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“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.
He was still looking up at her. “Becca?”
“I’m busy today,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“I need to go to the mall. My cell phone broke, so I need a new one.”
He was looking at the door again, brushing slowly. The door had been green, but he must not have had enough paint. Now it was going to be beige like the back door. It looked unnaturally bright against the brown siding.
“Well, why don’t you go get dressed.” He glanced up. “Maybe I could go with you. We could get lunch.”
She snorted. “Yeah. Okay, Dad. Like Mom is going to let me go off with you.”
“I already talked to her.” When Becca couldn’t think of anything to say to that, he glanced up. “I’ve been here for two hours. We had coffee.”
Becca fidgeted with the edge of her pajamas. Her mom was okay with this? “I was kidding about the cell phone. I don’t have money for a new one. Yet.”
“I can take care of it,” he said.
“Oh, you’re going to buy me off?”
“Is that possible?”
She took a breath and fidgeted again. He sure had a cache of retorts. “I don’t want you to,” she said after a moment.
“Sometimes it’s not about what you want, Becca.”
“Clearly.”
He swung his head around, and she saw the first flash of irritation in his eyes. “All right, maybe we can cut the attitude.”
“Sometimes it’s not about what you want, Dad.”
He stared right at her. “Clearly.”
