laughed, the sound easy and warm and
nothing like the selfish man her mother described. “I remember
those days well,” he said. “Their whole life was about drilling
work into their students.” Friendly eyes crinkled within his
sun-tanned skin, the white of his shirt contrasting sharply and
somehow making him look younger than his forty-plus years. Up
close, his brown eyes danced as though he didn’t have a care in the
world. Squared jaw, strong nose, her father’s complexion was shades
darker than her own. Felicity found it odd that she didn’t resemble
him. Granted his skin was browned from his time spent outdoors, but
even in the dead of winter she could tell his skin would be shades
darker than her own. Her mom was blonde with a medium complexion.
Maybe it was true what her mother always said. She claimed Felicity
favored the Ladd side of the family, red-tinged hair and freckles
to boot. But still, she mused, peering at the stranger who was her
father. It was weird how different he could look from
her.
“ I hear you’re doing amazing
things with your flute.”
Lifting her shoulders, she
replied, “I don’t know about amazing . I play...” Felicity pressed
her side against the counter, wondering who would have told him
about her flute. No one knew anything about her music who would
have said the first word to Jack Foster.
“ Don’t sell yourself short,
kid. It’s a tough world out there with far too many people ready
and willing to take you down.” She nodded, imagining him as a young
man enjoying his college days, replaced by more recent thoughts of
him telling her to pay her own way through school, build some
character. He gestured like he was going to tap her arm, but didn’t
and said, “Stand up for yourself. You deserve it.”
Felicity caught sight of
Fran Jone’s net-covered red-head of hair through the kitchen
service window and groaned inwardly. Great . She’d be hearing about this
encounter later on.
As though sensing her distress, Jack
turned around and looked in the same direction. Fran stared him
down, but then disappeared into the recesses of her kitchen like a
groundhog popping back into its hole. His dark eyes cooled a
degree. “Don’t let old Fran get to you. She’s always been a nosy
one.”
“ She’s only looking out for
me,” Felicity defended.
About to object, he seemed to think
better of it, nodding instead. Returning focus to her plate, she
picked up a French fry, dropping it three fries over. It was
awkward to be alone with him. Well, not alone-alone but without
sight of her mother. Felicity didn’t remember the last time it
happened.
“ So how about
dinner?”
She glanced up. “Huh?”
“ Dinner with your old man,
catch up on old times?” The breath caught in her throat and he
chuckled. “You can’t avoid me forever. I have a right to visit my
own daughter, don’t I?”
A million responses flew through her
brain, a million reasons no, a million reasons yes, but none of
them made it to her lips.
“ Your grandparents would
like to see you.”
“ Grandparents? As in the
Fosters?”
He nodded. Setting a hand to the
counter he leaned his weight into it. With a fleeting glance toward
the kitchen he said, “They’ve invited you to dinner at the
house.”
“ Why?”
He laughed. “Because you’re their
granddaughter? They care about you and want to know how you’re
doing.” He dipped his head near. “Is that so strange a
concept?”
The man spoke with an intimacy he
hadn’t earned. He hadn’t been in her life all these years, hadn’t
cared what she was doing, cared to help her in any way. He never
called, hardly wrote. Why now? “They never asked my mom to see me
before.”
“ Probably because they were
afraid to ask.” Jack glanced askance and then, as though sharing a
secret, said, “She’s kind of thorny, if you know what I
mean.”
“ She is not—she’s
protective.”
His brow rose, lines forming across his
forehead. “Well,
nothing like the selfish man her mother described. “I remember
those days well,” he said. “Their whole life was about drilling
work into their students.” Friendly eyes crinkled within his
sun-tanned skin, the white of his shirt contrasting sharply and
somehow making him look younger than his forty-plus years. Up
close, his brown eyes danced as though he didn’t have a care in the
world. Squared jaw, strong nose, her father’s complexion was shades
darker than her own. Felicity found it odd that she didn’t resemble
him. Granted his skin was browned from his time spent outdoors, but
even in the dead of winter she could tell his skin would be shades
darker than her own. Her mom was blonde with a medium complexion.
Maybe it was true what her mother always said. She claimed Felicity
favored the Ladd side of the family, red-tinged hair and freckles
to boot. But still, she mused, peering at the stranger who was her
father. It was weird how different he could look from
her.
“ I hear you’re doing amazing
things with your flute.”
Lifting her shoulders, she
replied, “I don’t know about amazing . I play...” Felicity pressed
her side against the counter, wondering who would have told him
about her flute. No one knew anything about her music who would
have said the first word to Jack Foster.
“ Don’t sell yourself short,
kid. It’s a tough world out there with far too many people ready
and willing to take you down.” She nodded, imagining him as a young
man enjoying his college days, replaced by more recent thoughts of
him telling her to pay her own way through school, build some
character. He gestured like he was going to tap her arm, but didn’t
and said, “Stand up for yourself. You deserve it.”
Felicity caught sight of
Fran Jone’s net-covered red-head of hair through the kitchen
service window and groaned inwardly. Great . She’d be hearing about this
encounter later on.
As though sensing her distress, Jack
turned around and looked in the same direction. Fran stared him
down, but then disappeared into the recesses of her kitchen like a
groundhog popping back into its hole. His dark eyes cooled a
degree. “Don’t let old Fran get to you. She’s always been a nosy
one.”
“ She’s only looking out for
me,” Felicity defended.
About to object, he seemed to think
better of it, nodding instead. Returning focus to her plate, she
picked up a French fry, dropping it three fries over. It was
awkward to be alone with him. Well, not alone-alone but without
sight of her mother. Felicity didn’t remember the last time it
happened.
“ So how about
dinner?”
She glanced up. “Huh?”
“ Dinner with your old man,
catch up on old times?” The breath caught in her throat and he
chuckled. “You can’t avoid me forever. I have a right to visit my
own daughter, don’t I?”
A million responses flew through her
brain, a million reasons no, a million reasons yes, but none of
them made it to her lips.
“ Your grandparents would
like to see you.”
“ Grandparents? As in the
Fosters?”
He nodded. Setting a hand to the
counter he leaned his weight into it. With a fleeting glance toward
the kitchen he said, “They’ve invited you to dinner at the
house.”
“ Why?”
He laughed. “Because you’re their
granddaughter? They care about you and want to know how you’re
doing.” He dipped his head near. “Is that so strange a
concept?”
The man spoke with an intimacy he
hadn’t earned. He hadn’t been in her life all these years, hadn’t
cared what she was doing, cared to help her in any way. He never
called, hardly wrote. Why now? “They never asked my mom to see me
before.”
“ Probably because they were
afraid to ask.” Jack glanced askance and then, as though sharing a
secret, said, “She’s kind of thorny, if you know what I
mean.”
“ She is not—she’s
protective.”
His brow rose, lines forming across his
forehead. “Well,
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