Handprints. Myrna Temte
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She deserves better from you than you’re giving her.
“Yeah, well, so what else is new? I’m doing the best I can, but it’ll never be enough. It’ll never be as good as what Gina could’ve done for her, either. And there’s not much I can do about that, is there?”
He crossed the Little Spokane River and pulled into his long, gravel driveway, a sense of inadequacy chomping at his insides in spite of all his muttering. Parking beside the 1940s farmhouse he and Gina had started to remodel, he got out of the car and stood there for a moment, waiting for the inevitable pang of loss and loneliness to ease. God, he still missed her, for his own sake as well as his daughter’s.
Gina had been more than a wife to him. She’d been his soul mate. They’d been high school sweethearts, they’d given their virginity to each other. He’d never been with another woman, had never wanted anyone else.
He knew it was time now to move on. Knew that Gina wouldn’t want or expect him to spend the rest of his life alone. But it was hard.
He told himself to stop wallowing in his grief and think about something else. Surveying his property, he grimaced at what he saw. There was still so much to be done. But between his job and taking care of Kitty, he never had any time to start a home-improvement project, much less finish one.
The back door banged open and Millie Patten, his housekeeper and baby-sitter, stepped out onto the stoop, propping her hands on her ample hips. Jack took one look at her disappointed expression and bit back a curse. Great. Just what he needed—another dose of guilt.
Millie was a sweet, hardworking woman. She reminded him of a grandmother or a great-aunt who loves you without reservation, but at the same time feels compelled to “help” you correct all your major and minor faults. It was all done with the best of intentions and in the most loving possible way, of course. Loving, like a defense lawyer on a crusade.
“Oh, Jack.” she said, drawing out each syllable in a soft tone that made him feel ten times worse than a scolding one would have. “Do you have any idea what time it is, dear?”
Sometimes the woman drove him nuts with her unsolicited advice, but her job had been damn hard to fill. Unlike too many of her predecessors, she was competent and reliable, and she dearly loved Kitty. That was all that really mattered.
“Sorry, Millie,” he said. “I’ll do better next week.”
“That’s what you always say,” she replied. “But you’re still late nearly every night, and it isn’t right.”
“Well, at least I’m good for the overtime.”
She sadly shook her head at him. “That’s not the point, dear. You need to spend more time with Kitty. And you need to stop burying yourself in work and get a social life of your own.”
Jack approached her, the fingers of his left hand locked around the handle of his briefcase in a punishing grip. “If I had a social life, I wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with Kitty as I do now.”
“At least you’d have some hope of finding her a mother.”
“Millie, please. I appreciate your concern, but you’ll just have to let me worry about that. All right?”
She turned on the run-down heel of the athletic shoes she always wore and marched back into the house. Jack followed her inside, calculated what he owed her for the week and handed her a check. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
“All right. But do try to play with Kitty this weekend. She needs your attention.”
He shut the door behind her and jabbed one hand through his hair in frustration. Jeez. Did she really think he intended to ignore his daughter all weekend? Loosening his tie with one hand, he flipped through the stack of mail, then carried the bills and his briefcase into the den.
The massive desk and the files he’d brought home called to him, enticing him to escape from the upheaval in his personal life to the sanctuary of work. Compared to the constant ambiguity of raising a child, the law was blessedly clear.
The sound of the television drifted into the den from the family room. Draping his coat and tie over the back of his chair, he went to find Kitty, rolling up his shirtsleeves on the way. As expected, she was curled up on the overstuffed sofa, staring at the TV as if entranced.
Jack crossed the room. Kitty looked up at him with Gina’s brown eyes, but didn’t speak. Her eyes were huge in her small, pale face, and her ponytail holder had slipped over to one side of her head. There must be a trick to putting those things in so they’d stay put, but he hadn’t yet found it.
“Hi, Kitten,” he said. “What are you up to?”
Kitty shrugged one shoulder, then inclined her head toward the television. “Watching kid shows.”
He glanced at the TV. A weird-looking creature with blue fur and googly eyes cavorted across the screen with a group of children. “So I see. Is this a good one?”
She shrugged the same shoulder. He searched for another topic, but drew a blank. How this could happen to him, he didn’t know. Every day he talked to all kinds of people, from defendants and their attorneys, to cops and judges, to crime victims and their families, but he couldn’t even make decent chitchat with his own daughter.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Wrinkling her nose, Kitty shook her head. “Not very.”
He checked his watch. “It’s past your dinnertime.”
Kitty bounced her left leg against the sofa in a quick, rhythmic pattern. “Can’t help it, Daddy. I’m just not hungry.”
“Did you have a snack after school?”
“Uh-uh. Didn’t want one.”
Studying her with a more critical eye, Jack frowned. Her face was painfully thin. So were her arms and legs. Had she lost weight or just grown? He wasn’t sure, but he knew she looked too scrawny to be healthy. When had that happened? He could have sworn she’d looked fine when he’d driven her to school that morning. Frustrated that he hadn’t noticed the change in her appearance sooner, he held out a hand to her.
“Well, I’m starving. Come and set the table for me. Maybe that’ll help you work up an appetite.”
Kitty slowly sat up. Then, with obvious reluctance, she pushed herself to her feet, but made no move to take his hand. Assuming she would follow, Jack walked back to the kitchen.
This was the one completely renovated room in the whole house, and though he was an indifferent cook, he appreciated the modern, efficient layout Gina had created. He washed his hands at the faucet, then pulled a step stool up to the sink for Kitty while he rummaged through the pantry and the refrigerator.
Ugh. He didn’t feel like cooking. A burger or a taco or a pizza sounded great, but he’d been studying nutrition lately—at Millie’s urging. Kitty needed fresh, healthy food, not an overdose of salt and saturated fat. He pulled out the green salad Millie had made, a package of chicken breasts, fresh broccoli and potatoes for the microwave.
Kitty set the table, dragging herself back and forth between the table and the cupboards. Watching her covertly, Jack felt increasingly alarmed. In one of his child-rearing books he’d read that six-year-old kids were supposed to run around and drive their parents crazy with about a thousand questions a day. So why wasn’t Kitty doing that?
Dammit, he’d worked so hard to learn how to be a good parent. And now, because of Ms. Busybody Walsh, he was seeing problems everywhere he looked.
But what if Kitty really was suffering, and he wasn’t seeing it because he didn’t want to see it? Was that even possible?
He hated the familiar worry clamoring for his attention, dreaded the sleepless nights he knew would follow. Thank you, Ms. Walsh. Why couldn’t that woman mind her own damn business?
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