Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  She looks down at the table. “Ted. He insisted. Sold his house to save ours, moved into some tiny apartment. And this was after I broke his heart by going back to Phil that first time.”

  “And neither of you told us?”

  “After we got married he made me swear that I would never tell you girls. Never let you know how close we came to being homeless-“

  “Do you think Dad could have stolen from Glenda?”

  “Your father is perfectly capable of having stolen from that woman. He was willing to throw his own girls onto the streets because he got some bug up his ass to go to Uzbekistan!” She stands and shoves the chair into the table with a loud crack. I jump.

  Dad would have let me be homeless. Let all of us be homeless. It’s almost too selfish to be believed. But I’ve known my father, or, I guess, Phil, my whole life, and never once have I known him to remember a birthday, or, well, anything about any of us that didn’t in some way directly pertain to him.

  My head hangs with a glacial weight and rub my hands over my eyes.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I never wanted to tell you this.” She walks around the table and wraps her arms around my shoulders. She smells like rose perfume and her favorite peppermint gum, and I lean my head into her shoulder.

  “What am I going to do?” I ask, feeling small.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How? How could you keep this from me?” My heart thrums and my neck and ears and head burn with the pulse. “All these years, you let me believe that he loved me, that he cared-“

  “People are complicated-“

  “No!” My thoughts spiral around and around and my stomach turns and my chest aches. “He would have let me live on the street! That’s not love, that’s, that’s horrible-“

  “I don’t know if he thought that through, honey. He gets tunnel vision sometimes, all he knew is that he wanted to go to Uzbekistan and did whatever he had to do to get there. Consequences are not anything he stops to consider-“

  “Stop defending him! And just, just stop! You kept Ted being my actual father from me, kept the fact that Dad, Phil, stole from you, from me, from-“

  “I couldn’t ruin your relationship with Phil, you were always special in his-“

  She reaches out for my shoulder and I slap her hand away. “No. Don’t. I need to leave, need to process this somehow.”

  Ted walks into the room as if on cue and wraps his arms around me. Before I know it, I’m sitting next to Ted on the couch under a hundred blankets, watching some documentary. Every time Mom enters the room I turn my head.

  There are two more. The emails take less than twenty-four hours to hit my inbox. Each one landing in my brain like a bag full of steel spikes, sharp and weighted.

  I stare at the screen on my computer. The noise of the coffeemaker and of my co-workers pounding away at their keyboards and of their myriad of ring tones blasting all at once form a kind of vortex, and at dead center is the text of those emails. I even wrote to and heard back from two of the women I featured in my original New Canaan Cassanova piece, both of them confirming the picture of my Dad as that of the Cassanova.

  I email back the women, each in different parts of the country, asking for more details, but I have a suspicion that their stories will be similar. They fell in love and when they let him into their lives and their checking accounts, he cleaned them out. It’s my Dad, he’s the New Canaan Cassanova.

  Resisting the urge to search their profiles on Facebook to see who they are and if they have posted any pictures with my Dad, I open up a blank Word document and attempt to think basketball.

  High school basketball, to be exact.

  And well, I have nothing.

  The cursor on the page mocks me, so I type my name, that way I at least have something.

  My stomach growls and I check my phone. Three more calls from Hunter. Two texts asking if I’m ok and if I want to meet him for lunch.

  Oh God, Hunter. All this stuff with mom and dad I haven’t even thought about Hunter. My heart lurches and I close my eyes. I can’t just keep ignoring him.

  I text him back that I’ll meet him for lunch and go back to staring at my empty page.

  I have to confront Dad. What if these other women won’t drop charges if Dad pays them back? What if my nosing around sends him to jail? It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to tell him that he’s not even my biological father, what is all this going to do to him?

  What if I don’t care?

  Sick.

  I am a miserable, sick, terrible daughter.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” Gennifer drums her fingers on my desk, her black hair piled high on top of her head today so that she looks vaguely like a mix between a librarian and Elvira. “Where’s my article about the Fall’s Falcons?”

  I groan and rub my hands through my hair. “It’s coming.” I watched the game on YouTube this morning over breakfast. “Just have to get-“

  And email alert flashes on the screen.

  From Dan at the Chicago Sentinel.

  “Hey Piper?” Gennifer growls. “It’s me, Earth. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

  Nodding, I say, “Love you, too.”

  She sighs and walks away. My hands tremble, my throat tickly as I click to open the email. What does it say, what does it-

  I got the job.

  In Chicago.

  Oh my God. I creep out of my chair, head spinning, and tug on Gennifer’s sleeve.

  “I got the job in Chicago.” I say, legs shaking, I feel a hundred times lighter than I did thirty seconds ago.

  “That’s great!” She gives me a hug. “But now you have seventeen minutes to get me that article.”

  I text Hunter, telling him to make sure we order some wine for a nice toast over lunch, and then text my mom and Aunt Elise, and then…

  Dad.

  My hand pauses over the surface of the phone. He’d want to know. I mean, he’s the one that’s been pushing me to do this, to go for the big time, to not settle for small town papers. But now.

  Now his support seems suspect, somehow. He left me destitute as a child, and not just me but my sisters, my mom, he took all we had so he could chase his dream. And now, well, he wants me to follow mine.

  I send him a quick message, despite all the questions, despite everything I really need to ask but don’t want to, I only tell him about the job in Chicago.

  I want this one last moment of joy between us.

  He texts back immediately:

  So proud of you, Baby girl. Knew you could do it.

  My heart swells, it might burst into flames. His praise feels so good, like I’m worthy and special and smart, but I hate myself for loving it. Hate that I need it, that I love it, that I’ve always wanted it and now that I have it, it feels false.

  Because he’s false.

  Everything about him is false.

  I texted so many of those Call Me 911 messages and did he return any of those? No.

  He’s a big fake. A money-grubbing gigolo who steals from the people who love him the most and even as I love him I hate him, too. Hate him for making this so confusing, hate him for making me care what he thinks, hate him for putting me in this situation.

  Bursting, my lungs are bursting and I wipe the tears from my face. Again and again and again. They won’t stop, my hands shake as I use tissue after tissue.

  Gennifer doesn’t say anything, but she stops what she’s doing and stares.

  After my tears dry, I sit at my desk.

  I write the article.

  “So, you want to tell me what that napkin did to piss you off?” Hunter asks, his elbows on the table, gesturing his head towards the pieces of napkin I’ve torn and left strewn about the tabletop.

  I place my hands down, flat out on the table in front of me. Looking up at him, his hotness steals away my breath, so I look down again. I have to be open about this. He was great listening to me about the whole Phil-is-not-my-biological-dad thing, right?


  How on earth am I going to say this? I can’t, I just can’t ruin this. But he has to know the truth before it’s too late.

  “Piper, I would give you anything in the world it’s in my power to give, don’t get me wrong, but that’s my napkin and now the waitress is starting to give us funny looks.”

  Oh my gosh, I did it to his, too. His napkin sits twisted and torn in my left fist. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t care. What I care about is that there’s something bothering you and you’re not telling me.” He shifts in his seat. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “About lunch?”

  “No, about us. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Dad’s a thief. The New Canaan Cassanova.” The words leave my mouth before I know they’re even there and I look up into his eyes, the comprehension not there. “Um, Phil, not Ted.”

  The waitress stops by the table and reaches between us to clear off all of the napkin bits. Replacing our silverware, she lays out our sandwiches.

  His eyes pin me like a bug on a tack. I swallow and pull the plate towards me, appetite gone.

  It’s a shame, too. The turkey, Craisin and brie Panini smells great.

  He leans back from the table and his crossed eyebrows and tight lips send waves of guilt and fear and misery, tying my stomach up in knots.

  He pushes his plate away.

  I take a sip of ice water. “I got an email, late, from a woman, that’s who I went to see last night in Stamford. My father, he, he stole from her. He romanced her and then robbed her blind.”

  He stares at his plate, hands coming together, then apart, then together again.

  “My mother is on her way to New York right now, with Phil and an entire stock of sample pieces from the new line of jewelry.”

  “Oh my gosh, let me try and-“

  “No, we’ll take care of it. You and I, we can fix this, Piper-“

  “I got the job in Chicago.” The words are out my mouth before I can stop them. He freezes, pain and shock and Oh My God save me from the look on his face. I can’t take it. “I’m leaving and my father is a thief, so I think it’s best if we cut this thing off between us now.”

  Hunter stares at me. Incomprehension crossing his face, wiping it clean of all else.

  Choking on words I don’t know how to say, I push air up over the ball in my throat. “I mean, I—how am I supposed to look at you knowing that Dad tried to... I just can’t. It’s over.” My chest aches and my voice trembles and oh God it hurts.

  He blinks, misery stamped across his face. He starts to say something, hesitates, and then walks out of the room.

  Dad isn’t answering his phone. Or his texts.

  That new line of jewelry means everything to Hunter, Dad can’t steal it, he just can’t. But I’m the stupid one.

  I asked Gennifer to try and trace the metadata from the anonymous tip I got about the diamond.

  It was sent from my home computer. Dad, it was dad who sent the tip, and all those times he tried to get the “backstage tour” of the shop he was really just wanted to scope the place out.

  One of the ladies, who knew dad as Gary, confessed to me over email that she hired some men to try and find him to get her money back- the goons that kept driving by the house.

  I bang the steering wheel. How could I have been so stupid!

  We may be lucky if all he takes are the sample pieces and not the big kahuna, the tiara, too.

  I have the job in Chicago, I can leave all of this ugliness behind, but first I have to stop Dad from doing any more damage. Can I even call him Dad anymore? I shove the question down deep inside. It doesn’t matter. He’s always been Dad, he always will be. Biology be damned.

  The car’s heat blasts through the vents and I check the GPS. Hunter said once that his mom only ever stays at the Grand Hyatt when she’s in the city, so I assume that’s where they’re headed.

  I can’t breathe, the memory of Hunter’s face sending my mind reeling in spits and flutters.

  But it’s the right thing to do. I’m leaving for Chicago. And if the tables were reversed, would I be able to forgive my lover’s father trying to steal from me?

  Trucks blow by me and now I can’t see the signs. Was that my turn? Please let the GPS not crap out on me. I have to get there in time. I have to stop this.

  My chest splits, like someone is prying apart my ribs with a crowbar.

  I cross the Whitestone Bridge and see a sign for LaGuardia airport.

  God, and mom? I’ve never been able to talk to her like that, the way we did last night. It’s like the curtain that has hung between us finally went up in flames and now I’m leaving.

  I can’t keep any kind of relationship, it seems.

  Dad’s still not calling me back. I cross the bridge into Manhattan, zip over to Grand Central and park the car.

  I love New York. Normally.

  But today the streets are nothing more than wind tunnels full of zombies that are all in my way. Barreling into the Hyatt, I hop up the escalator, eyes momentarily drawn to the odd white Buddha that sits on its tier of black stone.

  Okay, so, there is an expansive lobby with sleek white couches off to the right in front of a massive bank of elevators. To my left is a staircase leading up towards the bar and straight ahead seems to be check-in.

  Great. Wonderful. I’ll start there. Standing in line, I tap my foot. I pull out the phone and decide to try to text him one last time.

  DAD. I am in the Hyatt. I know about Glenda and the others. Tell me your room number now.

  I shove the thing back into my pocket and pray that I can stop dad from taking Hunter’s collection.

  My phone buzzes and it says: 2253

  Oh my gosh! A room number. I race out of line and over to the bank of elevators, feeling out of place amongst the well-heeled tourists and businessmen in suits. Hitting floor twenty-two I wait. And wait. And wait. Do we have to stop on every floor?

  A German couple exits the elevator on the twentieth floor and I hold my breath. When the thing stops at the twenty-second floor, I race out, desperately searching for the sign to point me in the right direction. That’s it, to the left. I take a left and then a left again and nod to the woman pushing the housekeeping cart.

  My steps slow as it reach 2253. The door is propped open, and my lungs fill with pebbles. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say.

  I push open the door with an unsteady hand, my voice soft as I call, “Dad?”

  He’s sitting on the bed, his back to me. His gray hair ruffled and sticking up in odd places. He’s wearing a tee and sweatpants, jewelry, including the amazing peacock tiara, spread out carelessly on the bedspread behind him.

  A duffle bag sits open at his feet, and Hunter’s mom is nowhere to be found.

  Not knowing what to do, I go over and sit beside him, facing the window, and grab his hand.

  The room smells like soap and aftershave and the only sound is the chattering of the cleaning ladies in the hall and my dad’s breathing.

  His hand is warm and large and calloused, and I wonder what it is that he’s done in his life that made them so rough. My throat tightens.

  I’ve never really known him at all.

  “You really like that boy. Her son.” He says, his voice choked and rough. Blinking, his eyes hold a pain I can’t begin to understand, and as I stare at the handsome lines of his faces, lines I’ve spent years and years worshipping, all I can think about is how exhausted he looks.

  “Yes. A lot.” I squeeze his hand.

  His shoulders rise and fall. “Sometimes it’s hard to see the value of what you have until you lose it. Like with me and your mother. I woke up one day and asked how my life had come to this, a father to four girls. It was like I was living the end of my dreams. I wanted so much more, wanted you and your mother and your sisters to see that there was more to this world.”

  So you took our money and ran? There are thousands of questions a
nd accusations rolling around in my head, fears and heartache and anger becoming words. Part of me wants to shout, to hurt him and tell him that I’m not even his. But my mouth stays shut.

  I could ask why he stole from us and Glenda and Hunter’s mom, I could ask if he’s ever really cared about anyone, if he’s every really loved me, loved mom, loved my sisters, or if everything was just a lie.

  But sitting there, next to him in silence, I know that none of it matters.

  Because I love him.

  And that means something to me.

  He turns, looking over his shoulder at the jewels. “I owe people money. Lots of people, lots of money. But I don’t want to-”

  “Then don’t.”

  “They’ll hurt me.”

  I can’t deny it. They might hurt him, but-

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  “You can.” He says, his voice weak. “I’m tired. Tired of chasing something I can’t ever get. Don’t ever gamble with what matters, BabyGirl. It doesn’t work out in the end.”

  “C’mon, Dad. We have to go.”

  He turns, staring out at the bed with mournful eyes. “You don’t understand. I have to do this, and I’m willing to cut you in.”

  A sickly chill lodges itself in my ribcage. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Think about it. You’ll be working for the Chicago Sentinel it’ll be the perfect cover. I’m getting old to be romancing all these women. But my conscious is clean. These women have it coming, they’re not good people, BabyGirl. I’m sure there are lots of handsome wealthy guys in Chicago who would love to get to know you. We can plan the marks together and while the other one charms their way into their lives, the other can plan our getaway, cover tracks, etc. We’d be unstoppable.”

  Am I really hearing this? I can’t-

  he can’t-

  this can’t be happening-

  “The Sentinel isn’t a cover, Dad, it’s a dream job.”

  “You won’t have the lifestyle you deserve as a reporter, think about it. A little supplemental income would be perfect.” He reaches back onto the bed and grabs a few necklaces. “We could split the profits, I’d be willing to go seventy-thirty to start, and then once all my debts are repaid we can go sixty-forty.”