Not My Daughter (19 page)

Chapter 18

It was a long trip. After driving to Portland, they flew to Philadelphia, then Chicago, then Tulsa, where Susan rented a car and drove an hour. There was a tiny inn in the center of her town, still open all these years later, according to the Internet, but if they had stayed there, news of their arrival would be all over the place before Susan could make it to the house. Her nightmare scenario had her being barred from entering.

Playing it safe, she had booked a room at a Comfort Inn two towns over. By the time they checked in, it was eleven at night. Lily had napped during parts of the trip, curled in her seat on the airplane with her history book on her lap and her head on Susan's shoulder, so childlike that it was hard to remember she was pregnant. So Susan didn't. She turned the clock back six months and took comfort from her daughter's closeness during those moments when she wasn't obsessing over changes to the school handbook, a draft of which was on her laptop, over thought of Evan back home, over anticipation of her mother's reaction to seeing her.

Too keyed up to sleep, Susan knitted to unwind. She had taken a skein of the sport weight wool that Kate had just dyed and was making a cowl for the catalogue spread. The pattern looked complex but was not, which made it a good project both for her now and for customers later.

There was no e-mail, though her BlackBerry had plenty of bars. Evan Brewer had filled in for her a time or two when she'd been at conferences. Politically, she couldn't have asked anyone else to cover. He had age and experience.

But he was ambitious. Not hearing from him made her nervous. Finally, she was tired enough to let that go, too.

They slept soundly, took their time getting dressed, and read the paper over breakfast in a coffee shop. Refusing to think about Evan or even her mother, Susan drove slowly, studying the landscape she hadn't seen in so long. The day was brightly overcast; she wore dark glasses to break the glare.

"Very flat," Lily remarked. "Not as green as home."

Much of that was seasonal, Susan knew. "We've been spoiled by evergreens. Out here, there are more oaks. Once spring comes and they leaf out, it will be beautiful. There's hickory farther east and pine to the south. Over there by the river, those are cottonwoods." They, too, were bare and bowing to the wind. "I'd forgotten about the wind. It's a prairie staple in winter." Indeed, it buffeted the car as she drove.

She pointed to a pretty sign that marked the town line. "That's new." A minute later, they were passing farmhouses. "Those've been here forever. Farmers used to focus on cattle and wheat, but they've branched out. Poultry is huge."

A few miles more, and the houses were closer together. They were small and single-storied, folk-style homes with additions tacked on at the back or the side. As they approached the center of town, the style didn't change, only the extent of improvements. Here there were stone fronts and two-car garages.

Turning, Susan drove down a side street to show Lily her high school. And the house where a friend had lived. And Rick's house.

Back in the center of town, she pointed out the drugstore, the feed store, the dress shop owned by her mother's good friend. The window display was surprisingly chic. A new owner?

She was slowing to admire what looked to be a newly built library when Lily said a quiet, "Mom. We agreed we'd get there early. It's after ten."

Yes. They had agreed on early. The wake ran from eleven to six, and given the prominence of Susan's father, there would be crowds. She wanted to get there before the rest did.

Picking up speed, she drove the few blocks to her parents' street and, with growing anxiety, passed more of those single-storied homes, now of brick, until she reached the one with the gabled front, the one in which she had grown up.

Parking, she turned off the engine. There were already four cars in the driveway, though she had no way of knowing to whom they belonged. Her parents had always loved Chevys, but seventeen years later, who knew what they drove?

"The porch is new," she told Lily. "And the basketball net. That must be for Jack's son."

"Thomas," Lily droned. "Age ten. Big brother of Emily, who is eight, and Ava, who is five. The mom is Lauren, who never sends thank-yous."

The last thing Susan needed just then was lip--and, oh boy,
there
was an expression from the past.
I don't want lip
, her father used to say, mostly to Jack.

"Aunt Lauren and Uncle Jackson," Susan corrected.

"This is really weird."

Susan didn't comment, simply watched another car pull in front of her and park. A couple emerged from either door. "LeRoy and Martha Barnes. LeRoy played poker with your grandfather. Martha loves to bake." Sure enough, foil-covered plates were emerging from the backseat. Straightening to adjust her load, Martha glimpsed Susan. She stared a moment too long.

"Foiled," Lily whispered dramatically.

"This isn't funny."

"I know, Mom, but these are only people, and they have very little to do with who you are. You have a life. You own a house that's nicer than this one. You have great friends and a great job. Let that lady stare."

She was right, of course. By the time Susan had given Lily's hand an appreciative squeeze, Martha Barnes was heading into the house with her husband in tow.

Susan took a deep breath. "Let's go." Heart pounding, she slid out of the car, pocketed the keys, and, holding Lily's hand, went up the walk. Once inside, she heard voices coming from the kitchen, but her eyes quickly went to the living room. She saw no people, just a large coffin. It was open, as she had known it would be. John Tate was as close to royalty as this town got. His minions would want to see him one last time.

So did Susan, which was why she'd come all this way. But suddenly she couldn't move. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered brokenly.

Lily linked their arms tightly. "You can," she whispered back. "You're a survivor, Mom. This is a piece of cake compared to some of the things you've done."

It wasn't, but having Lily there was a help.

Removing her dark glasses, Susan approached the coffin. Her father looked amazingly well--dark hair thinner than it had been when she'd left, but skin attractively tanned. He was a handsome man.

What to tell him? Susan couldn't think of a thing. Wrapping an arm around Lily's waist, she drew her closer to the coffin. He would know who the girl was.

"Is this how he looked?" Lily whispered.

"Yes. Always in a suit. He said it added dignity to the job of mayor. He took great pride in that."

Lily reached out, but inches shy of touching his hand, she pulled back. Susan completed the gesture herself. Her father never had the roughened skin of a cattle farmer, but his hands were strong. Even now, fingers linked lifelessly over his middle, they had that commanding quality.

Not once, though, had he raised a hand to Susan. There had been many sweet times between father and daughter, but they were forgotten when Susan was sent away. Remembering them now, she felt a searing pain. So much was lost.

Her eyes filled with tears, which was why she didn't notice a nearby movement until Lily's elbow tightened around hers. At the foot of the coffin stood Ellen Tate. She looked smaller than Susan remembered, though not as much in height as in an odd inner quality. Her eyes were filled with exhaustion and grief, but not surprise--no, not that. She gripped the edge of the coffin, seemingly for support, but Susan imagined a certain possessiveness and, caught trespassing, released her father's hand.

"Mom," she said softly.

Ellen just stared at her.

"I couldn't not come," Susan explained. "He was my father."

Ellen said nothing.

"I wanted Lily to see him. This is the only chance she'll have."

Ellen's eyes skittered to Lily--reluctantly, even involuntarily, Susan thought. Of course, Ellen had seen pictures of the girl. Susan had sent plenty over the years, and though there had never been any acknowledgment, she had to believe her parents had looked at them.

"Lily, this is your grandmother."

"Hi," Lily said in a small voice. There was no "Nana," but Susan couldn't fault Lily on that. Nothing about Ellen right now was warm and fuzzy--or welcoming, for that matter.

Susan might have been angry, if she hadn't been juggling so many other emotions. She had seen newspaper snaps of her parents at events here in town, but it wasn't the same as real life.

"You're looking well, Mom." Exhaustion and grief aside, she actually did. Her hair, Susan's sandy shade laced with silver, was stylishly cut to the chin. She wore a black sweater and slacks not entirely unlike the ones Susan wore, and though she was a bit too thin, she held herself well. She was only fifty-nine. Had her face not been drawn, she would have looked younger than that.

Ellen still made no response. From the archway, though, came a grating, "What the hell?"

It was Jackson, four years older than Susan, a head taller, and scowling darkly. "What are you doing here?" he asked, coming to stand beside Ellen, her protector now that John was gone. As preordained, he had taken over as mayor when his father decided not to run again. Susan had followed that in the paper as well.

Now she was angry. Her mother not welcoming her was one thing. But Jack? He had basked in his father's love. It wouldn't have hurt him to show a little compassion to Susan, who had not.

Granted, they had never been close. Jack had always been the heir apparent and way too arrogant for Susan's taste. Through the trauma of her final weeks here, he hadn't offered a word of support, though in his own twenty-one years, he had broken every rule except impregnating a girl. And now he was head of the house? How pathetic was that?

She raised her chin. "I've come for Dad's funeral."

"He would not want you here."

"How do you know? Did you ask?"

"I didn't have to," he said smugly. "I was here. I saw what he did when he was alive. He didn't ask for you even when his health started to fail."

Ellen shot him a glance, but if it was a warning, she let it go and looked at Susan again.

Susan was on her own and uncowed. "Thanks for telling me that, Jack. I might not have known."

"I'm Lily," came a surprisingly strong voice from her side.

Jack spared the girl a brief glance before returning to Susan. "I want you to leave."

Lily replied before Susan could. "We just got here, and we had to spend all of yesterday traveling to do it. Mom left town at a time that was really, really bad for her, that's how much she wanted to be here. And I've never been to Oklahoma before."

She wasn't entirely on her own, Susan realized with a glimmer of pride.

Jack stared at the girl. "Then I'm sorry the trip will be so short. You'd be better off back in school anyway."

"Actually, I wouldn't," Lily said, and Susan did nothing to stop her. "I brought books with me and can get my assignments online. That was one of the first things Mom did when she became principal. You know that's her job, don't you?" Jack didn't answer. "She's the youngest person ever to hold the position, and she's the best. I mean, like, everyone loves her--the kids, the parents."

"Then it won't be hard for her to turn around and go back," Jack said.

"No," Lily argued calmly. "You don't understand. She's good at what she does because she cares, and that's why she's here. I know all about you. You're married to Lauren, my cousins are Thomas, Emily, and Ava, and you live in a big yellow house in town that was owned by the Farrows when my mom lived here. See, even with none of you giving her an ounce of encouragement, she taught
me
to care."

"But she didn't teach you not to talk back."

"I'm not talking back. We're having a discussion."

"What about respect for your elders?"

"When they earn it," Lily said.

Susan nearly clapped. Had it not been for the coffin and Ellen, she would have been enjoying herself. Jack had met his match.

So he turned on Susan. "You think she's cute, but wait. That kind of lip causes trouble. She must inherit waywardness from you."

"Either that or sensibility," Susan said. "And for the record, I wouldn't call what she said cute. I'd call it true."

He sighed. "Okay. Look. It's been a trying few days here, so let's cut to the chase. You want money."

That took Susan by surprise. "Excuse me?"

"But why would he leave you any? You weren't a part of his life."

"Excuse
me." Susan was indignant. "I'm his
daughter
--but the
fact
is that money never crossed my mind. He paid me to leave town, and I haven't asked for a nickel since, and, believe me, there were times when I could have used it. But I have money enough of my own now. I have a wonderful daughter. I have friends. There's not a lot I'm wanting except maybe some closure with my mother. I'm wondering what she would say if you weren't standing guard."

Jack turned to Ellen, who murmured, "I'll be in the kitchen," and left.