Kept (3 page)

God, help.

Garrett would laugh at him, roll his eyes, make some snide remark. But Dillan had seen where his brother’s life had taken him. He remembered perfectly the shock and anger they’d all felt, remembered Mom’s tears and Dad’s stony grief. Saw firsthand the pitiful looks people at church sent his parents’ backs—and probably his—before Garrett returned from the East Coast in shame. He had no idea how deeply his choices had affected them. But Dillan did. He’d lived through the nightmare of wondering if Garrett would be arrested or not.

Of course to hear Garrett tell it, he was a different man.

Nope. Not after that elevator conversation. Not with the way he talked lately, full of innuendos and double meanings. With each one, Dillan found himself stiffening, then catching the glance his parents shot each other. They had to feel like he did, that the old Garrett, the one he said he’d left back in New England, had followed him home and lingered just outside their vision, waiting for the right moment to mess with them again.

Dillan lowered his foot and wiggled his toes. Then again, why would someone like Tracy fall for him if he hadn’t changed? That had to mean something.

From the other end of the condo, Garrett’s muffled voice floated into the room. Tracy laughed. Dillan dug into the top box, pulling out commentaries and youth curriculum. He stacked them on his desk, ignoring the sudden quiet.

That woman’s figure flashed before him.

He popped open the bottom of the empty box and flattened it. The ripped packing tape clung to his hand, and he yanked it loose and flung the box at his doorway. It banged against the thick, white molding and flopped to the ground.

“Dude. Don’t be damaging my walls.”

Dillan closed his eyes. He loved his brother. Really, he did. In a distant, hope-things-work-out-for-you-knucklehead kind of way. Right now, though, all he wanted was to escape to Grant Park and explore the lakefront and brand-spanking-new greenery. Anything to get away from Garrett.

Garrett, who had it all.

Miska woke Friday to the sun painting her ceiling and walls in golden tones. She lay in bed as the gold faded to cream, wishing the week were over and she was already rid of the depression that hit every time Mark left. She had a new novel to edit for Melissa, her old boss in New York, but she knew better than to start it today.

Not when she felt so empty. So lost. Not when she felt such insane relief that Mom wasn’t around to know about her relationship with Mark—and then hated herself for the very thought.

What she wouldn’t give to hear Mom chew her out right now.

A run should cheer her up. She forced herself out of bed and pulled on black yoga pants and a teal shirt and hoodie. She tugged her curls into a messy bun, then brushed her teeth. Like Mom always said, a girl never knew when she’d run into her perfect man. With the way things ended with Mark, she wasn’t taking any chances.

Outside, an icy breeze prickled her skin. She crossed quiet streets and found her stride beneath the freshly leafed trees she’d admired from her condo. The trees opened up, and the majesty of Buckingham Fountain spread before her. The center jet sat low and quiet, water tumbling over the edge of each basin and spraying from the mouths of greened copper seahorses. After six months of a dried-up fountain, she couldn’t get enough of the water. It breathed life into her, washing her emotions clean.

Maybe she’d be back to her old self in just one day. Wouldn’t that be something?

A gust off the lake pressed her pants against her thighs. The last of the tulips waved. In the park, everything made sense. The compromises she’d made—she understood them all when she stood by the fountain or ran beside the lake. Out here, in the baby green of spring, life could be—would be—perfect.

Fatigue setting in, she started for home.

A freakishly tall man jogged toward her, his dark hair slightly messy as if he’d just gotten up. She studied the toasted skyline behind him, then glanced his way.

He was almost beside her, going the opposite direction, but his gaze was on her. As he passed, she realized who he was.

The guy who’d flattened Mark.

She twisted to look over her shoulder, only to see that he’d done the same. He opened his mouth to speak—then wiped out on the sidewalk.

She jerked to a stop, hand flying to her mouth.

The man rolled into sitting position and dabbed at his knees before checking his palms. He looked up, mouth twisted into a frustrated smile, cheeks pink. “You gonna help me up?”

“Me?” She laughed, relieved that he was all right. “After yesterday, isn’t this karma?”

He chuckled and climbed to his feet. “I don’t know about karma.”

One knee was skinned and red. Blood trickled down the other.

She cringed as she walked closer. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Watch it.” He pointed to the ground, and Miska halted. “That crack there took me down.”

“You sure it was the crack?”

He shrugged. “Either that or you, right? I saw you coming but wasn’t sure if it
was
you.”

“Do I look that different without makeup?”

“Actually, no.” He looked at the trees beyond her.

She cocked her head.

His gaze dropped to hers. “It’s Miska, right?”

“Yes. Sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

“Dillan.”

Right.

He jerked his chin toward their building. “Looks like you’re heading back.”

“I am. You run every day?”

“Four, five days a week. But living here…” He looked around. “I should take advantage of this while I can.”

“You sound like you won’t be here long.”

“A few months. I’m staying with my brother and saving up for a house.”

A house. She wrinkled her nose. “Let me guess. Suburbs?”

His smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “You say it like the suburbs are evil.”

That had been her experience, although the city held the same problems, if not worse. “I’m a city girl. I decided years ago that I’d live downtown.”

“And here you are.”

“Here I am.” She returned his smile. How nicely it softened his face. What did he think of her, especially after yesterday with Mark? He’d been so quiet then. Was he friendly today because she might be a way to get to a famous athlete?

“Well, I gotta run.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m taking a few laps around the fountain and calling it a morning. See you.”

So he loved the fountain too. Suddenly she found herself hoping she’d been awake enough when she’d brushed her teeth. “Enjoy your run. Don’t trip.” She flashed him a smirk as she turned toward home.

“I told you,” he called after her. “It was that crack.”

She held up her hand in acknowledgment. Liar.

Inside her condo she refilled her water bottle and guzzled it as she paced through her living room and kitchen, cooling down. She checked her phone. Nothing from Mark—just a text from her half-sister Adrienne, asking if she was up.

She replied, then showered and dressed. She spread her Devacurl cream through her curls, scrunched them, and opened her makeup bag.

A thick envelope rested there.

Two gift cards lay inside, one for Jewel-Osco, her usual grocery store, and another for Peapod, the grocery delivery service. She checked the amounts Mark had scrawled on them. Three thousand dollars at Jewel. Two thousand at Peapod.

She bit her lip. All that money—that had to be enough for the rest of the year. No, probably longer than that. A lot longer.

A slip of paper in the envelope caught her eye. Mark had written a note in his broad, messy scrawl.

Hope this makes things easier for you. Save the Peapod for when you’re on a deadline. Or getting ready for me.

The note ended with his name and a winking smiley face.

She fingered the gift cards. Months and months without having to pay for food—she was that much closer to financial freedom because of his thoughtfulness.

Her phone rang in the kitchen.

Miska hurried to it.

The area code said Chicago—Adrienne was probably calling from her office. Miska answered. “Hey, girl.”

“Oh. Umm…” A man cleared his throat. “I was trying to reach Miska Tomlinson.”

Not Adrienne. And still not Mark. “Who is this?”

“I’m… I really need to speak to Miska.”

“I screen her calls, so if you’d like to speak with her, you’ll need to tell me who you are.”

“I see.” The man sighed, ultimate weariness in the sound. “Tell her it’s her father.”

Her knees buckled. Miska grabbed a bar stool and pulled herself onto it. “Excuse me?”

“My name’s Jack Tomlinson. I—I haven’t spoken to her in years. But if you’d tell her—”

“You’re Jack Tomlinson.”

“Yes. It’s very important I speak to her.”

Her dad was looking for her. She squeezed the center of her shirt. Was this for real? “How do I know it’s you?”

“How do you know?”

“Tell me something about her.” She held her breath. The last time she’d seen him, she’d just turned two. She had no memory of him. None. Did he really have memories of her?

“I—” He cleared his throat again. “She has curly, black hair.”

“Something else. Her brother…”

“Brothers. Wade and Zane are fourteen months older. They’re blond.”

Was that all he could say about them? Birth order? Appearance? “Wouldn’t a father know stuff about his own kids?”

Silence hung on the other end.

“Come on, Jack. What kind of a man doesn’t know anything about his kids?”

“A man with a whole lot of regrets.”

Oh, please. She rubbed her fingers across her eyebrows. “What was my—” she gritted her teeth “—Miska’s mother’s name?”

“Claire Friel.”

“Why did you leave her?”

His voice quavered. “Because I was a young, stupid fool.”

Just like Mom had said. She moved the phone away and drew in a shuddering breath.

“Miska?” she heard faintly.

She raised the phone to her ear. “What does my name mean?”

“Mariska means ‘of the sea.’”

It
was
him. She closed her eyes. “Or bitter.”

“To me it meant the first. The
bitter
would be up to you.”

“Easy for you to say, the man who didn’t stick around. Who left his kids to fend for themselves, left them to watch their mother fill his place over and over.”

“Miska—”

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t be bitter.”

He sighed.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m hoping you’ll give your foolish father another chance.”

“To do what?”

“To get to know his daughter.”

His words rattled around the room. Her dad wanted to know her?

“Miska, I’m fifty-five. I’ve had three decades to think about the women I left. And too late I’m realizing what an awful—” His voice caught. “I’ve wasted a lot of time. I’ve hurt a lot of people. And I don’t know how much time I have left—”

Her stomach seized. “Are you dying?”

“No.” He chuckled. “Sorry. Not yet. But I’m pretty sure middle age is past. I’ve got joints that tell me when storms are coming.”

“It’s been twenty-eight years.”

“I know.”

“Twenty-eight years! How can you walk away—” She clenched her fist. She’d never had a dad, didn’t remember the loss of him. So where was all this anguish coming from?

“I’m sorry, Miska.”

She stared at the floor.

“I can never make up for what I did. But I’d like to get to know who you are now. If it’s not too late, I’d like to spend time with my daughter.”

It had been a lonely four years since Mom died. She’d felt like an orphan, even though Jack had been alive somewhere. Now here he was. Asking to see her.

Did she want to see him?

Of course she did. She nodded. Yes, yes, yes.

“Miska?”

She laughed, realizing he couldn’t see her nod. “I’d like that.”

His relief gushed out. “Thank you.”

She fought back the urge to thank him. “Just promise you won’t disappear for another twenty-some years.”

“As much as I can, I promise.”

Afternoon light deepened the hollows of her half-sister’s cheeks. Adrienne eased her drink onto Miska’s kitchen island and stared at her. “He what?”

“I know. It sounds crazy, but he wants to get together. He wants to be a dad. Finally.”

Adrienne’s brown eyes darkened. “Who cares what he wants? Like coming back after all these years makes it okay.”

This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. “Of course it doesn’t. You can’t make up for twenty-eight years of neglect—”

“Thirty-one years!” Adrienne jumped up from Miska’s barstool and marched to the window where marshmallow clouds hovered over the lake. Her chest heaved as if she’d sprinted there. “Do you know what my only memory of him is? The only rotten thing?”

“Hey, he left us both—”

“It’s my mom chasing him through the house, hanging onto him, screaming for him to stay, trying to pull his suitcase out of his hand. Then he turned and shoved her. She fell and broke her wrist—had surgery and pins—and he never, never showed up again.”

Miska eased onto a stool. Maybe not having memories was a good thing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. He’s scum.” Adrienne swore and looked around the room.

What was she looking for? Jack? Something to throw? “Calm down. He’s not here.”

“He’s lucky he’s not here. I can’t believe he had the nerve to call you.” Her gaze zeroed in on Miska. “What’d you tell him?”

Oh no. How had she ever thought her sister would be okay with this? “I told him I’d like to meet him.”

Adrienne stalked her way. “Are you insane? Do you know why he called?”

“I’d like to think it’s because I’m his daughter—”

“You have money, Miska. He wants money.”

Her inheritance was in her condo. Wade’s and Zane’s inheritance—there probably wasn’t much of that left. “No, he doesn’t. He didn’t say a word—”

“Not yet.”

“If you could have heard him—”

“Miska, wake up!”

She jerked at Adrienne’s volume.

“He’s never cared about any of us. Never! So why now? Why all of a sudden?”