his family around again. Perhaps last night she should have given in to Keith’s desire to call the police. “It’s not funny,” she said, “and I wish you wouldn’t make jokes about it.”
From her place next to her father Jennifer, who had mercifully slept through the Cavanaughs’ argument, looked up from the little rivers of maple syrup she was dredgingthrough the scrambled eggs on her plate. “What’s not funny?” she demanded, her large eight-year-old’s eyes searching her parents’ faces.
“The way Mr. Cavanaugh treats his family,” Keith replied, his bantering tone suddenly gone. “And your mother’s right. I shouldn’t make jokes about it.”
“Oh,” Jennifer replied, immediately losing interest. Then, once more taking up an argument she’d lost earlier that morning but saw no point in abandoning, she turned to her mother. “How come I can’t go to Boston with Daddy to pick up Cassie?”
“I already told you, sweetheart,” Rosemary replied. She reached out to ruffle the red curls that capped Jennifer’s freckled face. “Cassie just lost her mother, and she won’t be feeling very good. We just think it would be easier for her if she didn’t have to deal with anyone but your daddy right away. Besides, you and I have a lot to do. We have to go shopping, then finish the bedroom. We want it to be ready for Cassie, don’t we?”
Jennifer’s face darkened and her lower lip quivered petulantly. “That was supposed to be my room,” she reminded her mother. “You promised me—”
“I know what I promised.” Rosemary sighed, wondering how to explain to an eight-year-old that promises sometimes had to be broken. “But that was before we knew Cassie was coming to live with us. And didn’t you decide it would be nicer to have a big sister than a bigger room?”
Jennifer hesitated, then decided not to answer the question at all. “But what if she doesn’t like me?”
“Of course she’ll like you, Punkin,” Keith told her. “What’s not to like? Just because you talk all the time, tend to be a little sassy, and kick and scream when you don’t get your way? What’s not to like?”
“I do not!” Jennifer protested. She was trying very hard to look indignant, but instead she dissolved into the giggles that always came over her when her father teased her. “And my name’s not Punkin, either. It’s Jennifer.”
“Right, Punkin,” Keith said. He slid off his chair just in time to avoid his younger daughter’s fist as she aimed it at his side. “Stop worrying—Cassie will like you.”
Jennifer’s giggles faded away, and suddenly her expressionbecame serious. “If she’ll like me, how come she never came to visit me? Doesn’t she like you?”
For a split second Keith’s eyes met his wife’s. Jennifer, they both realized, had just asked the question neither of them was willing to deal with.
Neither Rosemary nor Jennifer had ever met Cassie, and Keith himself hadn’t seen her for more years than he liked to admit. The last time he’d gone to California to see his daughter—until then an annual pilgrimage—the trip had turned into a disaster. His first wife, Diana, had been divorced for the second time by then, and she seemed to blame the failure of her second marriage—as well as her first—squarely on Keith.
“I don’t want to see you,” she’d told Keith on the phone. “I don’t suppose I can stop you from seeing Cassie, but I don’t have to see you myself.”
“But why?” Keith had demanded. “What did I do?”
“Tommy left me,” she’d said bitterly. “He left me because I couldn’t trust him, couldn’t let myself depend on him. And that’s your fault. Thanks to you, I can’t trust anybody.”
Immediately Keith had understood what had happened. Once more Diana’s insane jealousy had destroyed her marriage. It wasn’t, he knew, that she hadn’t been able to trust or depend on him. Somewhere, deep inside her, there was a demon who
From her place next to her father Jennifer, who had mercifully slept through the Cavanaughs’ argument, looked up from the little rivers of maple syrup she was dredgingthrough the scrambled eggs on her plate. “What’s not funny?” she demanded, her large eight-year-old’s eyes searching her parents’ faces.
“The way Mr. Cavanaugh treats his family,” Keith replied, his bantering tone suddenly gone. “And your mother’s right. I shouldn’t make jokes about it.”
“Oh,” Jennifer replied, immediately losing interest. Then, once more taking up an argument she’d lost earlier that morning but saw no point in abandoning, she turned to her mother. “How come I can’t go to Boston with Daddy to pick up Cassie?”
“I already told you, sweetheart,” Rosemary replied. She reached out to ruffle the red curls that capped Jennifer’s freckled face. “Cassie just lost her mother, and she won’t be feeling very good. We just think it would be easier for her if she didn’t have to deal with anyone but your daddy right away. Besides, you and I have a lot to do. We have to go shopping, then finish the bedroom. We want it to be ready for Cassie, don’t we?”
Jennifer’s face darkened and her lower lip quivered petulantly. “That was supposed to be my room,” she reminded her mother. “You promised me—”
“I know what I promised.” Rosemary sighed, wondering how to explain to an eight-year-old that promises sometimes had to be broken. “But that was before we knew Cassie was coming to live with us. And didn’t you decide it would be nicer to have a big sister than a bigger room?”
Jennifer hesitated, then decided not to answer the question at all. “But what if she doesn’t like me?”
“Of course she’ll like you, Punkin,” Keith told her. “What’s not to like? Just because you talk all the time, tend to be a little sassy, and kick and scream when you don’t get your way? What’s not to like?”
“I do not!” Jennifer protested. She was trying very hard to look indignant, but instead she dissolved into the giggles that always came over her when her father teased her. “And my name’s not Punkin, either. It’s Jennifer.”
“Right, Punkin,” Keith said. He slid off his chair just in time to avoid his younger daughter’s fist as she aimed it at his side. “Stop worrying—Cassie will like you.”
Jennifer’s giggles faded away, and suddenly her expressionbecame serious. “If she’ll like me, how come she never came to visit me? Doesn’t she like you?”
For a split second Keith’s eyes met his wife’s. Jennifer, they both realized, had just asked the question neither of them was willing to deal with.
Neither Rosemary nor Jennifer had ever met Cassie, and Keith himself hadn’t seen her for more years than he liked to admit. The last time he’d gone to California to see his daughter—until then an annual pilgrimage—the trip had turned into a disaster. His first wife, Diana, had been divorced for the second time by then, and she seemed to blame the failure of her second marriage—as well as her first—squarely on Keith.
“I don’t want to see you,” she’d told Keith on the phone. “I don’t suppose I can stop you from seeing Cassie, but I don’t have to see you myself.”
“But why?” Keith had demanded. “What did I do?”
“Tommy left me,” she’d said bitterly. “He left me because I couldn’t trust him, couldn’t let myself depend on him. And that’s your fault. Thanks to you, I can’t trust anybody.”
Immediately Keith had understood what had happened. Once more Diana’s insane jealousy had destroyed her marriage. It wasn’t, he knew, that she hadn’t been able to trust or depend on him. Somewhere, deep inside her, there was a demon who
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