Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

  Her dark eyebrows arched. “Now, if you’ll move aside, I’d like to park and introduce myself to Missy.”

  “You’re wasting your time. No one’s going to answer.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know more about the situation there than you do.”

  “Delilah is my student.”

  “And they’re my neighbors. These are small lots and voices carry.”

  She glanced at the Dempsey house with the fresh white paint and new blue shutters and then at Jude’s pink stucco house with the peeling paint, rusted metal chairs on the lawn, and the scattered automotive parts. “I’m sure you hear plenty. Now please move. I’m not leaving without saying hello and seeing Delilah.”

  He stepped back onto the curb, folded his arms across his chest, and watched as she rolled up the window, parked, and climbed out of the car.

  She was wearing a pencil skirt, heels, and a cute little cardigan that made him think of a 1940s pinup.

  His lids dropped, lashes lowering, as she marched up the Dempseys’ sidewalk, her straight, snug skirt outlining her derriere to perfection. He was an unabashed butt man and he loved Kit’s.

  Tugging on her cardigan, Kit straightened her shoulders, rang the doorbell, and waited.

  No one came to the door.

  Kit lifted her hand and knocked vigorously. “Delilah…Missy,” she called through the door. “It’s Kit Brennan, Delilah’s English teacher. Just wanted to say hi.”

  And still no one responded, despite her very cheerful voice. Jude felt almost sorry for her. “Try again,” he said. “Shout a little louder.”

  She flashed him an uncertain look, lips pursing. “You think?”

  “Why not? You’re there.”

  He watched as she rapped even harder, and then pressed her mouth to the door to loudly say, “Delilah, it’s me, Miss Brennan. I wanted to check on you. Meet your mom. Make sure things are okay.”

  “Why don’t you go around the house, check the back door, try that,” he suggested helpfully.

  She straightened swiftly, realizing now he’d just been messing with her. Color stormed her cheeks, and her eyes blazed. “Why don’t I just climb in through a window?”

  “You’re sure that’s not too pushy?”

  Heels clicking, she marched back down the stairs and flashed him a look of loathing as she headed for her car. “Dick,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  Jude nearly laughed out loud.

  God, she was hot.

  Her high heels rang against the pavement and then went silent as she sank into the dry grassy patch bordering the curb. Her nose tipped higher. “You can stop laughing at me now and go finish washing your motorcycle.”

  “But I like watching you.”

  “Go away.”

  “Angel, I live here.”

  “I feel sorry for your neighbors!”

  “Why?”

  She stopped, faced him, and jabbed a finger there, there, and there, pointing to the chaos in his front yard. “That, that, and that. And I just hope the inside of your house is tidier than the outside!”

  “What’s wrong with the outside?”

  Her lips parted for a split second before she snapped them shut and walked quickly around the car. She swung the door open, slid inside, but before she could slam it closed, he was there, leaning between the door and her side.

  “How far did you make it in school before you were kicked out?” she demanded, cheeks a hot pink. “Eighth grade? Ninth grade? Eleventh?”

  “Actually made it through college.”

  “You did not!”

  “Graduated with honors.”

  “Liar!”

  He held up two fingers. “Boy Scout’s honor.”

  “I don’t believe a word you say.”

  Jesus, he wanted to kiss her.

  She was angry and beautiful and all she needed was someone to stir her up, get her going, make her come alive.

  “What did you study?” she demanded.

  He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d double-majored in political science and criminal justice, but that would give away too much about who he was and those were things he never revealed. “Poly sci,” he said instead.

  “Where?”

  He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t laugh, mustn’t laugh, she was already so mad at him. “UC Davis.”

  She studied him suspiciously, her blue eyes searching his. He liked the focus and intensity in her eyes. She had beautiful blue eyes. Beautiful face. But her lips…those were his favorite. He had a thing for her mouth. It was what had caught his attention that morning in Capitola. The wild dark red curls and the shape of her mouth…her lips a little too full, a little too wide, a little too pink. Even bare, like now, her lips weren’t proper. They had a softness and lushness that made him think of tangled sheets, damp skin, and hot, slow, mind-blowing sex.

  “Any other questions, teach?” he drawled, aware that his old, faded, ripped Levi’s had just gotten way too tight across his groin. He loved these jeans but they didn’t really accommodate an erection.

  Her lips compressed disapprovingly. “I’m not amused.”

  “Which I find really funny.”

  “Can you please step away from my car? I’d like to go home now.”

  “You don’t want to come in? Have a drink?”

  “It’s four-thirty in the afternoon, Mr. Knight, too early to drink.”

  “I’ve got iced tea. And we don’t have to go inside. We can sit out here. Enjoy the fresh air.”

  “And what do you think Howard would say if he saw us?”

  Jude’s smile slowly faded. His amusement evaporated. “Do you care what he thinks?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure? Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a sweet spot for him—”

  “Get away from me and my car!” She yanked hard on the door, hitting him in the shoulder.

  He straightened up but didn’t move. “He’s dangerous, angel.”

  “I’m not attracted to him, Jude. Never have been, never will be. He’s Delilah’s stepfather and that’s all he is to me. Now back off so I can go home.”

  Fifteen

  Kit was glad she hit traffic leading up to the Bay Bridge because it gave her time to calm down. She didn’t want to arrive at her parents’ upset, and right now she was upset, really upset, and it was all Jude’s fault.

  What a jerk. What an asshole.

  And if he really was so smart, and graduated from UC Davis with honors, then why did he live like a bum?

  Forty minutes later, Kit opened the front door of her childhood home and heard her mother laughing.

  For a second she just stood there and listened.

  Her uncle Jack was telling a story and Aunt Linda and Mom kept laughing. They must be in the family room from the way the sound traveled.

  Slowly Kit unbuttoned her jacket, letting the day’s frustration and anger go.

  This was how she wanted to remember her mom. And this is how she wanted to remember this house. As a happy house. A house full of family and love and laughter. Because even in the most challenging of times, the Brennans and Donahues told jokes and teased and made light of their difficulties. Hanging her coat in the hall closet, Kit was glad. She couldn’t even imagine growing up in a family like Delilah’s.

  Entering the family room, she dropped kisses on everyone’s cheek. “Far too much gaiety in this house,” she scolded with mock severity. “Who said you could have fun without me?”

  “We are just reminiscing about your mother and father’s courtship,” Aunt Linda said, giggling a little as she wiped her eyes dry.

  “And how my big brother Jack didn’t approve of your dad,” Mom said, lips twitching. “So Jack had your dad arrested one night when we were sitting in a parked car kissing.”

  Kit sat down on the couch next to her uncle. “You had Dad arrested?”

  “He wasn’t charged,” Jack said, “just booked.”
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  “And strip-searched!” Mom cried, dissolving into laughter all over again. “He was so mad at Jack when he found out he’d put the other officers up to it. I’ve never seen your dad that mad.”

  “He showed up at our apartment with a baseball bat,” Linda said, glancing from Kit to Jack and back again. “Jack and I were just newlyweds and I didn’t know what had happened, and Jack’s in our bedroom napping—he’d just finished his shift, he was working nights then—and here’s your dad on the doorstep with a baseball bat demanding Jack come out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him to come back in seven hours when Jack was awake and he could have a good go at him then.”

  Kit grinned. “Did you really?”

  “Absolutely.” Linda’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “And your father did. And they went outside and threw a couple punches—”

  “A lot of punches,” Jack corrected, looking at Kit. “Your father was actually a lot tougher than I gave him credit for. And I was the one that suggested a drink. I needed it. I had a god-awful headache at that point. I just wanted a good pint of beer.”

  Everyone laughed and then Uncle Jack and Aunt Linda were saying good-bye and Kit assisted her mother up the stairs. They had to take the stairs slowly, just one at a time, so Mom could rest and catch her breath.

  “Your dad was right. We should have bought one of those electric chairs that go up and down the stairs,” her mother cheerfully wheezed. “Then I could take joyrides up and down.”

  “That would be very annoying for the rest of us, Mom,” Kit teased.

  “I know, but the grandkids would have loved it.”

  Kit helped her mom with her bedtime routine, and then once she had Marilyn in bed, settled comfortably, she handed her the water bottle and her pain medicine.

  Her mom swallowed the medicine and, sinking back into her pillows, sighed. “It’s going to be nice to have a girls’ week. Just you and me.”

  Kit leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’m looking forward to hanging out with you and playing beauty shop and doing your hair and giving you a manicure.”

  “How nice! I don’t like how your dad does my hair.”

  Kit laughed, unable to picture her father doing anything with her mother’s hair. “But you’re going to have to be honest with me, Mom, and tell me when you’re tired, or if you hurt, or if you just want me to leave you alone so you can sleep.”

  “Like now?” she answered, smothering a yawn.

  Kit gave her another kiss good night. “I’ll leave your door open and you can just ring the bell if you need me. I’ll be here in a jiffy.”

  Downstairs Kit locked the front door, put the last dishes into the dishwasher, added soap, switched it on, and headed to the family room to watch some TV but couldn’t find anything but crime and forensic shows, and she hated programs that started out with someone dying or disappearing. Solving the crime was anticlimactic. Someone was dead.

  Her phone buzzed on the table, vibrating with a new voice mail. Kit muted the TV and reached for the phone, wondering what call she’d missed. But it wasn’t Dad or Meg or Sarah checking in. It was Howard, still saved in her contacts as Michael:

  “Hi, Kit, just called home phone to check messages and heard your voice mail. We’re in Tahoe for the weekend for a wedding. Sorry we didn’t notify the school. Dee will be back in school Monday. Thanks for following up. Have a good weekend.”

  So everything’s good, she thought, reading the message a second time. Everything was fine. At least Howard made everything sound fine.

  Could she trust him?

  Did she believe him?

  Kit didn’t know, wished she knew, wondering if perhaps her imagination had gotten the best of her.

  Was it possible that her personal feelings for Howard had prejudiced her against him? And, yes, he was obnoxious and overbearing, but did that make him a villain?

  Frustrated, and regretting all the wasted energy, she turned off the TV and went to bed.

  At home in the family living room, Delilah kept her eyes glued to the TV, pretending she didn’t hear Howie on the phone, leaving Miss Brennan a message.

  “Hi, Kit, just called home phone to check messages and heard your voice mail. We’re in Tahoe for the weekend for a wedding. Sorry we didn’t notify the school. Dee will be back in school Monday. Thanks for following up. Have a good weekend.”

  Her stomach heaved at the way he’d said, “Hi, Kit,” as if they were old friends. So disgusting the way he turned on his charm, used his Mr. Smooth voice, acting like the good guy, the nice guy, as if by being the conscientious stepdaddy, he was the hero.

  Delilah hoped Miss Brennan wouldn’t fall for it. Because women always fell for it. Women loved Howie. They couldn’t get enough of him. Handsome, charming, chivalrous Howard Dempsey with his megawatt smile.

  That’s how her mother fell for him. Howard with his nice cars and credit cards and confidence. Mama felt so safe with him. “Lean on me,” he used to tell her when they were first dating. “You can rely on me.”

  And just like the spider and the fly, the fly only recognized she was trapped once she was stuck.

  Sunday at noon Mom’s favorite priest from St. Cecilia came over to bring her the Eucharist. The priest sat next to her, talking to her for almost an hour afterward, and Kit sat downstairs at the dining room table trying to get through the freshmen and sophomore journals. She was halfway through the sophomore stack when she came across Delilah’s plain black notebook. So many of her students liked to decorate their covers, creating photo collages or applying stickers or doodling, but Delilah’s was plain black. The only way you knew it was hers was that she’d printed her name on the back in a purple marker. Delilah Hartnel.

  Kit flipped through the pages she’d read before and then began reading the entries that were new to her. In one entry, where the assigned topic sentence was If you could do anything, what would you do?, Delilah wrote:

  If I could do anything, I would make Howie disappear, and then Mama and I could go traveling. Maybe we’d go to Paris or Rome or Venice. I think Mama would enjoy going around in the gondolas. She likes romantic things. But knowing Mama, she’d fall in love with an Italian and then we’d be stuck in Italy and would never get back to Texas. I miss Mineral Wells. I want to go home.

  Delilah was homesick, Kit thought, turning the page, skimming several entries, noting the frequency with which the girl mentioned Mineral Wells and Texas, as well as her hatred for Howard.

  Kit tried to remain detached as she read, wanting to keep a professional distance, aware that Delilah was entitled to her feelings and that it was natural for teenagers to have issues with parents and authority figures, but it was hard not to react to some of the entries. There was so much drama in them. So much emotion.

  Kit’s eye fell on the last entry. It was from this last Thursday, the day Kit had collected the journals to bring home to read before her trip, the day Howard had shown up for the meeting after school.

  I saw Howie watching Jude.

  He hates Jude.

  I think Howie would kill him if he could.

  I think Howie would enjoy killing him.

  I don’t know why I think that, but I do.

  It was all she’d written, and the lines were surrounded by little skeleton heads. It was creepy.

  Kit closed the journal and got to her feet, putting it away without writing anything in it. What was she going to do about Delilah? What was she going to do about Howard?

  Was Howard dangerous?

  Was Delilah unstable?

  Who, or what, was she to believe? And was she supposed to warn Jude? Would it be such a bad thing if Howard killed Jude?

  Chastising herself for being unchristian, Kit sent Jude a text. FYI Delilah says Howard wants to kill you. Forewarned means forearmed.

  There, she’d done her duty, she thought, putting her phone away. She still didn’t know what to do about Delilah and Howard, but at least Jude wa
s no longer her problem.

  Kit’s phone rang at eight o’clock while she was sitting and chatting with her mom in her mother’s bedroom. Her heart jumped a bit when Jude’s name flashed, and excusing herself, she stepped out of the room to take the call.

  “This is Kit,” she answered formally.

  “Who else would be answering your phone?”

  “You got my text?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for the warm fuzzies.”

  “So, Jude, what exactly happened between you and Howard?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Why would he hate you so much?”

  “Because he’s a prick?”

  “Jude, I’m serious.”

  “So am I. He doesn’t like me because I know he’s a prick and I won’t treat him like he’s someone special.”

  “Dudes and their pissing contests.”

  “There’s no contest. I already won.”

  “I see.”

  “So when did Delilah tell you her stepdaddy wants to kill me?”

  Kit sighed. “She didn’t say it to me, she wrote it in her English journal on Thursday in class. I just read it this afternoon.”

  “Oh, if that’s all.”

  “What do you mean, that’s all?”

  “She’s a girl. She writes crazy shit in her diary. It’s what teenage girls do—”

  “It’s not a diary, it’s a school journal, and she wrote it during English class. I think I need to go to Sister Elena and tell her about this, but if I do, she’ll tell me to go the police.”

  “Go to your principal? Why? It’ll just get Delilah expelled.”

  “But what if he tries to kill you?”

  “He won’t. He can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wouldn’t let him.”

  “You’re turning this into a joke!”

  “I’m not trying to, Kit, but it’s hard for me to take Howard seriously. He’s an idiot.”

  “Maybe, but I want you to see what she wrote.” She hesitated. “Just in case. Because if something did happen and I hadn’t warned you—”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll read it.”