Last night, immediately upon hearing his daughter’s tearful voice, John had covered the speaker, apologized to Beth, and told her it was a call he had to take. He’d bade her a quick good night and then had retreated into his bedroom and closed the door.
Now as she came into the main room, he was in the kitchen making coffee. “Good morning.”
He told her good morning, then, “I have to go see my daughter.” Before she had time to respond, he continued in a clipped voice. “The officer I charged with getting an address for Carla Mellin came through. So we’ll drive into town together. We’ll go see her after my talk with Molly.”
“Okay.” She didn’t remark on that being the first time he’d called his daughter by name.
Obviously distressed, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m meeting her at a coffee shop within walking distance of her school. She’s upset. I hope you understand that it’s not a good time to be making introductions. It shouldn’t take long.”
“I don’t mind waiting in the car.”
“Thanks. Her first class is at nine, so…” He motioned toward the wall clock, and Beth got the message.
“Give me ten minutes.”
During the drive into Auclair, he said little. That now familiar dent stayed between his eyebrows, indicating to her that whatever was going on with his daughter was troubling him greatly.
Fearing he might get prickly if he thought she was prying, she asked mildly, “How old is Molly?”
He stirred as though he’d been completely lost in thought. “Sixteen. In that picture you saw of us on the beach, we were celebrating her twelfth birthday. That was before the bottom fell out.”
“Of…?”
“Everything.”
Beth let the conversation die there. For the rest of the drive, he kept his eyes on the road, and neither said anything until he pulled into the coffee shop’s parking lot. “That’s her.”
The girl was standing outside the entrance scanning the parking lot for arrivals. She’d filled out since the picture on John’s nightstand had been taken, but she was still lanky. Her dark hair curled wildly. Rather adorably, in Beth’s opinion. She was dressed in wide-legged jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and the clunky sneakers her generation loved. A backpack was hanging from her narrow shoulders
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” John asked.
“I’ll be fine. Go.”
As he walked toward his daughter, she gave him a tentative smile and said meekly, “Hi, Dad.”
He pulled her into a tight hug, rocking slightly. They held on to each other for a long time. When he released her, she glanced back at the car.
“Is that the car from the fishing camp?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Somebody.”
“I’ll tell you inside.”
They went in and were led by a waitress to a booth. They scooted in facing each other. Molly ordered a smoothie. He ordered a black coffee. He asked about her classes, friends, general parental stuff to which he got general, monosyllabic, adolescent replies.
“How’s the art project coming?”
“Okay.”
She’d replied with a desultory okay to all his inquiries, when it was evident that everything was definitely not okay.
Their order arrived. She drew the straw toward her mouth and took a long sip, studying him over the tall glass. When she leaned back, she said, “Did you have a black eye?”
“Thanks to Mitch.”
“Uncle Mitch?” she exclaimed, showing some animation for the first time. She even laughed. “Why were you two fighting?”
“Just horsing around. He got a bruised belly out of it.”
“When’s their baby coming?”
“A few more months. They found out it’s a boy.”
“Cool. Have they named him?”
“I forgot to ask.”
She rolled her eyes at what seemed an unforgivable omission, then looked out the window toward his car. “Do you have a girlfriend?”