Harlequin Heartwarming May 2016 Box Set (58 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“W
HERE
'
S
D
AD
?”

Finn didn't even want to think of the possibilities. “I have no idea,” she said without taking her eyes off the checkbook.

Ciara patted her shoulder. “Don't—don't worry, Finn. He isn't in a bar.”

She didn't remind her sister that as long as he could wrap his fingers around the neck of a whiskey bottle, Connor could get drunk just about anywhere.

“He'll be—he'll be home soon.” She crossed to the front door and, standing on tiptoe, peeked through the curtains. “Did he tell you? We're going to Luigi's tonight for pizza. To celebrate that I don't need surgery. And to stay out of your hair since you're so busy with diner stuff.”

Dr. Peterson hadn't completely ruled out an operation. Ciara had the right to hear the truth in terms she could understand. And Finn intended to make Connor see that, first chance she got.

“Yes, he told me.” But only because he'd needed money to pay for their father-daughter night out.

On Connor's first morning in town, Finn had given him three hundred—in cash—for new jeans, a decent shirt and tie, and taxi money in case she was working and couldn't drive him to interviews. He'd taken it on the condition that she accept his IOU. And right now, it was in the bottom of her jewelry box with all the others—each a tiny reminder that her father's promises weren't worth the paper they were written on.

Ciara sat on the arm of the couch, and Finn finally looked up from her accounting.

“We can—we can bring something home for you...”

Finn smiled. “That would be real nice. Thanks, sweetie.”

Ciara went back to watching the window, and Finn focused on the electric bill. It wasn't easy paying attention, though, with her sister over there, chattering happily about pizza toppings and root beer and a walk to the ice-cream parlor afterward.

Oh, Connor, please don't let her down again.

If he did, Ciara would accept whatever lame excuse he came up with, forgive him and promptly forget about it.
Better that than become a bitter, untrusting grouch like you
.

“Need to change my shoes,” Ciara said, heading for her room. “Might have to walk a lot. And Dad walks
fast.
”

She'd loan Connor the car—if a judge in Florida hadn't taken away his license.

He walked in just then, looking...
guilty
was the only word that came to mind.

“Where's Ciara?”

“In her room, putting some finishing touches on her outfit.” She didn't detect even a hint of alcohol when he kissed her cheek. Maybe he'd traded whiskey for vodka or gin, since they didn't leave a telltale scent, or opted to take pills instead. “She's really excited about your night on the town.”

“So am I.” He pointed at the paperwork scattered on the old desktop. “Don't suppose you can leave this for a few hours and join us.”

It was tempting, but Finn shook her head. “I'd better not. The guys are wrapping up at The Right Note. And once I start putting things back where they go...”

He seemed relieved that she'd said no. She couldn't blame him. Since the accident, she hadn't exactly been the warmest, most loving daughter.

“If I know you, you won't want to stop until the job's done.” Smiling, he shook his head. “No idea where you got your work ethic.”

The comment reminded her of a loud, dishes-smashing battle between her parents. “This isn't the first time you've been with another man!” he'd bellowed, pointing at Finn. “She's got a do-the-right-thing gene as big as her head. She sure as heck didn't get that from either of
us
!” She'd only been six at the time, too young to fully comprehend what he'd insinuated. But one glance at Misty had cleared things up in less than a blink: Connor wasn't convinced Finn was his daughter.

She stared hard at the checkbook, but the numbers blurred. Finn rubbed her eyes, wondering why she kept buying tickets to ride this emotional roller coaster. Memories like that were counterproductive. Especially considering the fact that, after the accident, their shared rare blood type had made it pretty clear he was, indeed, her father.

“Dad,” Ciara said, “I was beginning to think you forgot about—about our date. I'm so glad you're home!”

“Where else would I be?”

If Finn had blinked, she would have missed the uncertainty that flickered across Ciara's features. In that instant, her sister hadn't seemed quite so naive. Was it possible she
did
remember his broken promises?

Glancing at his watch, Connor said, “Ready to go?”

“I've been ready for
a whole hour
.”

“Had an errand to run,” he said. “Took longer than I thought.” He held out his arms, and she stepped into them. “But your old dad is here now, right?”

Ciara wrapped her arms around his waist. “Yes, you're here now.”

Finn squeezed Ciara's hand. “You guys have fun, okay?”

“I will. Dad, can we bring Finn something to eat?”

“You bet.” He kissed Finn's cheek, then lowered his voice to say, “If she's not too tired, we might catch that movie she's been talking about. But don't worry. If she starts looking peaked, even a little, I'll bring her right home.”

It wasn't easy, watching them walk away hand in hand. He'd been different this visit—more attentive, helpful, fun loving—and Ciara was lapping it up like a hungry pup. If he fell off the wagon and disappeared again, it would hurt more than the past three times combined.

Finn tidied the batch of now-paid bills. First thing tomorrow, she'd stop by the post office for stamps and get the whole stack into the mail.

“I hope you appreciate this, Pete,” she mumbled. He'd raised a stink every time she suggested going the online route. It didn't make much sense that she kept doing things the old-fashioned way, but then, why should that make sense when so few other things about life did?

Right now, all that talk of pizza and ice cream was making her hungry, and unless Connor had raided the fridge, she could make a sandwich from that leftover meat loaf. Thankfully, the small plastic container still sat on a middle shelf. She popped bread into the toaster and put the meat loaf into the microwave. And while she tried to decide between catsup and mayo, someone knocked.

“Don't tell me,” she called through the door, “you forgot your key again, didn't you?”

“No, but I almost forgot how pretty you look in yellow,” Sam said when she opened it.

She glanced down at her oversize T-shirt. The sundress she'd worn to the zoo had been almost the same shade.

“Connor and Ciara just left.” She stepped aside to let him in.

“I know. I stayed in the truck until I saw them round the corner.”

She started to ask why, but he kept going before she could cut in. “Hope you don't mind me showing up unannounced. I tried to call and text a few times.” He held up a white paper bag. “Figured you were swamped, getting the diner ready to reopen, so I took a chance that you hadn't had supper yet.” He sniffed the air. “Something smells amazing.”

“I was just heating up some of last night's meat loaf.” She led the way into the kitchen. “There's plenty, unless you have your heart set on whatever's in that bag.”

“Lunch-meat subs,” he said, stuffing the sack into the fridge. “They'll keep.”

“Paper plates are in there.” She pointed at the pantry's narrow door. “So are the napkins.”

While Sam set the table, Finn poured iced tea. “It's decaf,” she said. “Fresh brewed and guaranteed not to keep you awake.”

She did her best to ignore his arresting smile and focused on the questions churning in her mind: Was his arrival a coincidence? Or did the timing have something to do with Connor's peculiar, almost guilty expression earlier?
Only one way to find out...

“Have you talked with Connor lately?”

“Guess that depends on your definition of the word
lately
.”

Clever.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because he was acting suspicious earlier, sort of the way you were just now.”

“Didn't realize I looked suspicious.”

Did he realize he had the power to make her every nerve jangle just by aiming those long-lashed blue eyes in her direction?

Finn had a feeling Connor had paid him a visit, but for now she'd sidestep the issue. For now. She put the meat loaf plate in the middle of the table and jabbed a fork into it. “Dig in,” she told him. “Nuked food tends to cool faster than stuff heated in a pan on the stovetop.”

Providing useless information, Pete once told her, makes others aware you're not on solid ground. “If you don't know what to say, keep your mouth shut,” he'd always insisted.

Sam put a slice of meat loaf on her plate, then opened the fridge and withdrew the catsup before serving himself.

“So how are things coming downstairs?”

Finn topped off her wedge with a red squiggle. “Really well. Hopefully, I'll still be able to say that a week from now, so I can schedule the grand reopening celebration.”

He raised an eyebrow, exactly as he had right before recommending the shortlist of contractors.

“Don't tell me you know someone who can help with publicity, too?”

Sam laughed quietly. “Matter of fact, I do. Young reporter who interviewed me for an article in
Nashville Lifestyles
. She's always looking for lifestyle story ideas.”

“I subscribe and leave copies of the magazine near the cash register, in case people need something to read while they're eating alone. Now I wish I had time to read more than the cover.” She sipped her tea. “Which issue were you in?”

“I think it was called something like ‘Most Eligible.' Hit the stands a couple years back.”

Yes, Finn had seen that one but decided not to spend even one minute reading about musicians flaunting their “I'm so hot!” attitudes.

“Did you get any fan mail after it was released?”

He laughed again. “No, thank God.” Sam sobered slightly to add, “It's probably tough for someone like you to believe, but not every musician spends his life seeking out opportunities to score.”

Someone like me?

He muttered something unintelligible, then said, “What's left to do? To get the place ready to open, I mean.”

“There are dozens of boxes in the storeroom, full of dinnerware, flatware, utensils... I was in too big a rush when I packed them up to separate the good stuff from things with cracks, chips or dents. I need to go through all of it, wash up the useful stuff and get rid of the rest.”

He carried the now-empty paper plate to the trash can and stepped on the pedal. “More iced tea?”

“No, but thanks.”

“How 'bout when we finish up here, you give me the nickel tour of the diner?”

“It's not all that different than it was.” She'd hoped to open for business without anyone but the staff knowing about the changes she'd made.

“Yeah, right.”

“You've...you've seen it?”

“Yes and no.” He dumped his ice cubes into the sink and put the tumbler in the dishwasher. “Don't look so surprised. It isn't my fault you're barely bigger than a minute.”

“I'm...
What?
”

“When you hung that butcher's paper to hide what was going on inside, you didn't take it all the way to the top of the windows. I didn't even have to stand on my toes to peek over the top of it.”

Why did the image of him peering into the window make her smile?

She got up, disposed of her own plate and said, “Since you won't be surprised on opening day, I might as well let you see what a great job your contractor pal has done.”

* * *

F
IVE
MINUTES
LATER
, standing in the space between the snack bar and the service counter, Sam said, “Wow. This is amazing. People are gonna love it.”

“I hope so. I didn't have a lot of time to choose fixtures and whatnot. Your guy is
fast
.”

“They call him Speedy down at the station house.” He walked to the other side of the counter. “It doesn't even look like the same place.”

“Which is part of the problem. There isn't much Pete left.”

“Well, from everything I've heard about him, I'm pretty sure he'd approve.”

“I hope so,” she said again. “What have you heard?”

“That he saw you and Ciara as the kids he never had, and that during the last years of his life, he put things in motion to ensure you guys were well taken care of when he wasn't around to do it anymore.”

A wistful smile lifted one corner of her mouth.

“So it's a safe bet he'd approve of the changes,” he concluded.

“I hope you're right, because what's done is done.” She laughed softly. “Almost done anyway.”

“There's one way you can find out for sure,” he said, following her to the storeroom. “Have everyone who comes in that first week fill out a survey to let you know who's been here before and which menu item they like best. Then you have a draw, and the winner gets, oh, I dunno, twenty bucks off their next meal or something.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, and Sam didn't know whether to blame it on his idea or the stubborn packing tape that refused to break when she tried to open a box.

“You know, that's not a half-bad idea.” She met his eyes. “Were you a publicist in a former life?”

He popped the tape securing the carton's lid, then did his best cowboy impersonation. “There y'go, li'l missy.”

She topped it with a less-than-perfect thank-you.