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“Mr. Cawthorne.” Tiffany sliced her father a glare that dared him to argue.
His jaw worked for a second. “You can call me John,” he replied, and Tiffany nodded as she found a pot holder and pulled the plate of warm waffles from the oven.
Christina climbed into her chair, and as Tiffany forked a waffle on to her plate, she lost interest in the stranger and her mother’s reaction to him. “I want syrup,” she ordered.
“I’d like some syrup, please,” Tiffany corrected as she opened a bottle of maple syrup and doused the waffles to Christina’s satisfaction.
“Where’s Stephen?” John asked.
“Still sleeping.” Automatically she cut her daughter’s breakfast into bite-size pieces, then poured a small glass of cranberry juice.
“I’d like to see him.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. After thirteen years, suddenly it was important that her estranged father connected with them. “Let’s go into the parlor and talk.” Without asking, she poured them each a cup of coffee from the glass pot warming in the coffeemaker, then handed him a mug. “If you want sugar or cream—”
“Black is fine,” he assured her.
“Good. Chrissie, we’ll be in the parlor.”
“’Kay.”
Why she was even being civil to the man, Tiffany didn’t understand. Gritting her teeth, she led him through an arched doorway and into the small, formal room at the foot of the stairs. For a man with as much wealth as John Cawthorne, the room with its re-covered camelback couch and secondhand floral rug tossed over floors that needed refinishing probably seemed simple and unrefined, she thought, then changed her mind. Wasn’t he marrying Brynnie Anderson Smith McBaine Kinkaid Perez? There was a simple woman with far-from-refined tastes. Perhaps this room done in peach and forest-green with its hardwood floors and lace curtains wasn’t as quaint as she’d first thought. And so what if it didn’t suit John Cawthorne’s tastes, whatever they were? She loved it. The parlor was light, airy and filled with pictures of Tiffany’s family. Her mother, Rose, and grandmother, Octavia, smiled from portraits hung on the walls. Stephen’s baby pictures and school photos were displayed on several shelves of a built-in bookcase. Christina’s toddler shots were mounted on one wall, and a framed portrait of Philip and Tiffany on their wedding day stood on the mantel, but nowhere was there even a snapshot of John Cawthorne or anyone remotely connected with him.
And that wasn’t going to change.
“Have a seat,” Tiffany offered, and John shook his head.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Suit yourself.” She settled into an antique wing chair and tried to relax. Impossible. This man, frail though he appeared, had humiliated her mother and abandoned her. She couldn’t forget that fact. Ever. She could be civil, but that was all.
He set his hat on the rounded arm of the couch and sipped from his cup. “This is good.”
“You didn’t come all the way over here to check out whether or not I could brew coffee.”
He winced. “Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” She waited, and he studied the dark liquid in his cup as if he couldn’t find the right words to say what was on his mind. As if she didn’t know.
“You know I’m getting married Sunday.”
“I’d have to be a hermit not to know.”
“You got the invitation?”
“Yes.”
He shifted from one foot to the other, and she noticed how old he looked. Tired and worn. Like a scuffed, sagging cowboy boot whose heel had worn to nothing. Don’t do this, Tiffany. Don’t feel sorry for him. He left you for thirty-three years. All of your life. Until now. When he wants something.
“I was hoping you and the kids would attend,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.
“I, uh, I don’t think I can do that.”
He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a second. “I don’t blame you. I know I’ve been a pitiful excuse for a father to you, but—”
“No father, John,” she said as her throat began to close and tears threatened. “You’ve been no father to me.” This was ridiculous; she couldn’t be crying for this man who had done nothing in all his life for her or her children.
“All that’s gonna change.”
