FIFTEEN
Bren put his head around the door of Franky’s room. She was parked in front of Slugville, taking notes.
“All right there, sprite?”
“Yep, Dad,” she said without looking up, but as he left, she called out to him.
“What, love?”
“Is Violet okay?”
He stepped back inside. “Why do you ask?”
“She seemed less . . . Violet yesterday.”
Yesterday being the day she’d found out her cancer might have recurred. He’d brought her back to their place for lunch, and she’d tried valiantly to be her usually cheery self. They’d eaten pizza, then settled in and watched movies, including The Princess Bride and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, a favorite of Caitriona’s.
The shock at Violet’s news had lingered overnight, and he’d awoken this morning with his mind chock-full of thoughts of his children’s nanny—except this time, it wasn’t the usual overheated sexual fantasies. This time, he was thinking of how he wanted to hold her forever like he had in her kitchen. Tell her it would be okay. He would make it okay.
“She wasn’t feeling so good,” he said, soothing his worried daughter. “A headache. But today’s her day off, so she’s probably resting after we wore her out.”
Franky wrinkled her nose, a signal that she was plotting something. “Should I call her and ask her if she needs anything? She might want to come over and see the slugs. Or make an apple pie.”
“You could text her, I suppose. Just to check in.” He could text her, but he didn’t want to crowd her. Instead he’d rather use his youngest child to do his dirty work. Classy, St. James.
“I’ll text her,” Franky agreed.
Rather than wait around like an idiot, he went in search of his other daughter. When he’d only had one weekend a month with them, he’d filled the time with trips to the zoo, cupcake runs, and movies. They’d loved it. Now that he had them constantly, they didn’t seem as interested in his efforts to entertain them. This was more like his life when he was still married to Kendra, who went to great lengths to shove them off on neighbors and slumber parties when he wasn’t playing. She’d never enjoyed doing things that involved all of them. Said he’d be bored.
His daughters could never bore him. He loved spending time with them, loved especially watching their faces light up when they came across something new to them. They were still young enough to perceive wonder, and it made him feel young to see that wonder filtered through their eyes.
He found Caitriona curled up on the sofa in what Kendra used to call the music room because it contained the piano. The instrument that Caitriona hadn’t played once since she’d come to live with him a month ago.
As he entered, Caitriona looked up guiltily from her iPad and turned it off.
“Texting with one of your friends?”
Her eyes flew wide. “Yeah. Sophie from my old school.”
He wondered. His recollection was that one of the Nichols boys had been sweet on her when they all lived here together last year. Maybe Bren had jump-started that again when he dropped them off with Skylar yesterday.
“I know you must miss your friends back—” He almost said home. “Back in Atlanta.”
“It’s okay here. It’s quieter.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mom and Drew fought a lot. Kind of like you and Mom, which makes me think Mom might be a bit of a drama llama.”
“Neither of us are saints.” He refused to criticize Kendra in front of the girls. God only knew he was a tough man to live with.
Taking advantage of the unusually pleasant father-daughter vibe, he ran a finger along the piano. “Do you want to start up lessons again?”
“Not really.”
“Thought you liked playing.” She loved music, had every soundtrack of every Broadway musical memorized.
She shrugged. “It’s kind of lame.”
He sat beside her on the sofa. “Lame? You’ve been playing for five years. When did it become lame?”
“Mom likes it. She thinks it’s elegant.” Air quotes around elegant. “But . . .”
“But what?”
No response. Caitriona had always had a hard time expressing her feelings. She was so like him in that respect.
“I know you miss your mom, love. Have your grandparents mentioned her?”
“They said she wishes she could be here, but she has to take care of herself.”
That sounded like Kendra, looking out for number one. He couldn’t believe that she’d made no effort to get in touch with her children. To be honest, Bren hadn’t pushed the issue with her or her parents, because Kendra’s bad behavior would be to his advantage during any future custody hearing. He hated that his daughters were suffering because their mom was so selfish, but if it meant he was one step closer to getting them back permanently, he was prepared to put up with it.
“Well, she needs a long rest. But you’ll see her again soon and she might like it if you could play her a tune on the piano.”
Franky wandered in. “I texted Violet. She said she’s fine and she’ll see us tomorrow.”
Two minutes later, he headed into the kitchen and shot off a text to his children’s nanny.
Sorry about Franky bothering you on your day off. She was worried.
A full minute passed before she responded.
She’s sweet.
. . .
Like her dad.
He didn’t feel sweet toward Violet. He felt positively savage.
What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was sick with worry and he wanted what, exactly?
To drive deep between her thighs until she was shaking with the force of the orgasms he’d given her. That’s what.
He texted back: I’m not sweet. I’d just prefer not to look for another nanny.
Shit, that came out all wrong. He was going for a joke but it sounded like he thought she might not be around. As in, permanently not around. He started typing again, then stopped because he had no idea what to say. He hit the call button.
She answered immediately. “Nessie.”
“I’m sorry. That was in poor taste.”
“Forget about it. I know your big thick Scottish fingers and puck-concussed brain are virtually incapable of stringing a sentence together.”
When had it become so easy with her? The strains of “Gold Dust Woman” filtered in from Violet’s end, and he was reminded of how she’d been playing another Fleetwood Mac song in the car yesterday. And “The Chain” that day he came across her filling his fridge.
“Do you have some sort of Fleetwood Mac kink?”
“Kink? No. I’m a fan, like any right-thinking human.”
“Okay, weirdo.”
“Name three songs of theirs you don’t like.”
“ ‘Don’t Stop’ is pretty overplayed,” he said, warming to the subject. “ ‘Tusk’ is sort of strange, but also crazy compelling. And . . . that’s about it. Touché.”
She laughed. “See? The Mac are near perfect, and Stevie Nicks is the greatest rock ’n’ roll frontwoman of all time.”
“Vasquez, I already acknowledged that they have a decent catalog, but this Stevie Nicks business is a bridge too far.”
“Name another,” she challenged.
“I’ll name five others. Joan Jett. Grace Slick. Ann Wilson. Tina. Aretha.”
Violet scoffed. “They’re all power. None of them have the ability to do vulnerable and raw sensuality. None of them have that smoky-sweet quality like Stevie. And she’s a fashion icon as well as having led a life of great drama. It all combines to make her a true artisan.”
“You’ve given this an oddly specific level of thought.”
“I have!” She chuckled softly. “And nothing you can say will change my mind.”
He laughed, feeling unexpectedly joyful. It surprised them both enough to create a taut silence in its aftermath. There was a moment’s pause while they both figured out how to navigate it.
“Caitriona used to play the piano.” So it might’ve sounded like a non sequitur, but they were talking about music.
“And she doesn’t anymore?”
“Says she’s not interested. I feel like she’s punishing me. She knows her misery makes me miserable.”
Violet snorted. “Right, she’s that evil, every thought and action centered on how to ruin your life.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
“She’s eleven and she misses her mom. It’s hard on all of you.”
Bren sighed, wondering if he should share more of why Caitriona wasn’t happy with him and how he had betrayed his daughters.
One hand on the wheel, another turning the ignition. Headlights illuminating the drive to the street, but not enough to overcome his blurry vision.
Sharing might be initially cathartic, but ultimately would result in Violet looking at him differently. He found himself desperately wanting her good opinion, this warm glow of basking in her good favor.
“Have you talked to your sisters?”
She hesitated. “Not yet. I was going to head up to Chase Manor later and fill them in.”
“If you need a ride to the doctor, you just have to ask.” He assumed she’d be on it tomorrow, Monday. He’d cut practice if necessary.
In the distance, he heard something crash, then the sound of raised voices. One of his daughters called the other one stupid. Ah, the poetry of parenthood.
“The girls are fighting. Want to come over?”
Her husky chuckle went straight to his balls. “Adios, St. James. And thanks for—well, just thanks.” She clicked off, and he went to break up World War III.