Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

  Kit said good-bye to Meg and answered Michael’s call. “Hello?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, his deep voice practically purring in her ear. “I hope you’re thinking about me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How are you?”

  “Great. Better now that I hear your voice.”

  He was very slick with his lines. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “I’m totally sincere.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and I want to see you again.”

  “You’re still married, Michael.”

  “We’ll go as friends.”

  “We’ll go as friends after your divorce is final.”

  “I’m lonely.”

  “Maybe you should call Jon Coleman.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “I’m not being mean. I’m trying to be helpful.”

  “Let’s have dinner Wednesday, and you could invite your girlfriends so it wouldn’t be a date.”

  “I’m busy Wednesday.”

  “You don’t have to play hard to get with me.”

  Kit laughed, uncertain whether she was amused or annoyed by his persistence. “I’m not. I promised my freshman girls that I’d go to their basketball game Wednesday evening.”

  “Can’t you miss the game?”

  “No.”

  “There’ll be other games.”

  “I’m looking forward to it and they know I’m coming.”

  “Tell them you got sick.”

  “I’m not going to lie to them. I’m their teacher. What kind of example would that be?”

  “It’s not like they’d know.”

  “I’d know.”

  “You’ve got to put yourself first, Kit.”

  She sighed, realizing she was definitely annoyed instead of amused. “I can’t. And you need to take a hint.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “Then stop putting me on the spot—”

  “I thought you were compassionate.”

  Kit gritted her teeth. “I need to go. Have a good week—”

  “Why are you being a bitch?”

  Wow. Kit pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it, blinking in shock. Did he really just say that? She shook her head, appalled. “I’m sorry, Michael. I need to go.”

  She hung up.

  And then she was mad. Who did that? Who acted like that? What kind of man had a tantrum when he didn’t get his way?

  Kit was late to school the next morning due to a series of nonevent events and her students were already gathering outside her room when she reached her door. They heckled her for being tardy and Kit laughingly pleaded guilty and unlocked her door.

  Turning on her lights, she headed for her desk and stopped short at the ridiculously enormous floral arrangement filling her desk. They were the kind of flowers a girl died to get—the most romantic mix of pink and coral tulips, lilies, and roses. Had to be another birthday gift, Kit thought, opening the card.

  Instead, it was an apology from Michael.

  Forgive me, he wrote. I’m an ass. Go to dinner with me tomorrow night and let me make it up to you.

  Kit sighed and lightly touched one delicate, pale pink tulip. The flowers were breathtaking and the apology was appreciated, but she didn’t like the attention. It felt suffocating. And he seemed to be getting obsessive.

  Polly stuck her head into Kit’s room, her pale blond hair caught up in a high swishy ponytail, her black turtleneck turning her into a young coed. “Somebody likes you,” she said with a nod at the lavish arrangement taking over Kit’s desk.

  “It’s from Michael,” Kit said.

  “I know. I saw him in the school office. He brought the flowers by a half hour ago and asked if I’d put them on your desk for you.”

  The final bell rang and Kit waited for the noise to die down to ask, “He delivered them personally?”

  “Yep. I think someone likes you.”

  “Maybe too much.”

  “Really?” Polly looked surprised.

  Kit nodded. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Polly nodded and disappeared and Kit grumpily moved the flowers to the corner of her desk, and then eventually off her desk onto the table in the corner—she didn’t want them on her desk. In fact, she didn’t want them in her room. Frankly, she didn’t want anything to do with Michael.

  But Michael didn’t know that, and he texted her during fourth period, her junior AP American lit class. She glanced down at her phone as she turned the page in a novel and read his text. Hope you like the flowers. Hope we’re good. Call me soon.

  Kit simply turned off her phone. She wasn’t going to call and she wasn’t going to be drawn in to this constant contact with him either.

  She went home without calling or texting him back, but she was uneasy. She knew Michael was waiting for her to reach out to him. She knew he expected to hear from her. He’d sent the flowers and the text and she knew that, in his mind, she owed him a call.

  Owed him.

  Just like Parker had felt that she had owed him something. But Kit didn’t owe either of them anything and she was not going to do this anymore. She was done being bullied and intimidated by men. Done feeling cornered and trapped.

  Hunted.

  It definitely wasn’t what she wanted to feel. Not after Parker. And Richard. Not after a lifetime of feeling shame about sex and her body and men.

  Kit was making dinner, broiling a salmon fillet and sipping a glass of wine, when Michael called. She almost didn’t answer. She was enjoying the wine, savoring the smell of the teriyaki and brown sugar glazing the salmon, feeling happy. But not taking the call made her feel like a coward. She wasn’t a coward and she was better off dealing with Michael now than dodging his calls in the future.

  “Hello, Michael,” she said briskly, answering the phone.

  “You didn’t call me,” he said.

  “The day’s not over yet, Mr. Dempsey.”

  “It’s almost seven. I’ve been waiting twelve hours to hear from you.”

  “Twelve?” she said, peeking into the oven to check her fillet.

  “I left the flowers with your friend at seven-thirty this morning. I texted you, too.”

  “I was teaching.”

  “You’re not still angry about last night, are you?”

  “No. I’m just tired. It’s the last week of the semester and I’ve a lot of work to do.” Kit put on her oven mitt and pulled the pan from beneath the broiler, setting it on top of the stove. The salmon looked gorgeous. While she might not cook often, at least she knew how.

  “But you liked the flowers?”

  “They’re gorgeous. Thank you. I’m the envy of the school. Half the teachers stopped by my room today to see them.”

  “So I am forgiven,” he said smugly.

  “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “So…dinner tomorrow?”

  “Michael—”

  “Not the married stuff again!”

  “It wouldn’t work, even if you weren’t married.” Kit drew a quick breath, relieved she’d said it, and she waited for him to say something.

  He didn’t.

  He was quiet so long that she had to look at the phone, make sure they weren’t disconnected. They weren’t.

  “Maybe I’ll just come over,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

  Her eyebrows arched.

  “Maybe I’ll just show up on your doorstep,” he added. “What would you do then?”

  “Call the cops,” she said drily, aware that if she ever needed help, her brother would be at her house in a heartbeat. Tommy lived in Walnut Creek, but he worked for the Oakland Fire Department and had quite a few friends in the Oakland Police Department. Tommy wouldn’t tolerate anyone harassing her. Nor would the other firefighters or police officers who were his friends.

  “Very funny.” Michael was silent a moment. “What would you do if I just showed up?”

  “I’d wonder how you got m
y address,” Kit snapped, losing patience. “And I’d be really upset that you were interrupting my work.” She paused, before adding firmly, “Speaking of work, I need to eat before my dinner’s cold and then get back to grading. Good-bye.”

  Kit lingered in her classroom late Friday afternoon, grateful the first semester was officially over. The grades were all in, the report cards finished, all she had to do now was get organized for Monday.

  She liked being in her classroom when school wasn’t in session. It’d been her room for all but one of the sixteen years she’d taught at Memorial and it felt like home.

  She was crouching next to a carton of books, counting class sets, thinking about the surprise birthday lunch the teachers had thrown for her in the staff room today. It had been a potluck, and as no one had assigned dishes, they’d ended up with desserts and casseroles and no salads. Thank goodness Shelley always brought a big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Kit loved the Colonel’s chicken and Shelley knew it.

  But now it was almost five and all the staff had gone home for the weekend. Kit heard the distant hum of a vacuum and the periodic metallic clang of trash cans being emptied. The custodians had begun their nightly cleaning.

  Her door opened, and she glanced up, expecting to see one of the janitors. Instead, it was Michael.

  Suppressing a ripple of unease, she got to her feet and wiped her hands on her gabardine trousers before tucking a wave of dark red hair back behind her ear. “Michael.”

  “Bad time?” he asked.

  “Just finishing up,” she said, shocked that he’d found his way up to her room. The front door of the building was always locked at four and it was nearly five now. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came to see you.” He wandered slowly through her room, hands in his pockets as he took in the rows of desks, her desk, the whiteboard, the bulletin boards, the cross at the front of the room, and the windows along the wall. “I thought the classrooms would be nicer,” he said, closing the distance between them.

  “It’s an old building.”

  “And not at all secure. Which makes me wonder what you’re still doing here on a Friday afternoon when everyone else is gone?”

  She didn’t like how he said it. As if she’d done something foolish. Dangerous. But she wasn’t vulnerable here. This was her space, her domain. “I’m not alone. Javier and his crew are here,” she said crisply, angered by his tone. “And I wanted to make sure everything was ready for Monday.”

  “And is it?”

  She leaned over, picked up the books, and stepped around Michael. “Yes.”

  “So dedicated.”

  “I love what I do.”

  “So you say.” He stepped in front of her. “Here, let me have those.” He took the box out of her hands. “Where do you want it to go?”

  She pointed to the counter running beneath the windows. “Beneath the window is fine.”

  Michael set the carton down and took a seat on the edge of the counter next to the books. “You seem…distracted.”

  “It’s Friday. Last day of a long semester.”

  “You don’t seem happy to see me.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Visitors aren’t the norm.”

  “Friends aren’t allowed to drop by to see you?”

  “We try to limit guests and friends. It’s to protect the children. Keep them safe.”

  His jaw hardened. “I’m not going to hurt anybody.”

  “I didn’t think you would. I was just explaining school policy.”

  “Maybe the school should do a better job locking doors.”

  Kit’s heart did a funny little beat. “Maybe.”

  Michael stared at her a moment, expression brooding. “I wanted to tell you something, thought I should tell you in person. Thought it’d be the nice thing to do. Didn’t realize I’d get such a cold reception.”

  Kit suddenly wished that Javier or Pauline or one of the others from the janitorial team would open her classroom door, begin cleaning her room so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him. “What did you want to tell me?”

  He continued to stare at her, forehead creasing, mouth pressed thin. And then he shrugged. “I’m reconciling with Missy.”

  “You are?”

  “There’s one more thing. I told Missy all about you and this school and we’ve decided to enroll Dee here.”

  Kit blinked. “At Memorial?”

  He nodded and wagged his finger at her. “So no more of this stranger stuff, or giving me the cold shoulder, because now I have the right to be here. Got it, teach?”

  He was trying to be funny but she didn’t feel like laughing. She didn’t want Michael’s stepdaughter at Memorial, and she definitely didn’t want Michael Dempsey dropping by her room. “Who does she have for English?”

  “You.” He pushed off from the counter and stood, towering over her. “At least it’s your name on her schedule. Katherine E. Brennan.” His lips curved but his expression was cold. “What does the E stand for? Elizabeth? Elaine?”

  “Elizabeth,” she said faintly.

  “Well, Katherine Elizabeth Brennan, you can expect Dee on Monday, the first day of the new semester.”

  Part 2

  Delilah

  Ten

  Another first day at another new school.

  Fifteen-year-old Delilah Hartnel held her breath, teeth clenched, overwhelmed by nerves. She’d felt sick all morning, but now that they were actually in the car, driving to school, she was dangerously close to puking all over the back of her stepfather’s Lincoln Town Car, but that would be a disaster. You didn’t puke around Howard Michael Dempsey, much less in his pristine car.

  Howie loved his car. And his fine clothes. And his fine face.

  Queasy, Delilah tipped her head against the car’s leather seat and squeezed her eyes closed, hands clenched at her sides.

  She hated him.

  She hated him more than she’d hated anyone and she was good at hating, too.

  She hated her dad for leaving them when she was a baby. She hated her mom for only falling in love with losers. She hated her grandpa for looking the other way when Mama’s loser boyfriends put their fists in Mama’s face.

  Men shouldn’t hit women.

  But they did. All the time.

  “You’ve got your lunch money, hon?” Delilah’s mom, Missy, asked, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter.

  Delilah nodded, hunching deeper into her seat, and tried to ignore her mother’s brittle, bright smile. Her mom had never been exactly steady, but lately she looked positively skittish, as if any moment disaster could strike. As well it could.

  “Did you hear your mom, Dee?” Howie demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then answer her.”

  “I did.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  Delilah ground her teeth together. “I said yes,” she said shortly, turning her head to look out the front window. Instead, her gaze fell on Howie’s hands on the steering wheel. She was always looking at his hands. Fascinated and yet repelled at the same time. He had big hands—no surprise, as he was six three and a half—but his fingers grossed her out. His fingers were thick and too pink and she hated thinking of them on her mother.

  Nauseated, Delilah tugged on the red-and-black pleated skirt that hit just above her bony knees, trying to cover more of her skin.

  She didn’t like her new uniform but at least it wasn’t as bad as St. Joseph’s in Bakersfield. That one had been cheap gray and royal blue. She looked hideous in royal blue. Fortunately, she attended St. Joe’s for only four months before they ended up moving abruptly to the Bay Area for unfortunate reasons.

  But why uniforms in the first place? She was fifteen. A high school freshman. Way too old to be wearing pleated skirts and cardigans and white blouses with little round collars.

  In Mineral Wells, she’d never had to wear a uniform, but then, she’d gone to public school the
re and things had been fine. Well, maybe not fine, but better than they were now that Mama had married Howie.

  Within months of marrying Mama, Howie had them packed up and settled in Houston. They were in Houston just a year and a handful of months before they were driving across the desert on their way to Bakersfield, California. Bakersfield had been a disaster from the start. All the brown dirt seemed to put Howie in a perpetually nasty mood. And now they were here in the East Bay, and Delilah was starting a new school, a good school, and Howie thought he was God for making it happen.

  But Howie wasn’t God. He was the devil. And she heard him with Mama in their room at night, bed banging, Howie groaning, his voice louder and louder until he came. He screamed every time they had sex. Which was pretty much every night. In the beginning her mom tried to shush him. Remember Delilah, she’d whisper, not so loud. But then later, as Howie took over, Mom got quieter, protests swallowed the same way she swallowed him.

  Why did her mama marry him? And worse, why did she stay? How could anyone need a man more than self-respect?

  “Excited?” Howie asked now, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

  Delilah shook her head, and then catching Howie’s blue eyes in the mirror, she forced herself to speak. “No,” she said, hesitating before adding, “sir.”

  “You’ll make friends in no time,” her mom added with false cheer. “Just be yourself.”

  Delilah closed her eyes, feeling sick, so very sick on the inside. “Sure.”

  Her mom stretched an arm back to pat Delilah’s knee. “First days are always stressful.”

  Howie sighed impatiently. “Missy, don’t put ideas in her head. She’s already a drama queen. Dee’s fine. She’s got it made.”

  Delilah bit down, grinding her teeth to keep from asking just how he thought she had it made. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the slow-moving traffic around them, the tangled traffic like the knots of dread and anxiety in her stomach.

  Ten minutes later they pulled up to a large two-story stucco building with a red-tiled roof and an adjacent bell tower behind. There was probably a chapel tucked somewhere, too, Delilah thought, annoyed by the fake Spanish mission style.

  “Here we are,” Howie said, parking, turning off the engine.