Mother May I(8)

It was as if she had a dimmer switch in her, and she’d turned it all the way down the second she stepped off the stage. The other girl? Was Betsy. She’d been around since sixth grade, too, but she’d grown up over the summer. He literally hadn’t recognized her. In real life Bree became background next to Bets. Even Bree seemed to assume that he’d come over for her friend, and within five minutes she was right. Bets was flirty, fun as hell, with a whip-smart sense of humor that never quite got mean.

Cara had her mother’s sharp fox’s face and dark brown eyes, but inside she was more like him. Thoughtful and cautious. She did have Betsy’s light, but like Bree’s it kindled brightest when she was performing.

He meant it when he told her, “You killed up there today.”

“You have to say that. You’re my dad,” she said, but she bumped his shoulder with hers, smiling. “I have my bag. Can you drop me at Yvonne’s? Her mom says we’ll stop for dinner on the drive.”

She was going with a school friend to her family’s lake house all weekend. He’d planned to take her out for burgers, just the two of them, first. Still, he said, “Sure.”

It was hard to find time with Cara these days, but he didn’t want to mess up this nice moment. She was pulling away, growing up, keeping small secrets. In another five years, she’d be off to college. Maybe by then his ancient suits and his southern accent wouldn’t embarrass her, though compared to the way he’d talked when he was her age, he practically sounded like a TV news anchor. Most of the other parents here had no accent, though. Or they had that faint, vowel-rounding burr that said Old Atlanta Money.

She helped him turn the table onto its side and flip the legs down, and for a moment he considered inviting Bree to eat with him instead. Trey was working out of town. She might want grown-up company. It would be perfectly innocent with all three of her kids there.

He shook his head. Since Cara changed schools, they were thrown together all the time. Before, she’d always belonged to Betsy, which had made her sexless somehow. How had she gotten so damn beautiful?

Cara was humming “Freddy, My Love,” her curls bouncing as they carried the table back into the storage room. He needed some serious distance from Bree, but his daughter was thriving at St. Alban’s. He couldn’t stop being involved in her activities or, worse, pull her from the school over a few stray pink heart-eyed feelings.

It was probably residue of his love for Betsy. She and Bree had been so close. He’d keep avoiding Bree until he stopped crushing like he was Cara’s age. Maybe he should get back on Match. He’d tried it a couple of years ago. Nightmare. He hadn’t been ready. Maybe this crush was proof that he was now.

“Hey, have you seen my mom?” Anna-Claire leaned in the doorway, looking like the underage-Russian-supermodel version of her mother. Peyton slouched behind her, her face buried in a book.

Cara’s hum abruptly cut out, and she straightened, her cheeks staining. She picked at her plaid skirt. Bree had dropped off a whole bag of the school’s pricey uniforms after Cara got the scholarship, saying they were hand-me-downs from Anna-Claire. Bree was such a good actor that only the one price tag she’d missed had kept him from believing her.

The firm paid him well. He could have afforded the uniforms, if not the tuition. Still, he’d let Bree get away with it. Because she loved his kid. Betsy’s kid. She’d been after him to let her take Cara for private voice lessons, too. Maybe he should, but it would mean seeing Bree more. Last thing he needed.

“Check the parking lot?” he said.

“The car’s gone,” Peyton said, not looking up.

That was strange, but before he could react, his phone buzzed. Bree. His stupid heartbeat quickened when he saw her name on the screen.

He smiled at the girls. “This is her. Probably looking for you.”

Anna-Claire’s eyebrows came together, and she checked her own phone. “Why didn’t she just text me?”

He pushed the button. “Hey. Where’d you get to?”

“Can you take the girls?” It had to be Bree. Caller ID said so, but he didn’t recognize the voice. It was raspy-sounding, guttural.

“Bree?”

“I need you to take the girls.” It was her, but sick and strained.

“Is it Mom?” Peyton asked.

“Do what, now?” He was careful to keep his voice calm and his face pleasant.

“Tell her I have a Skype study with Anderson at six. I need to get home,” Anna-Claire said, grumpy.

“Where’s the car?” Peyton asked.

At the same time, words were tumbling out of Bree. They were nonsense.

“The baby is . . . the baby is—I’m sick. I’m so sick. Please take the girls to your house.” He blinked. Marshall lived a good half hour outside the city, way past Bree’s own house. He heard her take a long, shuddering inhale. “No. I mean, take them to my mom’s place.”

He covered the mouthpiece, made himself sound calm and easy. “Girls, I can’t hear with you talking. Out!” Cara shook her head at him, a frantic, minuscule no. He fixed all three with pure adult face. “Go on. Close the door.”

Cara shot him an anguished look, but she went. Anna-Claire made her nervous. She was the school’s It Girl, according to his daughter. She wasn’t mean to Cara. He’d asked. Still, he was an ex-cop, with a feel for people. The air between the two girls always felt a little scratchy to him, like sandpaper. But it was kid stuff, and something serious and grown-up wasn’t right with Bree. He waited until the door shut to ask, “How sick? Should I call an ambulance? Where are you?”