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“Well, be careful, would you? You’ve got a dynamite face, and I’d hate to see it all banged up before you were twenty.” Adjusting the strap of her briefcase, she faced Tiffany. “I heard John came to see you this morning.”
Tiffany nodded and steeled herself for the onslaught she felt was coming. “He showed up around nine, I think.”
“I told him it was a mistake.”
“Did you?”
“Hey, we all have to handle this the way we think is best. I’m going to the wedding, of course, even though I’m not sure I totally approve. But it is both my mother and father, and if they can find some happiness together... Well—” she turned her free palm skyward “—so be it.”
“If that’s the way you feel.” Tiffany wished her own emotions were so easily defined. Ever since seeing her father this morning, she’d been in knots, second-guessing herself.
“It is. I’d like to see Mom happy.”
“Will this do it?” Tiffany asked, trying not to sound as skeptical as she felt.
“Time will tell, but I can’t see any reason to rain on their parade. Sure, John was a jerk—” She slid a glance at Stephen, but Tiffany waved her concern aside.
“Stephen knows the story.”
“Then he realizes that his grandfather made some mistakes in his life. Major mistakes. But now he’s trying to rectify them. I figure why not give the guy a chance.”
“I can think of a few reasons.”
“Yeah, I suppose, but I figure it’s time to let bygones be bygones.”
“I don’t think I can,” Tiffany admitted, though she felt a tiny twinge of guilt.
“Hey, whatever you want to do is your business. But the wedding could be fun. At least the reception out at Cawthorne Acres will be. If you don’t have anything better to do, why don’t you and the kids show up? Josh, my son—you probably know him from school, Stephen. He’s some kind of cousin to you, and he’d love it if another boy around his age came.”
Tiffany couldn’t find a way to say no without getting into another argument. “I—I’ll think about it.”
“Do.” Katie checked her watch and sucked some air between her teeth. “Oops. I’m late already. See ya.” Half jogging to an ancient convertible, she climbed inside. With a clank, pop and cloud of black smoke, the car started. Waving, Katie wheeled out of the lot.
“Wow,” Stephen said, watching Katie, her red hair flying, disappear around a corner.
“She’s a real go-getter.” Squinting against the midday sun, Tiffany added, “I didn’t know we were related until we moved down here.”
“You always said you wished you had a sister or a brother,” Stephen reminded her. “Every time Chrissie bugs me and I tell her to get lost, you tell me how bad it was for you growing up without any other kids.”
“I do, don’t I?” Tiffany said, touched by the irony of her predicament. Throughout her childhood and awkward teenage years, she’d felt so alone growing up with only her mother and a grandmother as family—three women who depended solely upon each other. Every night on her knees by her twin bed, she’d prayed for a sister or a brother.
Or a father.
Old, forgotten loneliness crawled into her heart—the same painful feeling of being alone in the world she’d hoped would disappear when she married. She’d bound herself to an older man, from an established family, with two kids of his own, and had hoped to raise three or four children of her own and become part of a huge, chaotic and happy family. Philip had come up with his own plans. More children hadn’t been a part of them.
Clearing her throat, she turned
toward the police station. “Come on, kiddo. We’d better get this over with.”
Stephen looked as if he’d just as soon drop dead, but they walked past parked cars and spindly trees until they came to the wide double doors of the century-old building.
“This is a waste of time,” Stephen grumbled.
“I don’t think so.” She pushed the door open. “Come on.”
Inside the police station there was no air-conditioning, and the few windows that were open were barred or screened, reminding Tiffany of where they were. The offices were now smoke free, but the walls and ceilings were stained by years of cigarette smoke that had hung cloudlike in the corridors and rooms. Stephen’s feet seemed to drag on the industrial carpet, but they made their way through a maze of hallways to Sergeant Pearson’s battle-scarred desk. Papers, memos, photographs and books were piled high. Three near-empty coffeecups were placed strategically around a computer screen.
A thick-set man with a crew cut that didn’t much hide the tact that he was going bald, Pearson sat at his desk. He cradled the earpiece of his phone between a meaty shoulder and his squat neck, and managed to scribble notes on a legal pad covered with doodles.
