Finding Her Dad

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Comprehension showed on the teenager’s face. “You don’t want her coming here.”

  Lucy found herself shifting uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t say that.” She realized she was lying. “No,” she admitted. “I kept wishing Mom would say, ‘I’m going to a halfway house in Seattle.’ But she didn’t. And…she’s my mother.”

  Sierra nodded. “So… When’s she going to be here?”

  “October first. I have to go pick her up.”

  “That’s still three weeks away.”

  “Yes, but I wanted you to know.”

  “Okay.”

  “And…I’d rather you don’t tell Jon. I will eventually. He might not like the idea of Mom being around you.”

  “Just because she’s, um—”

  “An ex-con?” Lucy nodded. “Because of that.”

  “That’s kind of dumb. I mean, what is she going to do? Corrupt me?”

  “I don’t suppose he thinks much of people who commit crimes.”

  “She actually had a gun?” Sierra asked, sounding fascinated. “And, like, held up a store or something?”

  “I don’t think she was the one who had the gun, but she was with the man who did. Mom’s an addict. She’s a different person when she’s straight, but she can’t seem to stay straight.”

  “Wow,” Sierra said again. “That’s…” She couldn’t seem to find the right words to finish.

  “Yeah,” Lucy said. “It pretty much sucked. My mom the addict.” She sighed and made herself stand. “Okay. I wanted you to know.”

  “That’s almost worse than having your mom die.”

  Shocked, Lucy looked down at Sierra. She opened her mouth to utter an automatic Of course it’s not, but realized suddenly that maybe it was. And she felt like an awful human being for even thinking that.

  Some sort of inarticulate sound escaped her, and she left without admitting what she felt. Without saying I wish my mom was dead. Horror almost brought her to her knees. She was barely able to stumble into her bedroom. How could she wish anything so awful? She didn’t. She couldn’t.

  Was this the person she’d let her anger and sense of betrayal form her into?

  Lucy sank onto the small rocking chair in her room and set it to moving in the most comforting of motions.

  Who am I?

  “YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T KNOW your father.” Jon leaned his elbows on the table and contemplated Lucy.

  Tonight they’d gone out for pizza, promising to bring some home to Sierra. He’d planned something fancier, but he’d been tired and it had showed. Lucy had suggested this, and he was relieved. A beer and pizza sounded about right.

  She was having a cola. “I don’t drink much,” she’d told him, sounding almost defiant, as if she’d had to justify her attitude before.

  He had only nodded and ordered a glass rather than a pitcher. Better to call a halt at one, as beat as he was.

  She traced a pattern on the dampness on her glass before meeting his eyes. “I don’t even know who he was.”

  She looked…stoic. As if not wanting to admit to any particular feelings about the parent whose picture would forever be absent from her photo albums.

  “That must have been rough,” Jon said quietly.

  She shrugged. “You don’t miss what you never had.”

  He didn’t buy that, and he was pretty damn sure she didn’t, either. “But you see what the other kids have.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. His eyes narrowed. What was it she didn’t want to say?

  But she stayed clammed up. He waited a minute, then asked, “What did your mother tell you about him?”

  “He was Hispanic. His name was Eduardo. She wouldn’t tell me his last name. If she knew it.”

  That last sounded careless rather than bitter. Jon didn’t buy that, either.

  After a minute she went on, not looking at him. “I don’t think Mom knew he was my father until I was born. She had a brown baby, and I guess he was the only brown-skinned guy she’d slept with.”

  Shocked despite himself, Jon absorbed the sadness and grief of the little girl she’d been. “You’re not all that brown skinned.”

  She held out her hand and then gave a small shrug at the obvious fact that his tanned skin was darker than hers. “Still, I look more Hispanic than I do Caucasian. I mark Hispanic on surveys.”

  “Do you?” he said softly. “Even though you’re fifty-fifty and you grew up with a white mother.”

  “People assume.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Her lashes fluttered several times. He saw her swallow. “No,” she said finally, defiant again. “Why would I?”

  Because she hated to acknowledge a legacy from a father who hadn’t been interested in his child. Maybe that was a simplistic answer, but Jon had a strong suspicion it was accurate.

  “Did your mother ever tell him she was pregnant?”

  “I don’t know. She said he was gone and she didn’t know how to get in touch with him, but—” Lucy ran her finger around the rim of her glass “—she might have only said that.”

  “That’s why you were hostile when we first met, isn’t it?” he asked, realizing it was true. “You saw me as being like him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Come on, be honest. You saw us both as equally careless.”

  “Yes.” Her face wore an impassioned, almost angry expression. “Yes, I did. And it’s not ridiculous. Except…” She faltered and all her indignation disappeared, as if it had never been. “It is. I know that. What you were doing was meant to help women who wanted to be pregnant. It’s not the same thing at all as a guy who can’t be bothered to use protection.”

  “A condom might have failed. Or he might have thought your mother was taking care of it.” He felt compelled to be the voice of reason. She could be right in her assessment of the man who fathered her, but life was rarely that simple.

  “Maybe. Probably she did and it failed. I’m an only kid, so I guess she must have been careful most of the time.”

  “Did you have a stepfather?”

  Lucy shook her head. Dark hair slipped over her shoulder, and she pushed it back. “Mom never married. I didn’t have the most stable childhood in the world.”

  “I’m sorry.” He frowned. “That’s why you were glad I told you about mine.”

  “Yes.”

  “What, you thought we came from two different worlds?”

  “We did.” There was a trace of that fierceness again.

  Or was it fear? he wondered. No, that wasn’t right, either. Shame. He was afraid that’s what she felt.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a cop, it’s that domestic violence, broken homes, child abuse, they cross all economic strata. My parents owned a nice home, that’s true. Maybe your mother didn’t—”

  “We were always in rentals. Even shelters a few times.”

  That shocked him, too. It also explained some things about her.

  He only nodded. “There were probably things you were ashamed of at home. I know there sure as hell were things I was.”

  They stared at each other. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes dark and intense. She made his heart pound hard in his chest. He hoped he’d said the right thing. He hoped she couldn’t tell he was relieved. She’d had a tough childhood that had left memories that haunted her.

  Her secrets weren’t ones he had to worry about.

  “I think that’s our number.”

  Jolted, he said, “What?”

  “Our number. I think they’re calling our number.”

  He shook his head to clear it. “I’ll go get the pizza.”

  When he returned, she gave him a wry smile. “I’ve caught up with you now. That was my profound thing.”

  And this was her way of saying Subject closed. He could understand why she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “Okay,” he said. “My turn, but I’ll save it for next
time.”

  “Probably just as well,” Lucy agreed.

  “One thing, though.”

  She’d been reaching for a piece of pizza, but went very still.

  “I like the color of your skin. And I think Lucia is a beautiful name.”

  Dusky color swept across her cheeks. “That’s…” She pressed her lips together, then gave a shaky smile. “Nice. It’s nice of you.”

  “No.” He returned her smile. “Honest.” Then, taking pity on her, he said, “Was I imagining things, or did Sierra sound less than excited about school?”

  Lucy seemed relieved at the change of subject. She told him that his daughter was wishing she’d been able to participate in the Running Start program, but that there was no way she could do it without being able to drive herself.

  “Maybe sometime in January you’ll help her find a car.”

  “A car might be a good Christmas present.”

  Her eyes widened. “A car?” She sounded shocked, as if he’d suggested buying the kid her very own rocket ship. “That’s kind of extravagant, don’t you think?”

  “A lot of kids get cars for their sixteenth birthday.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “A month later, I wrecked it. My dad was pissed off. He told me I had to earn the next one. Looking back, I think it’s one of the few times he did the right thing where I was concerned.”

  “How long did it take you to earn the money for one?”

  “Close to a year. And then it wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the car my parents had bought me. They refused to pay for my insurance after that, either. I can tell you that I drove one hell of a lot more carefully after that. My friends gave me a hard time about driving like an old lady.”

  Lucy chuckled. “You’re right. That was smart of your parents. So maybe it would be a good thing if Sierra has to save at least part of the cost of her car.”

  “Maybe.” Thoughtfully he asked, “Didn’t her mother leave any kind of an estate?”

  “Yes, but for now the plan is to use it to pay for college. I expect Sierra will want to go to grad school, too. She should have enough to support herself until she’s out in the working world.”

  “She’s together enough to come up with that kind of plan? I didn’t think any kid that age understood deferred gratification.”

  “She and I talked about it. It was my suggestion, but she agreed.”

  That unfamiliar emotion brimming in his chest was pride, Jon realized. “She’s quite a kid.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Thank you, Lucy.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “For what you’ve done for Sierra.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I did it for my own reasons.”

  She made no move to reclaim her hand, though. Jon was glad. He liked the way their fingers linked, like a dovetail joint, and knowing she felt the same. He reached for his pizza with his left hand, which was a little awkward, but he didn’t want to let go of Lucy. And so they ate, and talked, and kept holding hands, maybe both a little shy about it.

  He wanted to make love to her. Thinking about it was keeping him awake nights. But this—talking, sharing past hurts, flirting gently and savoring a connection as simple as clasped hands—was almost enough. Even without sex, it was better than any relationship he’d had with a woman since Cassia.

  It suddenly struck him that he was sitting here in a pizza joint where anyone could see him, holding hands with a woman, and he hadn’t given a thought as to whether he might be recognized.

  To hell with it. Maybe it would be better if his relationship with Sierra didn’t come out until after the election, but there was no reason to make a secret of the fact that he was dating a woman.

  A niggling thought crept into his mind. Lucy was a good smoke screen. It wouldn’t occur to anyone that he was spending time with Sierra because she was his daughter. People would assume he was seeing both of them because he was interested in Lucy.

  He was immediately ashamed that he’d think anything of the kind. He was interested in Lucy. She wasn’t a smoke screen. The situation where he’d have to decide whether to use her as one hadn’t arisen.

  Aware that Lucy was watching him with surprise, Jon wondered whether, once a man started thinking like a politician, he could ever quit.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SOMEHOW THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks passed with no more deep sharing. Jon was relieved. He hungered to know all about Lucy, but talking about himself was something else again. He wasn’t looking forward to telling her about Cassia, and he’d have to one of these days.

  Sexual frustration kept him from brooding too much about any secrets Lucy might be keeping. He was used to moving faster when he wanted a woman, but Lucy was different. The fact that she was Sierra’s foster mom complicated things, of course, but it was also that he felt so much more than desire.

  That was what kept him awake nights, though. He’d kiss her good-night and go home with his body at a full boil. Jon didn’t know how long he could go on this way.

  Edie hadn’t become any happier with him. She wanted Lucy’s life to be an open book. No, what she wanted was for him to open the book.

  She accompanied him to the more important public appearances. He’d teased her about her insistence on coming whenever he did TV interviews. That particular morning, she was practically rubbing her hands together in delight because she’d gotten him an interview on a popular morning show. Amused, he thought if she hadn’t been wearing the seat belt, her chunky self might have floated up until her head bumped the car roof.

  Hiding his smile, he said, “You afraid I’ll show up wearing a tie that’s too loud?”

  Sounding a little pompous, she retorted, “My job is to keep you on message.”

  Jon sobered. “I haven’t lost my focus yet.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  He didn’t even try to hide his irritation. “You’re talking about Lucy again. Let it go.”

  “You hired me to steer you around land mines. She could be one.”

  “She isn’t.”

  Like the pit bull she was, Edie asked, “How do you know?”

  “She’s talked to me. She had a lousy childhood. That’s not newsworthy.”

  “How much has she talked to you?”

  Not enough. “I’m satisfied” was all he said, tersely.

  Since he was pulling into the studio parking lot, she did let it go. For now. He knew damn well she still had her teeth clenched tight on the whole concept of him dating a woman who wasn’t as transparent as a glass of city water.

  Well, tough. He was enjoying Lucy. Enjoying Sierra. He could spend time with them, do his job and campaign, too. He was proving that it was possible, wasn’t he?

  He took Lucy to a Tim McGraw concert, and Sierra dragged them to hear a favorite alternative band at the Showbox in Seattle. He had dinner twice a week at Lucy’s, eating produce from her garden and sampling Sierra’s desserts. He took Sierra to his mother’s one Sunday, a visit Lucy bowed out of, to his disappointment.

  On the campaign front Jon spoke to community groups until he suspected he was mumbling the variants of his speech in his sleep. The outgoing sheriff had him involved in union negotiations, and he spent hours at the table talking about overtime and working conditions with representatives of the police union. He plotted the changes he’d make in the department once it was his.

  All the while, his opponent had staffers combing through Jon’s past looking for anything in his record that could be cast in a suspicious light. He was enraged when Rinnert was quoted as saying Jon’s role in a shooting six years ago had been whitewashed.

  His first clue about the aspersions was a phone call from a Seattle Times reporter.

  Unclenching the teeth he’d ground together at the initial question, he said, “The board of inquiry’s report is public record. They concluded that I was fully justified in pulling the trigger.”

  “Randy Rinnert points out that one m
ember of the board was apparently a close personal friend of yours.”

  Jon actually laughed. “You’re kidding, right? As it happens, I went to high school with Ryan Lowell. We recognized each other and determined that I graduated a year behind him. We not only weren’t friends, we never even had a class together. I’m assuming Lowell is the guy who Rinnert thinks is my best buddy?”

  Papers rustled. “I understand questions were raised about whether you should have waited for backup before confronting the man you shot.”

  The implication that he’d been itching to gun a man down in cold blood enraged him. He’d had nightmares for a long time afterward about killing Joseph Brinton. Jon had asked himself so many times whether he could have done anything different. Eventually he had come to peace with himself. These questions—instigated as they were by dirty politicking—challenged that peace. He had to pause a moment to quell his anger before he could respond levelly.

  “I’m sure you’re well aware those questions are always asked. I made the decision not to wait when I saw him starting toward a car that had just pulled to the curb. The car had two women in it and a toddler in a safety seat in the back. Brinton’s behavior had been wildly erratic. It was apparent to me—and was later confirmed with toxicology screening—that he was high on drugs. I could not give him an opportunity to grab a hostage.”

  “Were you concerned about pulling the trigger with two women and a child so close by?”

  For God’s sake! What kind of idiotic question was that?

  “Yes,” he said, with what he considered remarkable civility, “naturally I was. Their safety was paramount in my mind. But they had not yet exited their vehicle and were not in my line of fire. I had been attempting to talk Brinton down. I closed the distance between us and regained his attention to distract him from the women. Once he rushed me with the knife, I acted in the only way I could.”

  The reporter finally disconnected after mentioning that he would be calling one of the two women for comment.

  “You do that,” Jon said. The women had considered him a hero.

  He was still far enough ahead in the polls that he resisted any temptation to sling mud himself. He happened to know that there had been two domestic disturbance calls to Rinnert’s house within a matter of weeks three years ago. Jon wanted to keep his message to the public focused on what he could bring to the job. On what was strong about the department and what could be better. Not on Randy Rinnert’s personal problems. But he also knew that, if the race became tighter, Edie would be pushing him to turn the spotlight on Rinnert’s character. Jon found the idea distasteful. This was one of those moments—and there were too many of them—when he couldn’t help wondering if the price for political office was too high.