Page 38

He had. And she’d help him find his way back.

Familiar footsteps padded in the hallway, and Eleanor dropped her sports bag by the cabinet, shoes and socks landing atop the duffel. Barefoot, she crossed to the refrigerator to retrieve her water bottle. She cast a quick glance over the island. “I thought we were going to breakfast.”

“We are.” Tick forked up his last bite of strata. “I’ll have coffee while you and your sister eat.”

“Wait, so my options are Mama’s strata or greasy diner food?” With a non-Woodfield-girl snort, she grabbed a plate from the cabinet. “No contest there. Eva can eat junk.”

Tick caught Caitlin’s amused gaze and grinned. Eleanor dished up a serving of strata and poured a glass of milk, dark braid tapping against her red sweatshirt with each movement.

He blinked. Not Woodfield navy, not even UH red . . . all right, the same tone of UH red, but that was an Andrew Carnegie High sweatshirt, J. Taylor emblazoned on the back. Flicking a finger at Eleanor, he mouthed “When did that happen?” at Caitlin.

“Tuesday,” she replied, just as soundlessly.

With a shrug, he nodded. His girl could do worse than Taylor’s nephew, who was a decent kid, smart and hardworking, who had an idea of the man he wanted to be and stood by that. And thank the good Lord, Eleanor had her head on better at fifteen than he or any of his siblings had, except maybe Del or Tori.

Nobody would ever be good enough for her in his eyes, but she could do worse. Besides, he’d walked the damage of having his parents not accepting the person he cared about, twice now, so they weren’t going down that road.

She brought her plate and cup to the island, settling next to him. Spinning her fork in a circle, she glanced between him and Caitlin. “How was dinner?”

He stilled at the less than innocent question. Hell, he shouldn’t be surprised — his daughter who loved birds and science and wanted to be a naturalist analyzed people like her mother and never missed a thing. She’d experienced their marriage at its best, so why would he think she wouldn’t notice when it wasn’t?

“Dinner was good.” Caitlin lifted her cup, knee nudging into his thigh as she shifted on the stool. “Your father and I have not had much one-to-one time the past few weeks.”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes on Caitlin’s face, and she swung that suspicious look between them. “You would tell me if you were divorcing, yes?”

Tick choked on a swallow of decaf. Shit, it was worse in his nasal cavities. “What? We are not divorcing.”

“Eleanor.” Caitlin sighed, that patented blend of patience and comfort in the sound.

“Isabella Crawford’s parents did the whole thing . . . date nights, weekend trips, marriage counseling.” Eleanor twirled her fork in the air, her mouth a tight line. “They’re still divorcing, and it’s ugly.”

He’d been so out of it his daughter worried he’d leave. Son of a bitch.

“And there’s this mid-thirties thing that men do, that’s kind of like a midlife crisis, but it’s not, and the divorce statistics go through the roof.” She talked across him, at Caitlin, a hint of panic in her voice.

“Ace.” He pushed every ounce of reasonable calm he had into his own tone, and she turned her dark gaze on him, fearful and angry. Hell. He leaned toward her, holding her gaze. “I love your mother with everything in me. I love you — and your sister — with everything in me. I am not going anywhere, and we are not splitting up. I promise you.”

Eleanor darted a look at her mother, and Caitlin curved her hand about his knee. “Piccola, we’re fine. Marriages are not stagnant. They change and grow like people, and sometimes there are growing pains. Your father is absolutely correct, though — we are not in any danger of separating.”

Their daughter deflated, anxiety bleeding out of her in a sigh. She stabbed the tines of her fork into her strata, lifting a bite and grimacing. “Eva would be awful if you did.”

Tick swallowed a snort. Yeah. Eva would be awful. He’d been a colossal dumbass at nineteen, too, setting up the circumstances that fed Eleanor’s fear now.

Sometimes, he wanted to go back and shake some sense into himself, his cue to make sure he did so to his current self.

“Cut your sister some slack.” He folded an arm over his chest, balancing his elbow and lifting his cup for a swallow of bitter, and now almost cold, brew. “Eight’s an emotional age. Or do you not remember having a meltdown because you were at camp when she was born?”

She cut her eyes at him. “Didn’t you run away when you were eight and Grandma told you she was pregnant with Aunt Tori?”

“I did.” A hint of amused affection quirked at his lips. And what had Louise done when he showed up on her doorstep, after cutting three miles through the woods, hot and thirsty and indignant? Called Mama to come get him because she was done raising boys. Sweet Jesus, he missed her. “But I already had four siblings. Another one seemed like overkill.”

Down the hallway, small feet hit the floor with a solid thud, and he grinned. If Caitlin was better than Christmas, Eva was the best birthday present he’d ever had. She exploded into each day like a firecracker, and this morning was no exception.

“Daddy!” She galloped from the hall and launched herself at him, clambering into his lap, arms tight about his neck in a wild hug. Laughing, he patted her back, and she leaned over his arm, lips puckered for Caitlin’s morning kiss.

“Good morning, Minnie.” Lord, he adored her. She was so much like her mama, and all too often, he thought she was the child Caitlin would have been without her father’s poisonous behavior.

She plopped on his thigh and fixed his empty plate with a suspicious look. “Are we still going for breakfast?”