The Daughter Merger
The terrible twos are nothing compared to the traumatic teens.David Whitcomb is a good father and once upon a time, his thirteen-year-old daughter Claire adored him. But times have changed and Claire seems intent on running away to live with her mother–a woman who's unable to look after her.In desperation, David turns to Grace Blanchet, the mother of Claire's best friend. Grace agrees to foster Claire while father and daughter work things out. She knows this is what's best for Claire. She's just not sure it's best for her. Does she really want to "play house" with a man who, much as she's attracted to him, reminds her of another man–one she'd prefer to forget?
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“Tell me about your stipulations, Grace.”
“That you become very involved in her life. Take her places, join us for dinner, call her, look over her schoolwork… Be her father.”
David scrutinized her for the longest time. “I’d be over here constantly.”
“That’s okay.” Was it? she asked herself, with a faint sense of panic. Too late.
“Claire won’t want me here.”
“But that’s the deal,” Grace said firmly. “She has to promise to work at being your daughter. One of my rules is that we’re all polite to guests.”
“Guests.” He tasted the word as though it was questionable wine.
And who could blame him? His position would be awkward, to say the least. His daughter was choosing to live with someone else. He gave one of those off-putting nods. “I’ll talk to Claire.”
Grace hardly had time to say goodbye before he was gone, leaving her with the horrifying realization that she’d gotten herself into something she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to do.
It should have been Claire she was thinking about. Unsettled, Grace had to admit, if only to herself, that she was far more worried about dealing with the grim father than with the sulky teenage girl.
Dear Reader,
The Daughter Merger came naturally to me, and let me tell you why: I have two teenage daughters. The bickering, the repartee, the gossip about school, all are the stuff of daily life for me. The rehearsals are familiar, too, since both my daughters act and I am, of course, their chauffeur.
Let me hasten to say here that my girls have more in common with Linnet than with Claire. They’re top-notch students and my best friends. So here’s my real secret: I was Claire, not Linnet. At twelve, my mother tells me, I was a nice kid. At thirteen, I woke up one morning a monster. I wept at sad songs, I stormed at my parents’ refusal to let me date, I screamed at them, I spent the night at friends’ houses and… Well, never mind. My mother might read this, and I wouldn’t want to horrify her too much! Fortunately, at about fifteen, I awakened one morning to discover I’d grown up.
The point is, Claire came from my memories of that sad, tumultuous age. She has some reasons to be sad, as her father has reasons for his emotional detachment. Those of you who have read my previous books know that I love heroes who have difficulty expressing emotion—the strong silent type. What makes David Whitcomb a hero is his willingness to learn, to risk and, ultimately, to love passionately. This guy is one of my all-time favorite heroes. Claire is a lucky kid.
Now that you’re in on my secrets…
Janice Kay Johnson
P.S. You can reach me at www.superauthors.com
For Nan Hawthorne, Jim Tedford and the real gang: Lemieux, Stanzi and Kitkat
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
NOTHING LIKE FINDING OUT your teenage daughter had cut school to foul up your day. David Whitcomb’s mounting tension was laced with anger. He didn’t have time for this.
But fear was his strongest emotion. Had Claire hit the road again? How far would she get this time?
His gaze found the dashboard clock. Eleven forty-three. School had started at 7:10. That gave her a four-hour head start. If the Attendance Office had notified him sooner…
The garage door was already rising in response to his signal before he turned into his driveway. David killed the engine, set the emergency brake and leaped out, his long stride carrying him into the house.
“Claire?” he bellowed. “Are you home? Claire?”
The kitchen was quiet and dark; a cereal bowl sat in the sink. Loading it into the dishwasher was beyond her. At least she’d had breakfast.
“Claire?” He took the stairs two at a time. No pounding beat of music welcomed him. He slammed open her bedroom door, already knowing what he would find: an empty room.
Covers were tidy, but he knew better than to think Claire had made the bed. She was a quiet, still sleeper, had been since she was a baby. He remembered, with a pang he ignored, how she had sometimes scared him when he checked on her and at first glance thought she’d quit breathing.
Closet doors stood open, and clothes spilled out of drawers. Damn. Her binder and a social studies text lay on the desk. So she never had set out for school. The day pack was gone, as was the framed photo of her mother that usually sat beside her bed.
Fear finally swamped his anger. A thirteen-year-old girl, out on her own, trying to—what? hitch-hike?—to California. Last time she’d made it to Portland before an alert cop had picked her up. What if some psycho found her first?
