mother. Rick, on the other hand, was pretty certain, by the glances he was receiving, that he was raising false hopes. His instincts telling him to get the hell out, he approached the espresso counter and ordered a mocha he didn’t want.

  Luck would have it that this Friday, because he’d taken the day off and was on a mission, he was sporting a pair of worn, close-fitting jeans. With a long-sleeved cotton baseball shirt that had seen too many washings.

  He’d been going for comfort. And no flash.

  In this place, tight-fitting clothes—no matter how old, were fla
sh.

  Paying for his coffee, pretending not to see the smile the volunteer barista bestowed upon him, Rick turned, taking in as much of the room as he could without making eye contact.

  As far as he could tell, his mother wasn’t here.

  But then, it’d been years since he’d seen her. Would he even recognize her?

  “Have a seat….” A man about Rick’s age pulled out the second chair at a table for two.

  “Uh, thanks, but…I’m looking for someone,” he said, sipping too quickly. He burned his tongue.

  “Who?” the casually dressed man asked. “I might know him. We’re all pretty friendly around here.”

  “Nancy Kraynick. You know her?” Not that she was probably going by that name now. After all, it was only her legal designation, which didn’t seem to compel her to actually introduce herself that way. Growing up, he’d heard her called many different things. Some not so nice labels.

  “Yeah,” the guy said, surprising Rick. “She’s been a regular around here, on and off, for the past couple of years.” Rick had to wonder, was Lothario telling the truth or just looking for an opening?

  “Have you seen her today?” Rick asked.

  “No. But then I just got here. You a friend of hers?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to claim even that close an association. “No.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t some john, are you? Because I have to tell you, she’s through with that. Has been for some time. So if you’re looking to get something from her, you’d best try looking someplace else.”

  Protectiveness? From a man…toward Rick’s mother?

  This guy must not know her well. He hadn’t had time to see that her lies were only skin-deep.

  His mother always had been able to spin the most believable yarns. Especially believable to a young man who’d adored her and needed badly to believe she would straighten herself out and make a home for him. With her.

  Problem was, Nancy Kraynick’s yarns had always become tangled in the knots of drug abuse, and in alcohol stupors that went on for months.

  “No, I’m not a john,” he said now, biting back his disgust at the woman his mother was—a woman who’d had johns to ask about.

  The pretty man frowned. “She’s not in trouble, is she?”

  “Probably, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  The guy studied him and then pulled out the empty chair. “You look troubled,” he said. “Have a seat. Maybe Nancy will show.”

  “No thanks.” Rick couldn’t even pretend he had an appointment, pretend he’d stay if he could. Five minutes and he’d had enough of this place.

  There were other ways he could find out what he needed. He had a name and address of someone who could probably help him, thanks to Chenille Langston, the young black girl who’d stayed behind after Christy’s small funeral. The name and address of a woman who apparently had another Kraynick in her care…A name and address he shouldn’t use. And he had official options, too, which would inevitably involve red tape—and probably require evidence of things that might take a while to prove.

  If what he’d been told at the cemetery this morning was true, his whole life was about to change. Again. He needed information. Confirmation. His mother had seemed the obvious source. Stupid of him to think his mom would ever—ever—have answers for him.

  An hour later, standing in his en suite shower in the Sunset district home he’d shared with Hannah, Rick scrubbed until his skin stung.

  Then he stood, leaning an arm against the wall, head bowed, as he let the hot water cascade over his back.

  A year ago, life had been great. He’d been the single dad of a great kid, with a world of possibilities ahead for both of them. Tonight he was the son of a druggie; the older brother of a dead sister he never knew about; a grieving father.

  They’d told him it would get easier. That as time passed, the violence of the grief raging through him would lessen.

  They’d lied.

  MOST OF THE CROWD WAS gone by nightfall. Sue slipped upstairs, to call Barb, from the bedroom she’d always slept in on visits to Grandma.

  “I’m finished sooner than I thought,” she said, keeping her voice low, for no logical reason. Old habits, conditioning—a need to keep her private life private—died hard. “I’d like to swing by and pick up my brood.”

  Emily and Belle were in the kitchen, overseeing the caterers. Uncle Sam was downstairs, too, probably in the living room, cataloguing his take. Or checking that no one had taken anything yet. Not until he directed who would get what.

  “Wilma called. She told me to keep them all night, no matter what you said. You need this night to yourself.” Barb’s tone was sympathetic. “Besides, they’re already asleep.”

  Glancing at her watch, Sue realized it was after nine o’clock. Far too late to be making this call. Wilma, a foster care supervisor, was right. Sue wasn’t ready to take up motherhood again tonight.

  “I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” she said, missing the young charges in her care. Missing the busy-ness, the unconditional acceptance of love. “Don’t worry about breakfast. I’ll get them early enough to feed them at home.”

  Closing her cell phone, sliding it back into the case at her hip, Sue took the deep breath necessary to go back downstairs—but stopped. Someone was upstairs. Crying.

  Following the sound down the hall to Grandma’s room, Sue pushed open the door. Her mother, sitting in the off-white Queen Anne chair in the corner by Sarah’s bed, had her face buried in a nightgown she’d given Grandma for Christmas.

  “Hey.” Sue fought her own tears as she knelt at her mom’s feet. “Come on, you shouldn’t be up here alone.” She’d said the first thing that came to her mind, though there was no reason why Jenny shouldn’t be visiting her own mother’s room.

  Jenny started, clutching the hand Sue placed on her knee. “I…she was…I loved her so much,” she said.

  “I know.” Tears filled Sue’s eyes and she could hardly speak as her throat closed up. “Where’s Dad?” she managed to ask after a moment.

  “In the bathroom.”

  Sue’s gaze followed her mother’s around the room, taking in the long dresser covered with tiny antique perfume bottles on top of doilies Sarah had stitched herself. The collection of miniature porcelain animals. The tall bureau that had been her grandfather’s, still holding his key valet and an encased Giants baseball he’d caught on a fly at a World Series game.

  “Not once in all my years growing up did they ever make me feel as though I didn’t belong to them,” Jenny said.

  And that’s when Sue realized. “You heard Uncle Sam, too.”

  “It’s not like he’s ever tried to hide how he feels,” Jenny said. “I love my brother, Sue. I see the insecurity behind all of his blustering. I just wish he’d see that I’m not and never have been a threat.”

  “I can’t stand to be in the same room with him,” Sue said. “He’s just plain cruel….”

  “Everything he says is true.”

  “That everything here belongs to him?”

  “That he’s the only true Carson child.”

  “Mom! I can’t believe you’re saying that! We belong here as much as he does.”

  “And what we care about, the things that were dear to Grandma and Grandpa, the pictures, the things that hold memories, Sam won’t want, anyway. It’s going to be fine, honey. I can’t let him upset me like this.”

  “Who’s upsetting you, Jen?” Luke came into the room and Sue stood, giving her father a hug. Her parents had flown in from their home in Florida two days before. They’d been in town over Christmas, but she’d missed them more than usual this time around.

  “Sam,” Jenny answered.

  “Well, then that makes three of us he’s getting to, huh?” Luke pulled his wife to her feet, an arm around her and one still around Sue. “How about the Bookmans go face the dragon together?”

  HEART POUNDING Monday morning, Rick lis
tened to the phone ring. Once. Twice.

  Come on, he willed Ms. Sue Bookman—the faceless woman who, at the moment, meant more to him than anyone else in the world.

  A third ring. And a fourth.

  Answer your phone.

  He didn’t know her age, her race or her marital status. He just knew she held his future in her hands.

  And that she lived just outside the Bay Area.

  The Internet phone listing matched the address he’d been given at the cemetery.

  “Hi, it’s me. I’m probably changing diapers. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  She was changing diapers.

  “Sue, my name is Rick Kraynick. I’m assistant superintendent of Livingston schools….” He wanted her to know he was a good guy. Trusted around children. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you. Please call me as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  There. That should do it.

  Sitting back at the huge, glass-topped desk in his corner office on the fourth floor of the district building, Rick almost smiled. He’d made the call. Nothing was going to stop him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GRANDMA’S ASHES WEREN’T even in the vault before Sue’s uncle arranged the meeting for the reading of the will. He’d said his urgency was out of respect for Jenny and Luke, who had a home in Florida to return to, but Sue didn’t buy that for a second.

  Sam Carson, in an impressive gray suit, paced the foyer of the high-rise building that housed the lawyer’s office more like an expectant father than a grieving son.

  “Mom said he’s been chomping at the bit all weekend,” Belle whispered to Sue as the two stood together on Tuesday morning across from the reception counter, much more casually dressed, in good pants and blouses, in a quiet corner of the high-rise entryway. They were sharing a cup of bad coffee neither of them wanted while they waited to be called to the first-floor office. Sue held the cup while Belle gently bounced Camden up and down, soothing the little guy back to sleep.

  Baby Carrie was good for another hour, snoozing in the pack on Sue’s back.

  Jenny and Luke had not yet arrived from their hotel a short walk down the street.