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She jerked her hand away, though she hadn’t touched anything but the interior knob. A fresh coat of paint made the door shine in the early light. He’d gotten three-quarters of the way down, and she could just see the edge of a line of red spray paint near the base.
She stared at the door, as if she could somehow read what had been written through the beige layer of Duron.
Her father put the paintbrush in his left hand, then held out his right. “Bill Chandler. Nice to meet you.”
Becca scowled. “Hilarious.”
He pulled his hand back, then gestured for her to step onto the porch. “Pull that shut so I can finish.”
She was tempted to close herself on the inside. But she stepped onto the porch, careful of splinters, and pulled the door shut. Now, facing the house, she couldn’t see any graffiti, except the stripe at the bottom of the door.
She had no idea what to say to her father, so she stuck with the mundane, as if she saw him every morning. “Mom said it was all over the front of the house.”
“It was just the door. Your mom tends to exaggerate.”
That pissed her off. Her back straightened. “How would you know?”
He nodded, then dipped the brush into the paint can by his right knee. “You’re right.” He paused and glanced up. “She used to exaggerate. Does she still?”
Becca didn’t want to nod. But he was right. She stared out into the yard instead.
He brushed a stroke up the front of the door. “I left a message for you to call me.”
“I don’t return calls from complete strangers. You never know what they might be selling.”
“That’s true. Why take a chance, right?”
An insult was hidden there, she was sure of it. She frowned. “What do you want?”
“Right this second, I want to finish painting this door.”
“You think slapping some paint on the door is going to put you back in Mom’s good graces? Where’d you even get that paint, anyway?”
“Your mother had it in the shed. And I have no idea about her graces, good or otherwise. I just thought I’d help out while I waited for you to wake up.”
“Why?”
He looked up. “Because I’m your father, Becca.”
She stared at him. “Wow, and you said that with a straight face and everything.”
He looked back at the door and slid another line of paint up the side. “Be as nasty as you want. I know you’re curious.”
She wanted to punch him. Or kick him; the angle was better. “So?”
“I am, too. I have an assignment in town, so I’ll be here for a while.” He paused. “I thought maybe we could catch up.”
“An assignment.” She rolled her eyes. “How exciting.”
“Not at all. I’m investigating crabbing violations in Annapolis. Couldn’t be more boring.”
She leaned against the siding next to the door and looked out at the street. “You want to just roll in here after years of nothing but random phone calls, and act like suddenly we can be—”
“Becca.” He looked up at her. “I don’t want to act like anything.”
And then she was hit with a memory. She must have been four years old. Her father had been holding some kind of animal, a ferret, maybe, or a guinea pig—the memory was fuzzy around the edges. Show and tell? She couldn’t remember. But she remembered the feel of his hands around hers, helping her cradle the animal, letting her show it to the other kids.
Jesus Christ, her throat felt tight.
