Not My Daughter (10 page)

"That's not why my parents moved," Rick said quietly.

"Then why?"

"Because ..." He paused, frowned. "Because it was time. My sister was already gone, and I was on my way. There was nothing to keep them around. But at least they knew the score, and that made it easier--which is where I'm heading with this, Lily. You've put your mom in a lousy position. The more she knows, the better she'll be able to deal with it. Besides--trust me--the guy would want to know."

"Did you?"

"I did not want your mother to be pregnant. But given that she was, yes, I wanted to know. You're half mine."

"But you didn't marry her, because Mom didn't want to get married." Her voice rose. "Well, maybe I wanted it. Maybe I wanted a full-time father. Maybe those visits back to your parents were too scary, because I didn't know them, and I really didn't know you, and Mom wasn't there. Maybe it would have been better for me if you
had
married her," she said, building up steam. "But no, Mom wanted you to have a career. Rick wants to be the world traveler everyone knows and admires--and we all want what Rick wants, don't we." It wasn't a question. "Well, what about what
I
want? What's so awful about
my
setting my heart on something? Why can't everyone want what Lily wants for a change?"

Realizing what she'd said, Lily looked shocked. In a flash, she got off the sofa and ran from the room.

When Susan started to follow, Rick said, "Let her go."

"She has no right to criticize you."

"She does." He was sitting forward now, elbows on his knees. "I haven't been here for her. Maybe I didn't think enough about what she wanted."

"She's just upset, Rick. She's never said those things before. I should talk with her. She shouldn't be alone."

"Do you think she is?" Rick asked, and, of course, he was right.
Alone
was a relative concept. Lily would either be phoning, texting, or skyping.

Settling beside him on the sofa, Susan took his hand. "You should have told her the truth. Your parents moved away because of my dad."

"They didn't have to. They chose to. My mom's sister was in San Diego. They always wanted to retire there." He laced his fingers through hers.

"Only your father didn't retire. He worked for years afterward. No, Rick, it was my dad's fault. He took his anger out on your dad. They'd been best buddies, and suddenly the friendship was ruined."

"Well, it was an improbable friendship anyway, my dad the mail carrier, yours the mayor." He grew pensive. "When it was good, though, it was good. I was with them on some of those fishing trips. They could talk. It was like they were brothers, totally different from each other but with a really strong bond between them. I never figured out what it was."

"It was the brother thing," Susan said. Rick shot her a puzzled glance. "I had an uncle," she explained. "I never knew him. He died young. But my father adored him. They used to fish."

"No kidding?"

"Big Rick took his place."

"The brother thing?"

"My father's reaction must have been over the top because he had unrealistic expectations of your dad."

Rick considered that. "And here I always thought that was about your father being a public person in a small town and needing to make a statement. But hey"--he tightened his hold of her hand--"either way, my father let him do it. He could have stood up. He could have fought. That's what he should have done."

Susan studied his face. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. He might have talked some sense into your father. Instead, he caved--just walked away, and he lost a helluva lot more than just one friendship. I swear, he's afraid to come here to see Lily because he thinks that John Tate will find out. So his relationship with Lily is limited. She can visit him, but he can't visit her. He wouldn't even when Mom was alive. No, he should have fought. Lily's his only grandchild. He should have been more supportive."

"I never wanted his money."

"Not with money. With time. With attention." He sat back and rested his head on the sofa, his eyes still on hers. "He was on the right side."

"So is Lily when it comes to singing, but I told her not to fight. Should she?"

"Ideally, yes. But you nailed it. If she calls out the girls for voting her out, she alienates them further, in which case being back in the group wouldn't be fun." He closed his eyes.

"So she loses either way?"

He was quiet for a minute. "Maybe she wins either way. She'll have enough on her plate in a few months, and she sure doesn't need those girls."

"Okay. But she did earn her spot--and it was something I wanted her to have. I can't sing, but she has a beautiful voice."

"She didn't get it from me."

"It's from my mom, who has never even heard her sing."

"Her loss," Rick murmured tiredly and kissed her hand.

She settled against him. "Actually, it's ours, Lily's and mine. I thought it was bad when she was little and we had no relationship with my parents, but it gets worse every year. She's grown into such a talented young woman. She deserves to have adoring grandparents."

Rick's breathing was a little too even. Tipping her head back, Susan saw that he was asleep, and, for a few minutes, she watched. Finally, she closed her own eyes to better enjoy the beat of his heart.

They slept like that for three hours. Susan was the one who finally woke. Nudging him gently, she got him up to the guest bedroom, but he didn't stay there long. She was barely in her own bed when he stole in and closed the door.

There was nothing sleepy about him then. Whispering her name, he stroked her hair, her breasts, her belly. His hunger was contagious. For those precious minutes, she couldn't get enough--couldn't
give
enough--and when her body erupted, she cried aloud at the pleasure of it.

She would have woken Lily, had he not covered her mouth. He had become good at that over the years. He saw to taking care, both of Lily's sensibility and Susan's fertility--particularly gratifying now, Susan thought in the seconds before she fell asleep in his arms. If this mother
and
daughter were pregnant and unmarried?

Susan couldn't begin to imagine the havoc of that.

Chapter 9

Rick offered to stay, but Susan sent him on to spend Thanksgiving with his father, who would otherwise have been alone.

Susan and Lily would not be. They were spending the holiday at Kate's, as they had for more than a dozen years. It was one of the few places where their host, at least, knew all their secrets.

Kate loved Thanksgiving--loved the cooking, the smells, the packed dining room, the noise. She loved inviting holiday orphans who had nowhere else to go. At the last minute there were always an extra two or three guests.

This year there were six, all invited weeks earlier, which should have been fine. Only Kate wasn't wild about the two extra card tables sticking into the hall or the folding chairs that didn't match. She had been awake late the night before setting up with the girls, but she didn't like the way the plates looked--too many different ones--so she was rearranging them again at dawn.

Things just weren't right this year. She ran out of butter making the stuffing, and with everyone else still in bed and the turkey needing to be put in the oven ASAP, she dashed to the convenience store herself, which was all well and good, except that since it was the only shop open, she paid nearly twice what she would have had she bought enough at the supermarket, and that irked her.

Back home again, she drafted Will to help with the turkey, which was huge, and when the kids straggled in and began rummaging for breakfast, she had to reach around them, wait for them to move, or actually move them herself.

"That can wait two minutes," she told Mike as he stretched toward the cereal cabinet over her head. "Lissie, your father's
helping
me here," she complained when her daughter nudged Will aside so that she could get into the fridge. And when Sara weaseled in to peel an orange at the sink, Kate tore off a paper towel with a flourish and pressed it at her. "I'm trying to work here. Can you not see this?"

"Mom needs coffee," said Mike.

"Mom needs a bigger kitchen," said Kate, then yelped, "Not in there!" as her son headed for the dining room. "Everything is
set
."

"I'm just trying to clear out the kitchen. Where do you want me?"

Kate pointed him toward a stool at the counter, though there was barely an inch of free space, what with the bowl of yams that would soon be a casserole, boxes of crackers for the guacamole, and platters of cookies and cakes. "Hold that dish in your hand, Michael Mello, and not another word, please. Will, this kitchen is too small," she told her husband as he put the turkey in the oven.

He straightened, smiled. "What happened to cozy?"

"I don't know. What did? Cozy is cute. This isn't cute."

He put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze--just enough of a reminder of what she had that was pretty darn good. Then Mary Kate wandered in and reached for the milk, an innocent gesture, but enough to remind Kate that things would be less good with a new baby coming. A new baby would make the kitchen smaller and the dining room more crowded. They were bursting at the seams already. How long before an explosion?

Seams ... dreams ... same difference
, she thought and, feeling slightly frantic, began rummaging through the papers stuck into cookbooks crammed above the stove for the recipe Sunny had given her for a chocolate pecan pie.

Sunny knew her mother-in-law's kitchen inside and out, with good reason. She had been the one to set it up when, after years of renting, her in-laws had bought the town house they had dreamed about. Dan helped with the down payment; Sunny helped with the decor. Though in their late sixties, Martha and Hank were still both working and perfectly capable of managing their daily lives, but Sunny liked helping them out. Her mother-in-law had come to count on her for advice on what to wear to local events, where to vacation in March, whether to take vitamin D supplements, and Sunny was flattered. She saw this as a validation that she was worthy of being consulted, proof that she was Normal with that capital
N
.

Normal was definitely the way to go. Immersing herself in what she did best, she had baked every evening that week, then loaded the back of her car with all of the makings for Thanksgiving dinner not only for her own four and Martha and Hank, but for Dan's brother and his family and two elderly aunts. By noon on Thursday, Martha's kitchen was smelling of roasted turkey, mulled cider, and squash bisque. Ceramic bowls were neatly lined on the counter awaiting the soup; matching mugs awaited the cider. Serving dishes, stacked now, would hold the turkey fixings. And the dining room table was a sight to behold.

Everything went off like clockwork. The turkey reached the right temperature at the right time and carved like a dream, while the asparagus, yams, and onions were cooked to perfection. Dan poured the drinks; Hank said the blessing; Sunny ladled bisque from a Perry & Cass tureen. There was a brief silence, followed by a chorus of
yums
and
mmms
.

"You've outdone yourself, Sunny," said Martha. "This is delicious."

Sunny basked in the praise. And it kept coming through the main course, right up to the desserts. That was when Jessica, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, rapped her knife against her glass and stood.

"I have an announcement to make," she said. Sunny stared at her in horror, but if Jessica felt the stare, she paid no attention. "The family is growing," she announced. "We'll have another member next Thanksgiving."

Martha gasped. "You're engaged?"

Jessica shook her head.

"Well, that's good," her grandmother remarked. "You're far too young." She turned excitedly to Sunny and Dan. "You're having another baby?"

Sunny might have nodded, if Jessica hadn't quickly said, "Not Mom.
Me
."

"You?"

"Jessica," Sunny warned. Someone asked if it was true, and she said, "No--"

"Yes," Jessica declared.

"Dan," Sunny pleaded, but anything he might have said was lost in a flurry of questions. Deciding that her daughter was positively hateful, Sunny grabbed an empty pie plate, fled to the kitchen, and began washing pans, but snippets of conversation rose above the clank and splash. She was scrubbing the roaster with a furious force when her mother-in-law joined her at the sink.

"She's only seventeen, Sunny. Do you think she's old enough to have a child?"

"Absolutely not!"

"But you're letting her do it anyway?"

Sunny put down the sponge. "Letting her? She didn't ask my permission. And now it's done. This isn't a dress you can buy and return." Hearing the bite in her voice, she said by way of apology, "This is very upsetting for me. I don't know why she felt she needed to tell you all today." But Sunny did. It was to shame her mother.

"She seems to think it's exciting."

"She is deliberately baiting me, because she knows how angry I am."

"And wanting no part of the boy?" Martha went on sadly. "What is the trouble with children today? They do things our children wouldn't have dared to do. It isn't enough to steal a pencil from the five-and-dime or hide a pack of cigarettes. Well, the difference is, I guess, we were home."

"Home?"

"I didn't start working until the children were grown."

Uneasy with her mother-in-law's inference, Sunny said, "Because back then, women didn't have careers."

"Maybe it was better that way. I'm not sure you can do both well. This is a perfect example."

"Do you think it wouldn't have happened if I'd been at home?" Sunny asked in dismay. "She didn't do this at home, Mom. She isn't allowed to bring boys upstairs. But she's seventeen, she's driving, she's out of the house all day long."

"Now she is. But not always."

No. There had been a period of time when a babysitter had watched Jessica and Darcy after school. "That sitter was in her fifties. She was totally responsible."

"She wasn't you." Martha sighed. "Oh, Sunny. What's done is done. I think you raised your children the best way you knew how."

Not exactly an endorsement. "But it wasn't good enough?"

Martha didn't have to reply. The look she gave Sunny spoke of Disappointment with a capital
D
.

Susan had a love-hate relationship with Thanksgiving. She loved being with Kate and her family, loved the noise and the warmth. What she hated was coming home afterward and missing her parents. After all, what was Thanksgiving about if not family?

Pam's annual open house was usually a distraction. Held in the early evening and offering light hors d'oeuvres after a large midday meal, it could go on until eleven at night, usually leaving Susan little time to brood.

This year, though, Susan didn't go. Oh, she had quickly accepted when the invitation arrived, but that was before news of Lily's pregnancy leaked out. Since then, Pam hadn't mentioned the open house. When Susan called her Wednesday to bow out, Pam said all the right things--
I don't care what people think, I can certainly understand how you feel, I'll miss you
--but she didn't insist that Susan come.

So, at six that evening, with Lily still at Mary Kate's, Susan found herself home alone. She turned on the television, then turned it off. She opened her work folder, then closed it. She picked up one knitting project after another, but none appealed to her.

Aimless, she wandered through the house. It was a fine house, a testament to how far she had come. When she bought it, she had sent her parents a picture, but that note, like so many before and after, went unanswered.

At the door to Lily's room, she stopped. Lily hadn't apologized for her outburst in front of Rick, but Susan saw small attempts to atone. The bed was made, her clothes were hung, and the desktop litter neatened.

Hadn't Susan done the same? In the months before being sent away, she had been the perfect daughter--helpful and neat, respectful to a fault. She hadn't argued, hadn't tried to get her father to change his mind. His word was gospel, and she the sinner. If she had accused him of being cruel, would anything be different?

At Lily's dresser, Susan fingered the sock her daughter was knitting. Strikingly, it blended seed stitch and cables in a pattern Susan had never knit herself. Feeling a moment's pride, she lifted the sock to admire the back side, which was when she noted the stitches on the working needles. The sheer number puzzled her--way too many for a sock--until she glanced at the handwritten notes nearby and realized that this was no sock. It was a baby sweater being knit cuff to cuff.

Feeling a chill, she left the room, but the image of the sweater stayed with her. The yarn was pink. Lily wanted a girl. There was something shockingly real about that.

Wondering if her mother had had the same trouble accepting Susan's pregnancy, and hoping they might talk about it, she picked up the phone and dialed. Creatures of habit, her parents would have had an afternoon dinner with her brother and his wife's family, and should be home again by now.

The phone rang four times. Seconds before the call would have gone to voice mail, someone answered, only to immediately hang up.

Susan was in the den when Lily came home. The girl seemed startled to see her. "Are you okay?" she asked from the door.

Susan nodded. "Just felt like sitting."

"You don't usually do that."

"No." She was usually cleaning, knitting, or working out a solution for a student with a problem, a teacher with a problem, a
daughter
with a problem--plotting a solution or, at the very least, an approach to finding a solution. Tonight, she did nothing but sit. "Everything okay with Mary Kate?"

"I guess. She tried to call Abby. We haven't talked with her much since what happened at school, but the open house was still going on, so she couldn't talk. I'm sorry we didn't go this year, Mom."

"Would you have wanted to?" Susan asked in surprise.

"Maybe not. Emily's mom would have been there. I'm still pretty steamed about the Zaganotes." She paused. "But Pam's open house was always a fun time. You liked going."

Susan nodded. "I did."

Lily looked sad. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't realize people would react this way. I knew there'd be talk, and I was afraid the coach wouldn't want me on the volleyball team, but being banned from singing?
Voted
out? It's not like pregnancy is an STD."

"Disease, no. Condition, yes--and just as unforgivable in some people's minds."

"But they're
wrong
. It's the oldest condition in the world. Think
Eve."

"Was Eve in high school? Did she do field hockey or sing? Was her mom a prominent player in town? Times have changed, Lily. Life is complex."

There was no argument, just a troubled look. Hating that--always--Susan patted the sofa.

Lily perched on the edge. "Did Pam say not to come?" she asked.

"No. It was me. I didn't want to have to answer questions."

"All you have to say is that I did this on my own."

"Not that easy," Susan said with a sad smile.

She was thinking that the sober look on her daughter's face meant she might be getting the point, when that look brightened. Putting a hand on her belly, Lily asked excitedly, "Did you talk to me, Mom? You know, when I was a fetus?"