He called her maybe twice a year, and never for a chat.
She listened while he told her in blunt terms what he thought about her refusal to marry Richard.
It couldn’t have been any further removed from the sympathetic talk she’d had with Suzanne.
“I don’t love him—” She wasn’t even allowed to finish her sentence and half way through the painful hammer of harsh words, she realized that Alec hadn’t left the room. He was standing still, his hand on the door, clearly uncertain whether to leave her or not.
It was like playing emotional strip poker, she thought numbly.
Another layer removed. Another layer revealed.
Her father’s words smashed into her like pebbles caught in the tide. Selfish. A disappointment. Dreamy.
She waited until he finished talking, added something bland and noncommittal and dropped the phone onto the bed.
Alec was scowling. “Who the hell was that?”
She swallowed. “The Judge.”
“The Judge?”
“My father.”
“You call your father the Judge?”
“Yes, because you always feel as if you’re on trial. Even my brothers call him that. He listens to the evidence and then gives his ruling and it’s never in my favor.” She tried to keep her tone light. “Forget The Good Wife, I could write a script called The Bad Daughter.”
Alec released the door handle and walked toward her. “You’re upset. More upset than you were about Richard.”
“Richard was a mistake. The Judge is … family. It’s never easy falling out with family.”
“Did you know he was going to say all those things?” Alec’s tone was harsh and she nodded, wondering how much he’d heard.
“I pretty much could have scripted it word for word.”
“Then why the hell did you answer the phone?”
“Because not answering simply postpones the inevitable conversation until later. I’d rather get it over with.”
“But that puts him in control.”
“He is in control.”
“Of your life?” He walked back toward her and she shook her head.
“Not the decisions I make, but he controls the approval ratings and the mood of the household. I’ll be blamed if we have an ice storm at Christmas.”
“I assume you’re not talking about the weather.”
She gave a humorless laugh. “When we were young, my brothers and I used to issue weather warnings to each other as shorthand for his mood. ‘Stormy today’ or ‘cloudy with a chance of sunshine.’ Although there wasn’t much sunshine. My father is a very serious man.”
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth about Richard?”
“Which part should I tell him? That I don’t even know who he really is? That he might have hit me if I hadn’t moved? What sort of story is that? My father hears solid evidence every day. He would accuse me of being dramatic. A victim of my own creative brain.” And in a way she had been, because she’d imagined that given time things might work out with Richard.
“Next time, don’t pick up the phone.”
“That would make the conversation twice as lively when it eventually happens.”