Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

  It was a long time before he lifted his head, but when he did, he looked into her eyes, and they looked like shimmering stars, all blue and bright like Fourth of July fireworks.

  “Wow,” she whispered, blinking, dazed.

  His heart turned over. Wow was right. She was making him feel so many things…making him want things he didn’t ever think he’d have again.

  “That was really good,” she said, her voice husky and sexy and making him even harder than he already was. “Let’s get out of here and do that again.”

  He slid his thumb over her quivering lower lip. “Don’t you want more out of a man than sex, baby?”

  “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had great sex?”

  He laughed softly and shook his head. “All right. I’ll make you a deal. You think about everything I’ve told you tonight. Sleep on it. Think about it some more. And tomorrow, if you still want to get naked with me, give me a call or shoot me a text, and we’ll hook up after school.”

  Nineteen

  Kit couldn’t sleep. How could she after Jude’s challenge?

  And no, she’d never been into one-night stands. Nor had she ever dated a man for sex. But she liked Jude. Was drawn to him. And there was some serious chemistry between them. Why couldn’t she enjoy it—him—for whatever this was?

  Kit showered and finished dressing for school and then shot him a text from her car: Thought about it. Slept on it. So when do I see you again?

  Arriving at school, she emptied the mail from her box in the office, greeted the teachers in the staff room, and headed to her class to prepare for the day.

  She was greeted with stacks of papers all over her desk. Her sub had been able to grade quizzes and straightforward tests, but the short-answer questions, essays, book reports, and journals were something only Kit could do and they were all there, piled high, waiting for her.

  Fortunately, her students were happy to have her back, and her first period actually cheered when they filed into class and spotted her at her desk.

  The day was busy and passed quickly, but Kit kept checking her phone for a reply from Jude. There wasn’t one. Disappointed, she headed to the gym after school and worked out, and it wasn’t until she arrived home that he finally responded.

  Crazy day. Working tonight. Can I do you tomorrow?

  Kit blushed as she reread the text, biting her lip. And it crossed her mind that maybe, just maybe, she was in over her head, but it was too late now. She was going for it anyway. Still smiling, she texted him back: Only if you get a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to be disappointed.

  He answered her immediately. You won’t be.

  And then a second text arrived a few minutes later. It’s supposed to snow tomorrow. Be careful driving to school.

  Snow? Jude was joking, right? Kit opened her laptop, and typed in Oakland weather on the Internet, and was amazed at the report. Temperatures were dropping rapidly and there was a chance of snow for the morning.

  She couldn’t believe it. She’d never even seen snow in San Francisco, so even the suggestion of it was enough to get her excited.

  The first thing she did the next morning after waking up was go to the window and pull back the curtain. No snow. Not even any rain.

  Arriving at school, Kit heard lots of snow talk, even among the teachers, and she didn’t blame them. Snow was rare in the Bay Area. According to Paul Moran, one of the social studies teachers, it’d only snowed a half-dozen times in San Francisco in the past hundred years, the last four times being in 1887, 1951, 1962, and 1976, and so for the students and faculty alike, the idea of snow was thrilling.

  But first and second period passed without any flurries, and Kit put her third-period English class, her excitable freshmen, to work writing in their journals.

  The room was silent with everyone writing and then suddenly someone exclaimed, “It’s snowing!”

  Immediately the class was on their feet.

  “Snow! It’s snowing!”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. Look.”

  “Snow.”

  “Miss Brennan! It’s snowing!”

  Kit left her desk in the back corner of the room and walked to the window, where students were crowding, everyone craning to get a glimpse of this miraculous snow.

  Outside, tiny flecks fell, so small they looked like white ash. But it was cold enough for the snow to stick, coating the red-tiled roof overhang below them in the thinnest layer of white.

  As they watched, the flurries thickened, the flakes becoming fatter and lusher.

  The kids were all murmuring, their voices hushed, even reverent.

  “I’ve never seen snow before,” Delilah whispered, and when Kit looked at her she saw the tears in her eyes.

  Kit moved to her side. “You okay?” she asked.

  Delilah didn’t take her eyes off the swirling, falling flakes, just nodded.

  “Five more minutes of watching snow, and then we’re getting back to work,” Kit said.

  Five minutes later she spent five minutes getting the kids settled, and once they were quiet, she read to them one of her favorite Wallace Stevens poems:

  One must have a mind of winter,

  To regard the frost and the boughs

  Of the pine-trees crusted with snow…

  She finished, lifted her head, looked out at her students, who were unusually quiet as the last words drifted down, much like Stevens’s wind and leaves and snow. For a moment she said nothing, just looked at them, and they looked back at her, and she couldn’t help feeling blessed, looking at their suddenly thoughtful faces.

  Thirty-four bright young minds.

  Thirty-four lives in the making.

  How lucky she was to be here, doing this. How lucky she could do this.

  Her mother was right. Teaching kids, sharing with them her love of words, of books…it was a gift. A passion. Not everyone had a passion. Kit was lucky she did.

  “The poem is like the snow,” said Andrew, one of the jocks in the back of the room. But he, like Damien, enjoyed her class, and consistently made an effort. “The poet…she made the words sound like snow. You know, soft, slow, like snow falling.”

  Kit smiled. “That’s right. But the poet is a he. Wallace Stevens. Stevens was born in Pennsylvania in 1879 and is today regarded as one of America’s greatest twentieth-century poets, but wasn’t fully appreciated during his lifetime.”

  “Which probably means he didn’t make much money doing it,” Merrie said, unimpressed.

  “Poets in general don’t make a lot of money.” Kit closed the book and held it to her chest. “And in the spirit of today’s snow, I’m changing your homework for tonight. You still have to read the final scene in Twelfth Night, but you can wait on the comprehension questions. Instead, I want you to find a poem about snow, read it, analyze it, and then write a five-hundred-word essay on it…” She paused as they groaned. “I want to know why you chose that poem…what it means to you.” As they continued to groan, she shook her head. “Come on, it’s not that hard. You can write about poetic devices, symbolism, meaning, personal experience, whatever works for you, but proper formatting, of course. Typed, double-spaced, heading, intro, conclusion, you know the rest.”

  She glanced up at the clock, saw they still had nine minutes. “You can have the rest of the period free to either start your homework or watch the snow. But if you’re talking, keep it down to a dull roar. We don’t need Mrs. Adams in here reporting me to Sister.”

  Still holding the poetry book pressed to her chest, Kit walked to the window, where half the class was gathering again to watch the thick white flurries tumble down.

  Delilah, she noticed, was one of the only ones at her desk, writing in her journal. The rest were at the windows, watching, talking, taking it all in.

  Then the bell rang and the kids were tumbling to their feet, gathering their things, rushing off to the next class. As the last one left the room, Polly entere
d, holding a small, elegant square vase of white flowers—lilies, daisies, pom-poms, freesias. “You didn’t tell me you were still seeing Michael,” she said, placing the vase on Kit’s desk.

  Kit’s skin began to crawl. “Did he bring them by the school himself?”

  “No, they were delivered by a florist. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want them,” Kit said shortly. “He’s trying to buy me and I won’t be bought.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Him. Michael.” Kit crossed to the window, glanced out. The snow flurries had stopped. Outside, the world glittered brightly. The light dusting of white on the red-tiled roofs and hedges hadn’t yet melted, but for Kit, the magic was gone. She turned to face Polly. “But his name isn’t Michael. It’s Howard. Howard Dempsey.”

  Polly stared blankly at her.

  Kit folded her arms across her chest. “Delilah’s stepfather.”

  Polly’s eyes opened wide, comprehension dawning. “Our Delilah.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he doing sending you flowers?”

  “What’s he doing asking me out to dinner?”

  “What a creep!” Polly’s voice sharpened. “What was he doing? Why would he pretend to be single? And then, why would he send his stepdaughter here, to school?”

  “I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s weird. He’s all about games.”

  “Have you told Sister?”

  “No! Sister already doesn’t like him. Told me a couple weeks ago that she doesn’t trust him.”

  “Good woman.”

  “But I’m afraid to go to her because it’ll come back on Delilah, and she’s happy here—”

  “Delilah, happy?”

  “All right, happier here than she probably is at home.”

  “Undoubtedly if she has a lying son of a bitch for a stepfather.” Polly reached into the flowers and extracted the small florist envelope. “Let’s see what dickhead said.” She opened the envelope, pulled out the card and read, “‘Time to finish what you started. Where and when? Jude.’”

  “Jude?” Polly repeated, forehead wrinkling as she struggled to place the name, before her fair head snapped up. “Kit Brennan!”

  Kit sat down on the counter. “Yes?”

  “You haven’t. You didn’t. Oh, Kit! Tell me it’s not that Hells Angels guy.”

  “He’s not a Hells Angel.”

  Polly flung the card down on the desk. “First Michael, now Jude. Have you lost your mind?”

  “You told me to go out with Michael—Howard—have to call him Howard. It pisses Jude off when I call him Michael—”

  “How long have you been seeing Jude?”

  Kit heard the way Polly said his name, as if it were something dirty and infinitely detestable. It would have been funny if she didn’t know Polly meant it. “Not really seeing him, Pol. Have just had coffee a couple of times this past week.”

  “And you are going to sleep with him already?”

  “I like him.”

  “At least have him tested first! He’s probably rampant with every STD out there—”

  “I’ll make sure he wears a condom, okay?”

  Polly crossed the room, joining her at the window. “You’re really into this guy.”

  Kit calmly met her gaze. “I am.”

  “Wow. Your dad is going to flip his lid.”

  “Here’s hoping he doesn’t find out.”

  Kit texted Jude the address to her little Queen Anne house in Highland Park. He arrived at seven on his big burnt-orange bike, and even though he was wearing his usual leather and denim combination, he’d shaved for her and his hair was still damp from washing it. When he pulled her close to give her a kiss, he smelled like soap and aftershave and tasted like spearmint gum.

  She liked it. Liked him. And even though he’d said the sex would be raw and hard and sweaty, it wasn’t anything like that. He was sensual and physical and extremely patient in bed. He coaxed an orgasm from her when she was sure it wouldn’t happen, and not through tricks or toys or a skillful tongue, but the old-fashioned way—his body stretched out over her, hands holding hers down, his chest to her breast, rib to rib, hip to hip, with some seriously good moves and the ability to delay his own gratification.

  “That,” she said later, when he held her wrapped in his arms, “was most impressive.”

  He smiled. “I was beginning to think it might not be raw enough, or hard enough, for you.”

  “Because it took me ten minutes to come?”

  “Wasn’t ten minutes. Maybe six.”

  She turned onto her side to look at him. “Did you mind working so hard?”

  He smiled into her hair. “That wasn’t work, angel. That was fun.”

  “No, but I know men don’t like it to take that long.”

  “Says who?”

  “Men.”

  “Not this one.”

  She lifted her head to better see his expression. “Can I tell you something?”

  He smiled at her, smiling almost tenderly into her eyes. “I wish you would.”

  “That was my first O, with someone, in four years.”

  He wasn’t smiling any longer. “Don’t tell me that.”

  She nodded, wrinkled her nose. “That’s why it was a lot of work for you.”

  “Kit, it wasn’t a lot of work. Sex in general is fun, but with you…it’s amazing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you.” He saw her expression and traced the fine arch of her eyebrow. “But just a little bit. So don’t go getting all excited about a relationship. It’s not going to happen. I’m bad news…and still not boyfriend material.”

  He was saying all the things he’d told her Sunday, except now his tone was gentle, almost teasing, and Kit wiggled closer, kissing him. It had been meant to be a sweet kiss, but all it took was him biting on her lower lip and sliding his hand up her side to cup her breast and she was ready for more.

  “You’re a greedy little minx,” he said, rolling her under him. “And I think this time I can make you come in five.”

  Kit saw Jude almost every night that week. He came to her house that first night, Tuesday, on his motorcycle, but the next two nights he arrived in a sedate blue sedan.

  “Whose car is that?” she asked, standing on the porch Wednesday night and watching him head up her sidewalk, her insides full of butterflies. Jude was so damn hot, even climbing out of a late-model car.

  “My mom’s.”

  “You took your mom’s car?”

  “It’s all right. I left her my bike.”

  Kit laughed and entered the house, knowing Jude was close behind her. The moment the door shut, he locked it, and pulled her up against him, kissing her hard, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t think and couldn’t protest when he slipped her sexiest pair of silk pajama pants off her body right there in the entry hall.

  Thursday night, Kit didn’t want Jude to leave. She never liked him leaving, but after three nights of amazing sex, she wanted more of him. More with him. She knew he’d said there wouldn’t be more, but would it be so wrong to ask?

  “Don’t go,” she said as he climbed out of bed and stepped into his jeans.

  “I have to go home. You know that.”

  “Will you ever stay here with me all night?”

  “I don’t sleep over.”

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t.”

  She watched him pull on his gray thermal shirt and then another shirt and then he sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and boots. “Do you do weekends away?”

  He glanced at her, lifted an eyebrow.

  She hadn’t drawn the curtains and the moonlight fell through the windowpanes of her upstairs bedroom, illuminating his firm features and strong profile.

  “That’s not a no,” she said helpfully.

  “Kit.”

  “We could go to the beach house. In Capitola. No one’s there. You and me. Han
g out for the weekend…eat, sleep, have sex…”

  “I don’t do romance.”

  “I know. And you don’t send flowers and you don’t make sure I climax before you do and you don’t make sure I get home safe every day from school.”

  “You’re going to be disappointed, Kit—”

  “Okay, fine. I will be. But I’m not disappointed yet, so…come to Capitola? I really want to sleep with you and play with you and hang out with you…”

  “You’re making this a relationship.”

  “I’m making this fun. And you’re having fun. So stop being such a hard-ass and all fierce and say, ‘Yes, Kit, I’d love to go to Capitola with you.’”

  He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her. “Yes, Kit, I’d love to go to Capitola with you.”

  “When? Next weekend.”

  “Can’t next weekend.”

  “How about this weekend? We could head down in my car, tomorrow, after I get out of school?”

  He laughed softly. “Sure. Why not?”

  Twenty

  The last time Kit had been to Capitola, it’d been mid-January and she’d gone with Polly for the Martin Luther King holiday weekend, and she’d met Jude. Now it was the first weekend of March and she was going with Jude.

  If Polly knew, she’d freak out.

  Kit shuffled her feet where they were resting up on the dash, feeling close to freaking out herself. This is crazy, she thought, glancing at Jude, who was behind the wheel of her Prius. He looked rather ridiculous in the car. It was like having a werewolf drive a VW bug. Just didn’t work, didn’t make sense.

  “You are so wiggly,” he drawled, stretching an arm out to play with her ponytail. “You’re like a little girl.”

  Her feet did another nervous, excited shuffle. “Feel like a little girl,” she said, wondering what he’d do if she burst into song, singing Madonna’s eighties hit “Like a Virgin.” “This is crazy. I don’t do things like this.”