A Family Kind of Gal (12 page)

Oh, God, oh, God. Despair flooded her. What had she done? Slamming the door, she threw the dead bolt, as if the twist of an old metal lock could keep her safe from the horror of her own actions.

It was only a kiss
, she told herself. A kiss. Big deal. Philip probably wouldn't even care.

Then why was her heart still pounding, her lips tingling, her insides quivering? There were names for women who did what she'd done.

Tease.

Flirt.

Two-timer.

Those were the good ones. The harsher, cruel names that she wouldn't even think about nibbled at the edge of her conscience and made her shake with shame.

She covered her face with her hands. It was only a kiss. One he forced upon her. She hadn't expected it. But she'd reacted, dammit.

Sagging against the inside of the door, she heard the tires of J.D.'s truck squeal and its engine roar, as he drove away.

Thank God.

“Don't come back,” she whispered, clutching her throat and trying to still her heart. “You damned bastard, don't ever come back!”

But come back he had. Years later. And now, like it or not, he was living in the same house with her. Worse yet, that same ridiculous sexual hunger that she hadn't felt for years had resurfaced.

And this time she was free.

T
hank God it's Saturday
, Tiffany thought as she wrote out a list of weekend jobs. She was already on her second load of laundry, waffles were warming in the oven, and she'd pulled out her basket of cleaning supplies. Stephen could mow the lawn and wash the car while she tackled the floors and windows. As for her nemesis and newest tenant, he'd left early this morning. Before she'd gotten up, she'd heard J.D.'s Jeep fire up and roll down the drive. She was grateful that, for the next few hours, she didn't have to face him.

Ever since he'd rented the room upstairs, she hadn't been able to quit thinking about him. “Stupid woman,” she grumbled, as she heard Christina stirring in her room.

“Mommy?” her daughter called from the upper hallway.

“Down here, sweetheart.” She smiled as she heard footsteps running toward the stairs.

“Someone's here.”

“What?” she asked just as the doorbell chimed.

Thinking she had a prospective new tenant, Tiffany smoothed her hair and headed for the foyer. Christina was standing on the bottom step and holding on to a corner of her tattered blanket. She was staring unabashedly out one of the narrow windows flanking the door. A tall, thin man with blue eyes and a nervous smile peered through. All Tiffany's muscles tightened as she recognized the bold features of John Cawthorne, the lying, cheating jerk who had the audacity to call himself her father. He literally held his hat in his hands, his big-jointed fingers worrying the brim of a dusty Stetson.

“I don't believe this,” she muttered under her breath.

“Believe what?” her daughter asked guilelessly.

“Oh, nothing. Come here, honey,” she said to Christina.

“Who's he?” The little girl stared straight at the stranger who had spawned her mother.

Tiffany's throat tightened. “My... Your... Uh, Mr. Cawthorne.” Lifting Christina and balancing her on one hip, she braced herself, then opened the door.

“I thought we should talk,” he said without so much as a “Hello.” His eyes brightened when his gaze landed on Christina, and for a fleeting instant Tiffany wondered if he could care for his granddaughter at all. Was blood really thicker than water? If so, why had it taken him over thirty years to figure it out?

“Now?”

“Before the wedding.”

Her voice nearly failed her. “Well, then, I guess it better be now, because we're running out of time, aren't we?” Telling herself she was every kind of idiot on the planet, she added, “There's really not a whole lot to discuss, but come on in.”

You're asking for trouble
, she silently thought as she led him into the kitchen and tried to come up with an excuse to get rid of him. So what if he was the man who had sired her? Where had he been when she'd needed a father, when her mother had needed a husband, or at the very least, a lover she could depend upon?

Tiffany let Christina slide to the floor while John, damn him, eyed the refrigerator with its artwork, grades and personal notes to the family.

“I've got waffles in the oven,” she said to her daughter and wished Cawthorne would disappear. She had nothing to say to him. Nothing.

“Not hungry,” Christina said, winding a ringlet of her dark hair and eyeing the stranger suspiciously.

John turned and smiled, his eyes actually warming as he met his granddaughter's curious gaze for the first time. “So you're little Christina.” Tiffany's heartstrings tugged ludicrously. This was
not
the way a family was supposed to be. Despite her own upbringing, she foolishly believed in the traditional family—of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Holidays spent together. Vacations. Memories.

Fool.

“Christina, say hello to Mr. Cawthorne,” she said.

“She can call me—”

“Mr. Cawthorne.” Tiffany sliced her father a glare that dared him to argue.

His jaw worked for a second. “You can call me John,” he replied, and Tiffany nodded as she found a pot holder and pulled the plate of warm waffles from the oven.

Christina climbed into her chair, and as Tiffany forked a waffle on to her plate, she lost interest in the stranger and her mother's reaction to him. “I want syrup,” she ordered.

“I'd like some syrup,
please
,” Tiffany corrected as she opened a bottle of maple syrup and doused the waffles to Christina's satisfaction.

“Where's Stephen?” John asked.

“Still sleeping.” Automatically she cut her daughter's breakfast into bite-size pieces, then poured a small glass of cranberry juice.

“I'd like to see him.”

She couldn't believe her ears. After thirteen years, suddenly it was important that her estranged father connected with them. “Let's go into the parlor and talk.” Without asking, she poured them each a cup of coffee from the glass pot warming in the coffeemaker, then handed him a mug. “If you want sugar or cream—”

“Black is fine,” he assured her.

“Good. Chrissie, we'll be in the parlor.”

“'Kay.”

Why she was even being civil to the man, Tiffany didn't understand. Gritting her teeth, she led him through an arched doorway and into the small, formal room at the foot of the stairs. For a man with as much wealth as John Cawthorne, the room with its re-covered camelback couch and secondhand floral rug tossed over floors that needed refinishing probably seemed simple and unrefined, she thought, then changed her mind. Wasn't he marrying Brynnie Anderson Smith McBaine Kinkaid Perez? There was a simple woman with far-from-refined tastes. Perhaps this room done in peach and forest-green with its hardwood floors and lace curtains wasn't as quaint as she'd first thought. And so what if it didn't suit John Cawthorne's tastes, whatever they were? She loved it. The parlor was light, airy and filled with pictures of Tiffany's family. Her mother, Rose, and grandmother, Octavia, smiled from portraits hung on the walls. Stephen's baby pictures and school photos were displayed on several shelves of a built-in bookcase. Christina's toddler shots were mounted on one wall, and a framed portrait of Philip and Tiffany on their wedding day stood on the mantel, but nowhere was there even a snapshot of John Cawthorne or anyone remotely connected with him.

And that wasn't going to change.

“Have a seat,” Tiffany offered, and John shook his head.

“I'd rather stand.”

“Suit yourself.” She settled into an antique wing chair and tried to relax. Impossible. This man, frail though he appeared, had humiliated her mother and abandoned her. She couldn't forget that fact. Ever. She could be civil, but that was all.

He set his hat on the rounded arm of the couch and sipped from his cup. “This is good.”

“You didn't come all the way over here to check out whether or not I could brew coffee.”

He winced. “Nope.”

“Didn't think so.” She waited, and he studied the dark liquid in his cup as if he couldn't find the right words to say what was on his mind. As if she didn't know.

“You know I'm getting married Sunday.”

“I'd have to be a hermit not to know.”

“You got the invitation?”

“Yes.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, and she noticed how old he looked. Tired and worn. Like a scuffed, sagging cowboy boot whose heel had worn to nothing.
Don't do this, Tiffany. Don't feel sorry for him. He left you for thirty-three years. All of your life. Until now. When he wants something.

“I was hoping you and the kids would attend,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.

“I, uh, I don't think I can do that.”

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a second. “I don't blame you. I know I've been a pitiful excuse for a father to you, but—”

“No father, John,” she said as her throat began to close and tears threatened. “You've been no father to me.” This was ridiculous; she couldn't be crying for this man who had done nothing in all his life for her or her children.

“All that's gonna change.”

“It is?” She couldn't believe her ears. “Just like that?” She snapped her fingers.

“If you'd just give me a chance.”

“Oh, please—”

His lips compressed. “Look, Tiffany, this isn't easy for me,” he said, his voice firmer. “I'm not the kind of man who likes to admit to his mistakes. Hell, I know I fouled up with your ma. With you. I don't blame you for hating me, but I'm here because deep down, whether you want to admit it or not, we're family.”

“Family isn't about blood ties,” she retorted, standing as she blinked against the hot tears filling her eyes. “It's about love, sharing, commitment. It's about being around when you're needed, about sharing the good and the bad, helping bear the pain. Family isn't just about being together at weddings and births and funerals, it's about supporting each other every day of your life.”

She stared at him and he managed to look ashamed for a second. “What can I say?” he asked, staring into his cup again and shaking his head. “I've changed. I nearly died after that last heart attack, and I realized, then, what's important in life.” Clearing his throat he looked at her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying. “You are, Tiffany. You and your children. I won't lie to you and say that I loved your ma. Lord knows, we were never meant to be together. But you and the grandkids, that's a different story.”

There was a snort from the vicinity of the stairs, and Tiffany glanced over her shoulder to find Stephen, his black hair rumpled and sticking out at odd angles, his good eye still a slit, his injured one swollen shut, standing on the landing.

“Oh. Stephen. Uh, you know John Cawthorne.”

“Yeah.” Stephen straightened a bit and walked down the remaining steps. “Grandpa.” He spat the word as if it tasted bitter.

“Yes. He's your grandfather.”

John managed a tight smile and extended his hand. “How're ya, boy? What happened there?” He nodded to Stephen's black eye as the boy crossed the foyer, shook his hand for a mere instant and shrugged.

“A fight.”

“Did ya win?” One of John's gray eyebrows rose expectantly.

“No one wins in a fistfight,” Tiffany interjected.

“Sure they do.”

Sullenly Stephen lifted a shoulder again. “I did okay.”

The room was tense, suddenly devoid of air. “There's breakfast in the oven. Waffles.” At that moment Christina barreled into the room. Syrup was smeared over her lips and across the scrapes on her chin. A few strands of her hair were stuck to her cheek.

“I see you're busy,” John said as he set his cup on a table. “Just remember I'd love to see all of you at the wedding tomorrow.”

“You mean that?” Stephen asked.

“Absolutely.”

The boy looked at his mother. “We goin'?”

“No.” She wasn't going to change her mind.

“Give it some thought,” John countered, and for a ridiculous second, Tiffany felt sorry for him.

“I can't imagine I'd change my mind.”

If possible, Stephen's eyes narrowed more suspiciously. Christina asked, “What wedding? You mean with brides?”

John grabbed his beat-up hat and bent down on one knee. “That's right, but only one bride. Her name's Brynnie, and she would think it was just great if you were there,” he said to Chrissie, then straightened. “If all of you were there.”

Stephen's head tipped to one side as he eyed the stranger who was his grandfather.

“Don't count on it,” Tiffany said, but the ice in her voice had melted, and she felt a ridiculous stab of guilt for being so cold. “We're busy.”

“Sure.” He smiled sadly but didn't accuse her of the lie. “I'll be seein' ya.”

With that he squared his hat on his head and was out the door in a minute.

“Weird guy,” Stephen said as he walked to the window and stared outside. Through the glass Tiffany saw the man who had sired and abandoned her climb into a shiny silver truck—so new it still sported temporary plates. “He's rich, right?”

“Rumored to be.”

“Maybe you should be nice to him, you know. Go to that wedding.”

“So that I'm in the will?” she said and rolled her eyes. “I don't think so, Stephen. Money isn't everything.”

“But he is your dad.”

“That depends on what you think a father is,” she said. “Now, let me get Christina dressed and you go in and have breakfast. Then you and I had better talk.”

“About what?”