The Daughter Merger. Janice Kay Johnson

Not with you.”

      “Well…” Linnet frowned. “Yeah, but there’s one at the same time as my jazz dance. I think it’s ballet, but that’s okay, because you should get training in ballet first.”

      Claire pictured herself in a pink leotard, standing with heels together and toes pointing out in that dorky position, slowly bending her knees and straightening all to the tinkle of a piano. No, thank you.

      “Dance isn’t my thing.”

      “What is your thing?”

      Claire jumped to her feet and yanked open a drawer. She wasn’t going to hang those posters, she wouldn’t be here that long, but she might as well put her clothes in the drawers.

      “What do you mean, what’s my thing? I like music and hanging out. It’s not like everybody has to dance.” She knew she sounded disagreeable and was mad at herself. She didn’t have to take her bad mood out on Linnet, who had rescued her from purgatory.

      “I’m sorry.” Her friend flushed. “I mean, I just thought you’d want…”

      “To be like you.” She still sounded weird. Abrupt. “I can’t be.”

      “I’m nothing so great! I just think dancing is fun.” Linnet was starting to look ticked. “Is that so bad?”

      Collapsing onto the floor cross-legged, Claire wrinkled her nose in apology. “I’m really sorry! I’m just jealous because I know you’re really good at dance, and I don’t want to be the only beginner over eight years old. Besides, your mom shouldn’t have to pay for stuff like that.”

      “No, but I’ll bet your father would.”

      “I don’t want to take his money!”

      Her friend rolled onto her stomach and hung her arms off the bed, her chin resting on the edge. “Why not?”

      “Because I don’t want to owe him anything!” she said fiercely.

      “Who says you owe him?” Linnet asked logically. “I mean, parents don’t expect to be paid back. He’s already giving Mom money for your food, right? Mom says he is. So why not lessons? Isn’t there something you’ve always wanted to do? Skiing? Windsurfing?”

      “Horseback riding.” Where had that come from? It just popped out, a little kid dream. She had those plastic horse statues, now sitting on a shelf in her bedroom at home. She used to play with them for hours. Sometimes, with her eyes closed, she’d imagine herself on horseback, galloping like the wind.

      “See?” Linnet crowed. “I knew there was something! That’s it! Ask to take horseback riding lessons.”

      Part of her balked at the idea. But another part started thinking, why not? The temptation nibbled at her resolve. She could spend his money. Lots of his money. Maybe she could ride English. Learn to show-jump.

      Uh-huh. Sure. Let him think he’d done something for her. Tell everyone he was a good daddy because he’d paid for horseback riding lessons.

      “No!” She shoved the roll of posters in the closet, in her haste denting it. “No. I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything from him.”

      “Wow.” Linnet sounded awed. “You must really hate your dad.”

      “I told you I did.” And she didn’t want to think about him, not anymore. One of the Blanchets’ two cats gave her an excuse, poking his head into the bedroom. “Hey, Lemieux,” Claire coaxed, holding out her hand. “Here kitty-kitty. Maybe he’ll sleep with me.” She trailed her fingers down the big Siamese’s taupe back. “Listen,” she said to Linnet, “why don’t you set up my stereo while I put away my clothes? Okay?”

      Linnet slid nose first off the bed, like a seal going into the water. As she hit the floor, the cat erupted under Claire’s hand and fled, thundering down the hall.

      Both girls laughed, and Claire’s mood improved for the first time. This wasn’t home, but it would be okay.

      For now.

      CHAPTER THREE

      DAVID HAD NEVER SO BADLY wanted to make an excuse as he did Sunday. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let himself. Leaving Claire with her mother, believing she’d be better off there, was one thing. Deserting her on a stranger’s doorstep was another. He might be a coward, but not that big a one.

      Besides which, damn it, he’d promised.

      What the hell, he thought with grim humor as he rang the doorbell, Grace Blanchet might as well find out now what her Good Samaritan plans would come to.

      She was the one to open the door. She wore an apron again, like the other day. From inside her home wafted the smell of garlic and baking bread and a whiff of something sweeter. Apple pie? Behind her, on the stairs, lay a different cat from the other day, this one a fluffy brown Maine coon type with a white bib. It paused in the midst of some intricate grooming ritual and stared at him, unblinking and distinctly unfriendly.

      He tore his gaze away from the cat and looked at Grace Blanchet, who was smiling like any good hostess should, even one entertaining this particular guest only because she felt she had to.

      “I’m glad you made it.” That smoky voice completely belied her prim exterior. “Claire wasn’t so sure you would.”

      Yeah. More likely, Claire had hoped.

      When Grace turned, his gaze flicked to her jean-clad rear. The white bow of the apron was a saucy accent to her slender curves.

      Hating himself for ogling, feeling the cat’s stare between his shoulder blades, David followed Grace back to the kitchen, into déjà vu. There she was, behind the tiled counter, the apron protecting her clothes from the marinara sauce bubbling on the stove, which she stirred. He stood in exactly the same spot, beside the sliding door, feeling as socially inept as he had that day. He hadn’t stuck his foot in his mouth yet, but he knew damn well what was to come and hadn’t warned this perfectly nice woman.

      “If you want to go up and say hi to Claire,” she began.

      “I was hoping to talk to you first,” David said truthfully. “Is she, uh…”

      “Behaving herself? You bet. She’s very polite.” A faintly troubled look crossed Grace’s face. “She hasn’t exactly settled in, though. She doesn’t want to put up her posters, for example. I wish you hadn’t said that.”

      He shook his head. “Usually, my opening my mouth would guarantee that she’d do whatever I suggested she not do.”

      “That bad, huh?”

      “Worse.”

      She set a wine bottle and corkscrew on the counter. “Would you open this?”

      He automatically began turning the screw into the cork. “In all fairness,” he said gruffly, “I should warn you that Claire and I haven’t sat down for a meal together in a month or more. She’s bound to make an excuse tonight.”

      For an apparently gentle, pleasant woman, Grace had a steely core. “She can try.”

      With a pop, the cork came out. David poured two glasses, held his up, and said, “To a very brave woman.”

      She lifted hers in turn. “Courage is in the eye of the beholder.”

      They both swallowed.

      David leaned one hip against the cabinet and watched her run water into a big pot for the pasta.

      “I want you to know that I’m grateful to you for trying this,” he said abruptly.

      She clapped a lid on the pot. “All I’m doing is giving your daughter a safe place to stay while you two work out your problems.”

      He took another gulp of wine. “I have