My One and Only(109)

He shook his head. “I told her I was fishing with Phil Santos.”

“Dad…” My voice cracked. If my father died…

“I don’t want her saddled with a sickly old man.”

“She loves you, Dad! If she got sick, would you feel saddled with her?”

“Of course not. But…well. I see your point.” He didn’t say any more. “Still. She deserves someone who can keep up with her. Not a sick old man.”

“Are you doing okay now?” I asked.

“Oh, I guess. I take a pill every day. My cholesterol’s way down. It’s just…you look at your life and wonder what you can do for your family. Seemed like cutting Bev loose was the right thing. If I’m gonna die in the next year or so…”

“God, you men. You’re all so melodramatic,” I said, though my legs were still shaking at the thought of my dad being sick. “If you take care of yourself, you’ll outlive us all. But Dad, cutting Bev loose is not the right thing to do! Nor is keeping your children out of the loop!”

He gave a half shrug. “Well. You’re probably right.”

“So will you talk to Bev?” I asked. “Because I’m not keeping this a secret from her, Dad.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll talk to her. Been dragging my feet on moving out. Guess that says something.”

“It says you love her and don’t want a divorce.”

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Your day to fix lives?” he asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

“Everyone’s except mine, I guess,” I said. We looked at each other a long minute.

“Harper, I…You know…well, here it is. I know I haven’t been the best father.” He sighed. “With Willa, it’s easy…she…She’s always making mistakes or needs something I can help her with…money, a place to live, whatever. But you…you never needed anything.” He paused. “Except a mother. A real mother, that is. The truth was, I was glad when Linda left. I was afraid she’d ruin you.”

“Is that why you married BeverLee? To give me a mother?”

“That was part of it. A big part.”

God. The past was never what it seemed to be. “Dad,” I said after another few beats, “can I ask you something?”

“Is there any stopping you?”

I grinned a little at that. Dad, making a joke. To me. “Well…no. But I always wondered about something. Did Mom name me after Harper Lee?”

“Who’s that?”

“She wrote To Kill A Mockingbird.”

Dad frowned. “Far as I know, you were named after some fashion magazine.”

Oh, crikey. Harper’s Bazaar. Well, hell. I guess that made more sense. And for some reason, it was oddly comforting—my mother had never had hidden depths.

“Can I ask you something else, Dad?” I asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Well…” This one was harder. “Dad, if I’d asked for advice all those years ago, what would you have said about me marrying Nick?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at me as if judging whether or not I wanted the truth. “I guess I would’ve said I thought that boy was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

My heart clenched. “Really?” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“You never said anything. I wasn’t even sure you approved.”

Dad gave a half shrug and looked at the floor once more. “Actions were supposed to speak louder than words,” he replied gruffly. “I let him marry you, didn’t I? Wasn’t about to give my daughter to just anyone.”

Then my father looked up, held out his arms, hesitantly, self-consciously. “Come on,” he said. “Give your old man a hug.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ON FRIDAY EVENING, I left the office around four and went home to pack.

That took all of fifteen minutes. To stall a little longer, I went to my computer and checked my list.

1. Make plane reservation. (I’d done that already, as well as confirmed it. Twice.)

2. Make hotel reservation. (Also confirmed twice.)

3. Pack. (Just finished.)

4. Write speech. (Done, if highly unsatisfactory and far too long.)

5. Deliver speech. (Not done.)

6. Get Nick back. (Not done.)

“Crotch,” I whispered, suppressing a dry heave of terror. Because here was the thing. I may have resolved that I didn’t have to be stunted any longer…I may have opened my heart to BeverLee…may have had a little better understanding of my father…but I had no idea if Nick would give me another chance. I can’t do this anymore, he said just before he got into the cab.

Ah, hindsight. All those times back then, when I’d pushed him away just enough to try to save that most essential part of myself, to wall him out of my heart in case he left me, to preserve myself from damage…I’d hurt myself, and I’d hurt Nick, too. BeverLee was right. I was so terrified of people leaving me that I never let them in.

Add to this fact, I didn’t even know if Nick was on American soil…I seemed to remember a trip to Dubai (or London, or Seattle) on his calendar. I was too cowardly to call his office and ask for his schedule (not that anyone would give it to me, of course), and far, far too nervous to call him. No. Better if I appeared on his doorstep. If he closed the door, I could always yell up at the windows until the police came.