Buch lesen: «All-American Father»
His BlackBerry chirped
“Derrick Cavenaugh.”
“Mr. Cavenaugh, this is Detective Oaks with the Atherton PD. I’m at the Stop Right on the corner of Elm and Matteson. There’s been an incident with your daughter, Leslie, and I’m afraid the owner intends to press charges….”
Derrick pasted on a calm expression, while his insides churned up the take-out sushi he’d gulped down for lunch. But as the cop summed up Leslie’s latest contribution to Derrick’s plunge into single-parent insanity, Derrick kept his panic to himself. He was getting good at it.
His oldest had apparently skipped classes again. And now she had her sights firmly set on adding a petty larceny conviction to her middle school résumé.
Dear Reader,
Success can be a fickle goal to chase. For some of us, the reality of life never quite lives up to the promise of our youth. And yet there’s a wonderful sort of starting over that can happen when we break free of expectation. When we start saying what’s next, instead of looking back.
High school valedictorian Bailey Greenwood never made it to college, and All-American quarterback Derrick Cavenaugh washed out long before realizing his dream of playing pro ball. But these two fighters are everything champions should be—whether they’re ready to believe it or not. And their journeys have brought them to the same place. They can continue to define themselves by past failures, or they can start fighting for the new dreams just beyond their reach.
Participating in the SINGLES…WITH KIDS series has been a blast. This isn’t my first single-parent story, but it’s turned out to be my favorite. Each of the books in SINGLES…WITH KIDS is uplifting, heartwarming and at times laugh-out-loud funny. And the same message rings throughout: single parents are hardworking, determined survivors, and they are champions, one and all.
So to all the single moms and dads fighting and dreaming out there, let me just say—well done!
I love to hear from readers. Please let me know what you think of my stories at www.annawrites.com. And join the fun and fabulous giveaways at annadestefano.blogspot.com.
Sincerely,
Anna
All-American Father
Anna Destefano
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Romantic Times BOOKreviews award-winning author Anna DeStefano fell in love at first sight with her hero husband. Watching him become the world’s greatest father from the first moment he held their son in his hands, she fell in love with him all over again. It’s difficult for her to choose her favorite part of writing family dramas—at least until she dreams up another hardworking hero doing his very best for his family. Then it’s show over. The fathers get to her every time.
For
Andrew
my champion,
and
Jimmy
my dream catcher.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“NICE JOB, CAVENAUGH.” Derrick’s senior partner slapped him on the shoulder as they left the high-rise conference room behind.
“Thanks, Spencer,” Derrick replied with the expected hint of nonchalance. “We’ll have the merger portfolio ready for Reynolds-Allied to sign by the end of the month.”
It felt good to be in control of something.
Anything.
Contract law wasn’t as sexy as the professional football career he and his old man had envisioned for Derrick’s life. But being on top of his game during high-stakes negotiations was its own kind of rush.
The boardroom was the only place he wasn’t failing on a daily basis, since returning to San Francisco a year ago. Where his—God, he hated the word—potential wasn’t being wasted.
“You’re coming to the alumni mixer at the Western–Langston game in a couple of weeks, right?” Spencer Hastings’s questions were rarely just questions. Derrick was being summoned. And Hastings had a stranglehold on the junior partner promotion Derrick was banking his family’s future on. “You’ll make everyone’s night by showing up.”
“I…” Derrick’s legacy as the alumni football star from San Francisco’s Western High had secured him a spot at the firm of Hastings Chase Whitney. But he was a chronic no-show at as many local social events as he could avoid. Especially the sports-related ones, where there was little business to be done, and too much of what he was supposed to have become slapping him in the face. Like the Western alumni gathering, scheduled for Western’s annual grudge match against Langston High School, this year to be played at Langston’s stadium across the bay—the suburb where Derrick now lived with his girls. “I’ll have to find a sitter for Leslie and Savannah.”
“Nonsense.” Hastings gave his shoulder a firmer slap as the elevator rushed them to the ground floor. “Bring the kids along.”
Derrick tried to picture his twelve-year-old and nine-year-old, resentful already of the time his job stole from them, listening to Daddy relive glory days with a bunch of people they didn’t know. In under half an hour, he’d have a Powerpuff-Girl-sized mutiny on his hands.
Zam.
Pow!
Dad, we wanna go. Now!
“I’ll see what I can do.” He flashed his golden-boy grin to smooth things along. “My oldest is working on a science project, and—”
His BlackBerry chirped.
He sifted through his overflowing briefcase as they emerged through revolving doors onto the bustling sidewalk.
“Derrick Cavenaugh.”
“Mr. Cavenaugh, this is Detective Oaks with the Langston PD. I’m at the Stop Right on the corner of Elm and Matteson. There’s been an incident with your daughter, Leslie, and I’m afraid the owner intends to press charges….”
Derrick pasted on a calm expression, while his insides churned up the take-out sushi he’d gulped down for lunch. Hastings kept his gaze politely focused on the shuffle of business people streaming by. But as the cop summed up Leslie’s latest contribution to Derrick’s plunge into single-parent insanity, Derrick kept his panic to himself. He was getting good at it.
His oldest had apparently skipped classes again. And now she had her sights firmly set on adding a petty larceny conviction to her middle school resume.
TWO PART-TIME JOBS…
One aging bed-and-breakfast by the bay…
A cop and a preteen thief standing between Bailey Greenwood and the end of her Stop Right shift…
Cost to Bailey’s insomnia-challenged grip on reality?
Priceless.
“Mr. Drayton, I need to get going,” she said. “I’ve already given the officer my statement, and—”
“Not until the girl’s father arrives,” grumped the convenience store owner who’d insisted that she cover the afternoon shift, because he’d been unavailable when Sally Traver called in sick. But wave the petty theft of a seven-dollar box of condoms before the cheapskate, and Drayton had beaten the police to the store. “I want the officer to have all the information he needs to put that little hoodlum behind bars.”
The hoodlum in question was currently slumped in the cracked plastic chair in Drayton’s office, cowering in a jailbait ensemble Bailey suspected had been purchased somewhere like Bloomingdale’s, rather than the latest mall-rat hangout. The kid had attitude to spare, but she seemed more desperate for attention than becoming a hoodlum-in-training.
“She’s got the money to pay for what she took.” The girl had flashed an impressive wad of cash in a snotty attempt to keep Bailey from calling the cops. “Why not let her square things, then leave her parents to deal with the rest?”
And let me get to Margo’s Bistro before I lose the new job that might spring me from this dump, if I can get enough hours there.
“The money’s not the point,” the man actually had the nerve to say, when bottom line was his native language. “If I let one of these miscreants off, they’ll be all over this place, taking me for everything I’m worth.”
As if there was a gang of upper-middle-class hell-raisers looking to supplement their allowances by pilfering from the resident Scrooge!
Larry Drayton stocked the cheapest inventory he could get away with selling, trading on his prime location as the only convenience store on the main drag that led from their affluent bedroom community to the interstate linking them to the Golden Gate. He was downright rude to customers, inflexible on principle with his hourly employees and did a nimble tightrope dance around the regulations of his trade that would bite him in the butt one day.
Bailey had checked the expiry date on the Trojan condoms she’d reclaimed from the kid. If their under-aged klepto was planning a party, Bailey had done her and the girl’s parents a favor. Evidently, it had been ten years since Scrooge last stocked prophylactics.
“I’m going to grab my things,” she murmured.
Scott Fletcher had wandered in a few minutes ago—a half hour late for his shift. She was free to go, as soon as Daddy showed.
What kind of parent took an hour and a half to get himself to the scene of his child’s crime?
When Bailey entered the office, the pop-princess wanna-be rearranged her worried features into a scowl. The kid’s attempt at tough came off lonely and scared, the combination weakening Bailey’s determination to not get involved.
She didn’t have time for involved. But neither did this blond angel’s parents, evidently.
“You know—” she slipped into Scrooge’s chair “—if your guy can’t spring for the rubbers, you might want to consider trading up.”
The girl—Leslie, Bailey had heard her say to the cop when she’d recited her dad’s cell number—looked shocked, a split second before she rebounded with a sneer.
“Like there’s just one guy.”
“Well, if you’re going to tag-team it,” Bailey smart-assed back, “I’d suggest you shoplift at the Wal-Mart. Prehistoric condoms are a bad deal, even when they’re free.”
The kid’s forehead scrunched in confusion, morphing her toughness into the kind of adorable she shouldn’t be in such a hurry to outgrow. Bailey plucked the discarded condoms from the desk and tossed them over. The girl snatched the box one-handed.
Nice reflexes.
Hopefully, her mind was just as quick.
“Condoms have expiration dates for a reason,” Bailey explained. “They tend to break after they’ve been sitting for too long.”
More scrunching, then an image of what breaking meant must have flashed through the girl’s mind. Cheeks reddening, she glanced down at the pre-Y2K date on the box, then slapped the condoms to the desk.
“Oh…” Looking younger by the second, she clenched her hands in her lap. “I—”
“Leslie Marie Cavenaugh!” a masculine voice boomed from the doorway.
The kid’s face drained of color, turning mutinous at the same time. Crossing her arms, she sank farther into the acid-green chair.
Bailey barely noticed.
Daddy was six-four and then some, with the kind of broad shoulders and trim waist that did dangerous things to a woman’s fantasies. His pricey suit screamed money and privilege, but the hands braced on his hips looked as tough as ever, and his nose had been broken more than once.
Bailey had seen the first break from the sidelines. He’d thrown the winning touchdown pass at Western’s 1995 state championship game, and the opposing defensive end had taken exception.
Just looking at him brought the past flooding back.
“Derrick Cavenaugh.”
It took a few seconds to realize she’d said his name out loud. Several seconds more to register that he hadn’t recognized her in return.
And why on earth should he?
Western High’s “Most Likely to Succeed” blinked down at her, a washed-up valedictorian, without a flicker of recognition for the woman who’d worshiped him from afar, when she hadn’t been much older than his daughter.
CHAPTER TWO
SHRUGGING OFF the admiring glances of women was nothing new. Derrick was a large man who, whether he wanted to or not, enjoyed the even larger public persona that came with having been a pro football prospect. Even after his NFL dreams tanked, compliments of a near-crippling back injury, the Mighty DC still got noticed.
While married to Amanda, random female attention never tempted him to do more than look back. Since she left him for his ex-best friend, Rodney Canton, life had been too raw for Derrick to give a damn.
Until roughly sixty seconds ago.
The pixie-like woman sitting behind the shabby desk had devoured him with her eyes before he’d made it through the door. When she’d whispered his name in that husky voice, every muscle below his waist had clenched with the instinct to get closer. Soft, curly chestnut hair held back with a rubber band, a heart-shaped face completely devoid of makeup, she’d looked both familiar and different at the same time.
Though different from what was anyone’s guess, since as far as he knew, they’d never met.
He’d bet his Reynolds-Allied bonus she wouldn’t make five-two stick in heels, and his tastes usually veered toward leggy blondes with mischief in their eyes. The woman now looking everywhere but at him had the air of someone too harried to give mischief a second glance.
So why did he have the urge to get her on her feet to see if the waist half-hidden behind the desk was really as tiny as he imagined it would be?
“Dad!” His mortified preteen glanced between him and the stranger he’d been gaping at.
Sinking into the agony of watching his oldest daughter spiral into a dark place he couldn’t protect her from, Derrick gave his fear and anger free rein.
“Get your butt in the car.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s no chance of talking the shop owner out of pressing charges, but the cop said you’re sprung until you go before the judge. Do yourself a favor and work up the necessary enthusiasm to say you’re sorry on the way out the door.”
Before a year ago, he’d never said anything harsher than boo to his children. They’d been daddy’s girls from birth. So eager to please, just like Amanda. He’d eaten up every smile and I love you, Daddy, not for a second realizing how elusive that kind of adoration could be—in both daughters and wives.
“I already said I’m sorry,” Leslie mumbled. “Two hours ago, when that cop called you.”
Her scowl trembled, then she tightened that traitorous lower lip that turned Derrick’s heart to mush every time she fought not to cry. Staring down at the stiletto boots she’d shown up in a week ago, with no explanation of where they’d come from, she slinked out of the office like a shadow of the good kid he knew still lurked inside.
“She’s crying out for attention.”
Derrick whirled on the woman who’d finally risen to her feet.
“Excuse me?”
Judgment and disapproval had replaced her blatant admiration. She tucked the hem of her T-shirt into well-worn jeans no woman should look that spectacular in. Then she and the waist that was even tinier than he’d envisioned stepped around the desk.
“The longer you took to get here, the more belligerent your daughter became.”
“Traffic over the bridge was a bitch, not that it’s any of your business.”
Bailey, or so her name badge read, twirled a tendril of hair between nervous fingers. She started to speak, stopped, then shrugged as if to say, what the hell.
“Your daughter’s getting in over her head.” She met his gaze dead-on, which took guts considering he was ready to explode and his expression no doubt showed it. “Stealing is bad enough, but—”
“I’m a lawyer. I don’t need a convenience store clerk to tell me that shoplifting is a serious offense. I just got an earful from the cop outside.”
“Did he bother to mention what your daughter took?” Her eyes narrowed.
“No. Stealing is stealing.”
“Not if you’re a twelve-year-old girl.” She reached for a purse and a familiar-shaped box. “You don’t remember me, Derrick, but you seemed like a pretty good guy in high school. When you find the time in your busy schedule, you or your wife might want to have a talk with Leslie about birth control.”
He stared at the twelve-pack of condoms. His mouth opened to fire a dozen questions at the departing Bailey, but he couldn’t find the words.
His baby girl was apparently flirting with the idea of being sexually active, and the sassy clerk at the Stop Right, the crotchety owner and even Detective Oaks had known before Derrick had.
“I KNOW I’M LATE,” Bailey blurted as she hustled into Margo’s Bistro.
Giving up on heading home to shower and change, she’d raced away from the Stop Right—and Derrick Cavenaugh’s domestic problems—and headed straight for the bistro.
“It’s slow for a Thursday night.” Margo Evans motioned toward the group of women she’d been sitting with at a corner table. “A few friends popped in. Nothing Robert and I couldn’t handle.”
Margo and her husband’s bistro had become the latest trendy meeting spot for the residents and business people who milled around San Francisco’s South of Market Area. A month or so back, Bailey and Margo had bumped into each other, literally, while Bailey bussed tables and circulated trays at a wedding the other woman attended.
Margo had needed weekday help in the evenings, which was perfect for Bailey. Her hands were full at her family’s bed-and-breakfast all morning. Every day. And the bistro’s pay beat the minimum wage Drayton grudgingly doled out.
“Get back to your friends.” Bailey slipped behind the counter. “I’ll see what Robert needs.”
Pushing through the double doors to the kitchen, she clocked in and grabbed her apron. Bailey had been embroidered in sunny yellow on the apron’s apple-green fabric. As if she belonged there, when Margo’s was just one more part-time job in the endless string she’d had since high school.
Dead-end jobs were necessary. They kept the bills paid. They weren’t anything close to the exciting life she’d dreamed of, but that was fine. So was arriving at her second part-time gig of the day, rumpled and twelve hours past shower-fresh. Whatever she had to do, however she looked doing it, Bailey didn’t mind, as long as she kept her grandmother’s business afloat.
“You want to take these out while I get the ladies their drinks?” Robert handed over a plate filled with specialty muffins and scones that were typically sold out after the breakfast rush. For Margo and her friends, he’d broken into tomorrow morning’s stash.
Bailey smiled and nodded, heading into the other room with the platter. Robert co-owned the bistro with Margo, and he had some big-time job in finance or banking. But nights and weekends, when he wasn’t hanging out with Margo’s kids, he was in the bistro lending a hand wherever she needed him. They were one part newlyweds, married just since August, and one part old married couple. The kind of couple that finished each others’ sentences and slipped into both romantic and silly moments as if they’d never known any different.
Their happiness would be enchanting to watch if their ready-made family didn’t reek of the kind of too-good-to-be-true situation that Bailey typically avoided.
“Here you go.” She set pastries in front of her boss and the other two women at the table.
“I tell you, he’s not going to come,” said the brightly dressed woman beside Margo who looked vaguely familiar.
“He’s in over his head.” Margo’s other friend managed to look both tough and gentle as she contributed to the evening’s gossip.
Margo chuckled. “That’s usually when most people think they have it all figured out.”
“Can I get you anything else?” Bailey asked, maintaining the illusion of privacy while she stood close enough to take their next order. She was there, but she was invisible.
The service industry is in our blood, Grams kept saying, passing off the Greenwood family’s legacy of perpetually serving, while others relaxed and took a break from their lives, as a magical gift bestowed upon only the chosen few.
“No, thank you, Bailey. This looks lovely.” Margo smiled, as if the way Bailey had placed the plate of desserts on the table was a slice of heaven on earth.
“I’ll get your drinks.” Bailey backed away, her return smile forced.
She needed this job. To keep the Gables Inn out of the red, she’d take two or three more just like it. Her new employer’s overly exuberant appreciation was a small cross to bear, even if it held a hint of pity for how much Bailey and her grandmother were struggling.
“Drinks ready?” Bailey picked up a tray at the counter Robert was now working behind.
The door chimed behind her. Robert nodded his head in greeting to whoever had come in.
“Selena gets the espresso, straight up.” He loaded Bailey’s tray. “And Margo likes her lattes.”
“Selena?”
“The artist.”
Ah.
The woman wearing the vibrant combination of a deep plum tunic and sage-green skirt, who Bailey could have sworn she’d met somewhere before.
“You came!” She heard Selena exclaim.
Bailey turned. Her experienced hold on the tray of steaming drinks deserted her at the sight of Derrick Cavenaugh holding the beautiful artist’s hand and smiling as he chuckled—genuinely chuckled—at something she was saying.
Crash!
Then everyone was staring at Bailey and the broken pottery littering the floor.
BAILEY GREENWOOD…
Derrick had wrangled her name out of her boss, while he’d failed once again to talk the irritated man into dropping the shoplifting charges.
Little Bailey Greenwood…
The name was vaguely familiar, but besides the heather-green eyes, he had only a distant memory of an overly bright kid who, as a freshman, had kicked his and everyone else’s butts in senior calculus class.
And now she was working the counter at a suburban minimart?
The kid behind the Stop Right register hadn’t blinked before spilling that his coworker wasn’t on her way home at six in the evening.
Bailey’s always scrambling for work. I think she’s hooked up with some coffee place in SOMA, something like two nights a week….
Leslie had shot into her room and locked the door after their silent drive home. The sitter was already paid for, since Derrick had planned to stay at the office late to work on Reynolds-Allied briefs. He’d made sure Savannah was settled, then he’d headed back to town, to track Bailey down. Maybe to talk her into…
Into what?
After he’d treated her like a nobody back in Langston, he had no right to ask for anything.
“Oh, dear.” One of the women sitting with Selena set off to help Bailey clean up.
“I’m sure babes swoon at your feet on a daily basis,” teased Selena, his only friend from high school who’d never been impressed by his impending greatness. The only Western alumni he’d kept up with over the years. “But I bet having one throw food is a new twist.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t at my charming best when we met a little while ago.” Derrick winced. “I didn’t expect her to be excited to see me again, but—”
“Wait. You followed Bailey Greenwood here?” Selena glanced at her remaining friend. “I should have known it would take a woman to get him to come.”
“Come where?” He was only half listening.
Bailey had hustled the dripping tray into what looked like the kitchen. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He had a preteen at home on crime watch.
“Derrick, this is my friend Nora Clark,” Selena said. “She’s one of the parents I’ve been telling you about. You know, the group that might be able to help you work things out with Leslie and Savannah.”
Group?
Derrick groaned.
He’d stumbled into the middle of the single-mother gabfest Selena had been pimping for the last few months. Panic didn’t begin to describe the sudden urge to make himself scarce.
Selena was a successful installation artist. She had her own kid to keep track of. Where did she find the time for a sorority-esque coffee klatch?
“If you’ll excuse me.” He left as the woman he’d heard someone call Margo headed back their way.
Pushing through the swinging door Bailey disappeared behind, he found a brightly lit industrial kitchen that looked like it turned out a lot more than the simple desserts offered at other San Francisco coffee houses. The sound of running water led him around a corner.
“Employees only back here, buddy,” the dynamo scouring the tray said without glancing up from the sink. “Health department regulations.”
Bailey looked even more exhausted than she had back at the store. Embarrassed, too, which had clearly upped her determination to avoid him.
“I’m sorry.” He held up his hands. “I had no right to jump down your throat earlier. My only excuse is that it was my first stint picking my child up at a crime scene, and I was too worried about Leslie to thank you for your help. Someone mentioned you might be here tonight. I came to apologize.”
“But I thought you and Selena…” She wiped at the wisps of hair that had curled free of her ponytail, then dove back into scrubbing, even though the last of the coffee had already swirled down the drain. “Never mind. If you’re so worried about your daughter, shouldn’t you be home, sharing your concern with your family, instead of me?”
“Well, I also wanted to…”
He was talking to the top of her head.
“Bailey—” He reached over her shoulder and turned off the tap.
“Hey!” She spun around to push him away with soapy hands. Moisture seeped through his shirt. “Back off.”
She was barely tall enough to reach his chest. The soft, brown hair she wore in a ponytail smelled like cinnamon.
Taking several steps back, he cleared his throat.
“I wanted to ask if you’d consider helping my daughter just a little more,” he forced himself to say. “Leslie’s a good kid who’s confused and trying to deal with everything that’s changed in her life over the last couple of years. She needs time. She needs a chance to start over, but your boss is determined to make an example of her. If you could help change his mind, you’d be making a huge difference in a young girl’s life.”
Bailey’s eyes drained of the promise to slap him if he invaded her personal space again. The spunk she’d been running on seemed to fizzle, along with the soap bubbles oozing down the sides of the sink.
“I had a few minutes back at the Stop Right.” She wiped her hands on her apron. Smoothed them over the tendrils of hair framing her delicate cheekbones. “Beyond that, I’m fresh out of time to make a difference in anyone’s life.”
The hitch in her voice, the tears in her eyes as she brushed by, was a new low Derrick hadn’t thought his day could sink to. He had somehow hurt her. And that was dirty pool.
If Bailey were still just pissed, that would be one thing. Having to ask a near stranger for help wasn’t his strong suit, but if she’d fired off another put-down, flashed another of those scathing looks, called him an inept father, he would have followed her back into the bistro and tried to reason with her some more.
But causing Bailey Greenwood even more distress tonight was out of the question, no matter how desperate he was.
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