Kept (43 page)

She closed her eyes. “I can’t drag you into this.”

“You’re not dragging me into anything.”

“I can’t have your name tied to it. You’re a pastor. You can’t afford to be associated with me.”

“Whoa.” He stepped closer. “Don’t tell me I can’t—”

“You
can’t
, Dillan. I won’t destroy your name too.”

“You won’t.” He held back a frustrated growl. “I choose to be there for you. Regardless of the cameras in your face.”

Silently she watched him, arms crossed. She was trying to make him think that she was holding herself together, that she was fine. But she wasn’t. Here she was, a baby Christian, facing a trial that a mature Christian would struggle through. He wouldn’t let her face it alone. “Don’t shut me out because of what I do. You need a friend. I—” He needed her. Or maybe he was going crazy from loneliness.

No. He needed her.

She covered her eyes with her hand.

He took a step closer. She smelled like spring, like flowers. He studied her bare hand, his fingers curling with longing. “Miska.”

She sniffed.

“I want to spend time with you. I want to know you better. Pray together, study the Bible together.” Okay, he hadn’t meant for all that to come out. Might as well just propose while his mouth was running.

But she raised her gaze to his. Her eyes, so dark, searched his face.
Yes.
She was softening.

He smiled out his hope. “I’d like to take you out for dinner. Are you free tomorrow—”

“Hey, Miska?”

Dillan froze at the man’s voice inside the condo.

“I finished in your bedroom.”

What? He straightened, staring through the door as if he could make out the man inside her home.

Miska pushed her door open.

A thirty-something guy wearing khakis and a light-blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up, smiled at her, camera in hand. He saw Dillan and stopped. “Oh. You’re busy. I’ll wait in your living room.”

“It’s okay. Mitch, this is Dillan, my neighbor.”

The man stepped forward and smiled broadly as he held out his hand. “Mitch Johnson. Photographer for Miska’s realtor.”

A photographer. For her realtor. Dillan took his hand, pumped it once. “Hey.” He smiled his relief. “Nice to meet you.”

Mitch held up the camera. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“Okay.” She watched him go, then turned back to Dillan.

And he’d thought—he laughed the idea from his head. “Getting the place listed, huh?”

She nodded, her somberness back. “Yes. Just a photographer. Not another man.”

He’d pretend he hadn’t heard that. “So what do you think? Are you free tomorrow—”

Her fingertips landed on his arm. “We’re not ready for this.”

“Of course we are.”

“No. You’re not. I have enough of a time, living with myself. It’s too fresh for you.”

“Miska, I’m sorry—”

“I know, Dillan.” Her hand slid down to his palm. He tried to capture it, but she slipped away. “I need to go.”

“Please don’t.” Whatever she’d seen before, she had to see how sorry he was, how much he longed for her.

But her smile was weak. “We’d just hurt each other. You’d never trust me, and I’d always feel guilty.”

“That’s my fault, not yours.”

“It’d be my fault if I ruined your name.” She pushed her door open farther. “’Bye, Dillan.”

The door closed. Her lock clicked.

He’d just blown it. The wall between their doors held him up. Oh, man, had he blown it. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes against the ceiling.

How stupid.
Stupid.
She’d been about to say yes. He’d talked her into it, and then that camera dude had to call out. He planted his hands over his face, dragged them down his cheeks.

Maybe—terrible thought—maybe she was right. Maybe he’d never be able to forget the Miska he’d first met. Or Mark. Or Kendall. Or Barry.

He blew out a deep, deep breath. How he wished he could forget. But it was too late.

She’d caught him, and the damage was done.

Just like her and him. Done. Over before anything could start.

“You’re an idiot, Foster,” he muttered. A real idiot.

He shoved his door open before remembering Garrett was inside. Too late. At least he’d get it over with.

Garrett popped out from the kitchen and grinned at him, an open Lucky Charms box in hand. “What’d she say, bud?” he asked around a mouthful.

Dillan jammed his hands into his pockets. “She said no.”

Garrett quit chewing and stared.

Dillan clenched his jaw as the finality of it struck him. “She said no,” he repeated and slipped inside his room.

A phone was ringing.

Miska opened one eye. Morning sunlight peeped around the edges of her silvery damask curtains. The phone, charging in the kitchen, rang again, and she lifted her head enough to see her alarm clock.

Seven thirty.

“It’s Saturday,” she whined. The only day she could sleep in, now that she was a good, church-going girl.

Well, a church-going girl at least.

She forced her legs to the floor and padded into the kitchen. The sunlight was bright, and she squinted as she picked up the phone and read the caller’s name.

Dad.

She croaked a
hello
.

“Morning, Miska. You just wake up?”

Her laugh sounded froggish. “I did. You woke me.”

“Oh. Whoops. Forgot to look at the time.”

“That’s okay. I needed to get up and run anyway.” She’d skipped yesterday. Running without Dillan was no fun.

“You could use food, young lady.”

“Yes, well. You buying?”

He chuckled. “Hey, I got a phone call this morning.” He was grinning—she could hear it. “I’ve been working on this book. It’s not done yet, but I pitched it to an editor at a conference last week. She loves what I sent her, and she wants to see more.”

“Dad, that’s fantastic. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. She wants to take it to her editorial board next week, and I wondered if you could help.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Just a fresh set of eyes. I’m going to be polishing chapters as much as possible, and I need to brainstorm the ending, get your take on how it should wrap up.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s kind of a memoir about our family.”

“Our family?”

“Yeah. See, I’ve been taking notes on my meetings with you kids, writing down what happened and everything. It’s a memoir about a truly dysfunctional family, about a dad who abandoned his kids and how I’ve rebuilt a relationship with most of you. Kind of the modern, messed-up family makes good. What do you think?”

He was writing about them? About her? His messenger bag flashed before her, the time she’d stormed out of the restaurant and caught him still in his chair, writing furiously.

“Miska?”

Her voice wouldn’t work.

“You there?”

It couldn’t be as bad as it sounded. “Sounds… interesting. Different.”

“That’s what the editor said. Can you help?”

She had to see what he’d written. “Sure.”

“Great. When can we get together?”

“Umm.” She swallowed. “I’m looking at houses today, but I can cancel—”

“Don’t do that. I want to finish more before you read it. What about later tonight? I can bring dinner by your place.”

Could she really eat before reading the thing? “That works.”

“Thanks, Miska. I owe you.”

It certainly sounded like he did.

Her realtor, Ian, had five houses to show her. Tracy met her at the first one, and they toured them together. One was too close to O’Hare, another too far north. One had potential foundation issues, but the other two were possibilities.

Neither appealed, though. Nothing would appeal, not until she’d read what her dad had written.

On the way home, Ian’s office called to say an agent wanted to show her home that night, around eight thirty. Would that work?

She’d make it work.

Dad showed up at five with two Lou Malnati’s pizzas, one spinach and one sausage with garlic. Just what she needed, a garlic stench in the place. She wrapped the pizzas up as soon as they finished eating and set a timer to go off around seven. She’d bake a batch of brownies and hope the smell of chocolate covered any lingering odors.

“So.” Dad made himself comfortable on her couch and from his bag pulled out a manuscript somewhere over one hundred pages. “Here’s what I’ve got so far. Tell me what you think.”

He set it in her lap, and Miska stared at the first page, a prologue dated almost two years before she was born. The pages were like a boulder against her legs, but she picked them up and began to read.

It was his version of leaving Jody, the same story Adrienne had told her in May. She read as he made the decision to abandon his wife and kids, how he packed his suitcase while his wife pleaded for him to stay, how she clung to him as he headed for the front door, and how he pushed her away, ignoring the crash and scream that followed.

It was just like Adrienne had said.

Except that Adrienne wasn’t in his version—just him and Jody. There were no kids crying out their fear and confusion. No children left with a mom who would stay physically but abandon them emotionally.

A tear splashed onto the page.

The couch creaked. “Miska?”

“I can’t do this, Dad. Not with you here. I can’t read this now.”

“But it’s not about you. It’s about Jody.”

“And Adrienne. And Alec. Adrienne already told me this story, and it’s just like you said, except she and Alec were there too.”

“Were they?” He squinted at her. “I don’t remember.”

“That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

His eyes cleared. He straightened and eased back in his seat, pinching his lips together as he stared at her window.

What had he said about her and her brothers? About Mom? He’d been dead on with Jody. What would she learn about her own family? Was she ready to hear the truth?

He cleared his throat. “I should leave.”

He reached for the manuscript, but she clutched it to herself. “I want to read it.”

“Miska—”

“Don’t I have a right to know what you wrote? Don’t all of us kids have a right to know what you’re saying?”

He stared out the window again.

She pushed herself off the couch and walked to the kitchen, the manuscript still in her arms. “Why did you write this?”

He said nothing.

She set the manuscript on the far end of the counter and grabbed a brownie mix from the cabinet.

Still nothing.

She set out a bowl and mixer, found the oil and eggs needed. Ripped open the box and tugged the bag out of the box.

“I thought it would be good.”

She stilled and studied the back of his head.

He rubbed his hands together. “I thought it would sell.”

He wants money
.

Adrienne’s words couldn’t be true. “So after you started meeting with us, you got the idea to write it all down.”

He said nothing.

“Right? Dad?”

His shoulders rose then fell, and finally he twisted enough so he could see her. “Miska…”

But he couldn’t finish. Because she wasn’t right. All along, this getting to know her and the rest of her half-siblings—it had all been for money. Never for love. Never for reconciliation or relationship.

She and I are the closest.

She smacked the brownie box, sent it flying off the counter. “You used me. You lied to me!”

“No, Miska—”

She rounded the island, her teeth clenched as tightly as her fingers. “No more lies, Jack!”

He paled. “Miska, listen to me. The ideas came together—”

She grabbed his bag from the coffee table and threw it at him. His wallet, pens, a pack of gum, and half-used writing pad fell out. She kicked the pad toward him. “There’s your paper,
Dad
. Your pen. Quick, write it down while it’s fresh. Write down how much of a failure you are, how your kids will all find out what a liar—”

He reached for her. “Miska.”

“—and despicable man you are.”

“Stop it—”

“No! You stop it!” She buried her face in her hands. “I gave up my sister for you. My friend. Do you even care?”

“She didn’t care about you.”

“Neither do you.” She collapsed onto the couch. How could she have bought his act? The Father’s Day card, the pizza she’d fallen in love with—a complete betrayal of Mom—how she wished she could take it all back.

“I’m just a man, Miska. I’m not perfect.”

She gave him her back. “So I’m learning, Dad.”

Dad.

Her throat swelled. Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut.

Behind her came the sounds of him packing his bag, then his footsteps moving toward the door. Somewhere near the island he stopped.

Miska blew her pain away. She would not cry. Not over a lousy narcissist who couldn’t even fake a good father.

“Miska, I’m sorry.”

Of course he was.

“I didn’t mean to…”

To hurt her. He couldn’t even say it, because it wasn’t true.

Her door opened and closed.

When she finally stood, the shadows of Chicago’s high rises stretched into the lake. She moved around the kitchen like a frozen person, purposely numb. She’d bake the brownies, then read the manuscript and see how much of her pain he had shared for profit.

Night cloaked the distant reaches of Grant Park. Around the fountain people waited for the nine o’clock light show to start, taking pictures and video in front of the splashing water.

Somewhere nearby sirens screamed to life, and people turned to look. Dillan kept going, past the fountain. Tonight he didn’t care.

He should have planned something. Garrett had been out most of the day, but Dillan could have called Cam or Matt, seen if they wanted to shoot buckets. He focused on the blackness of the lake. He’d never been by the waterfront at night. The running path probably wasn’t busy. Seemed like the perfect place to forget.

Traffic on Lake Shore Drive was sparse. The traffic sign flashed permission for him to cross, and he did, headlights from a cab and a Mustang shining on his legs. He reached the stairs to the lakefront and started down.