Revelations. Janice Johnson Kay

hostess who had been about to waylay Ann smiled and gestured her ahead. Conscious of her plain navy slacks and blazer and solid, practical shoes in a way she wasn’t usually, Ann crossed the small dining room, passing several tables of women who all seemed to have Eva Pearce’s natural style.

      “Thank you for coming.” Eva smiled. “Gosh, I’ve been looking forward to this. We should have gotten together to commiserate years ago.”

      Some of the tension left Ann’s shoulders. “You mean, to bitch?”

      The blonde laughed. “Why didn’t we? I so hated my father when I was about sixteen.”

      “I thought I loved mine then.” The surprising admission just came out. Ann’s mouth almost dropped open at the implication: that later, she hadn’t loved him.

      Or, at least, that she didn’t want to love him.

      Eva didn’t seem surprised. “I had my phases, too. We never want to give up, do we?”

      “I didn’t want to even after Dad died,” Ann admitted. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

      Eva blinked. “Okay, you have to explain that one.”

      Over glasses of wine and salads, Ann told her about the investigation that had been her father’s obsession and which she’d taken over after his death. “I told myself I owed it to him. But really, I kept imagining myself standing at his grave telling him I’d arrested the son of a bitch.” She shook her head. “As if…I don’t know.”

      “You’d feel a ghostly pat on your back?”

      Ann made a face. “Or some all-enveloping wave of pride. Heck, maybe a disembodied voice saying, ‘You done good, girl.’”

      Eva’s laugh wasn’t the expected ladylike tinkle. Instead, it was hearty and uninhibited. “Hey, you never know! Maybe death softened the old bastards up.”

      Ann snorted. “What are the odds of that?”

      The other woman became pensive. “Do you ever wonder which direction they went?”

      It was Ann’s turn to give a startled laugh. “I actually hadn’t thought about it. I haven’t really gotten used to Dad being gone. I still have the sense he’s looking over my shoulder.”

      “Why?” Eva shook her head. “Let me rephrase. What I mean is, do you feel like he’d want to linger? Are we really talking woo-woo here? Or do you have a hang-up?”

      Ann heaved a sigh. “I have a hang-up.” She had a sudden absurd image of herself standing up in front of a roomful of sympathetic strangers. My name is Ann Caldwell and I have a problem.

      A dainty manicured hand with coral nails patted Ann’s. “Tell Sister Eva all.”

      “This is supposed to be mutual,” Ann protested.

      “Oh, it will be. Believe me, I have hang-ups, too. But you first. You’re more interesting.”

      Oh, yeah. That was her, Ann thought. Fascinating. Riveting.

      “I seriously doubt it.” She took a bite while she debated how much she really did want to confide in another woman. Sure, she’d casually known Eva since they were in kindergarten. But they’d never had a thing in common except their fathers, and they didn’t now.

      Too, she was only starting to understand what she’d felt for her father. Some people seemed to need to babble about their every passing twinge of guilt, lust, resentment or smugness. Ann had never had anybody to talk emotions out with. She knew, on some level, that she had to do some of that if she was going to have friends. But theoretical knowledge wasn’t the same thing as breaking down in real life and pouring out her heart to someone she hadn’t exchanged more than greetings with since they were in fifth grade.

      But…she was here. Another woman had actually called her and suggested getting together. For once, Ann had looked forward to a day off, because she had plans that weren’t solitary.

      Now, that was pathetic.

      “You had a mother,” she said. “I didn’t. I mean, not after she died.”

      Eva’s delicate face hardened. “How true. You didn’t have to watch your mother trembling with anxiety as she rushed to do your daddy’s bidding because she was scared to death of him. Count your blessings.”

      “Scared?” Ann forgot her own preoccupation. “You mean…?”

      “He hit her? Sure he did. Carefully,” the other woman said, with something approaching hatred icing every word. “He wouldn’t want anyone to see a bruise and ask questions.”

      Remembering Rochelle Verger’s damaged face, Ann felt the grip of rage. “Did he hurt you, too?”

      “Once. That was the only thing that stiffened Mom’s spine. She told him if he ever touched me again, she’d take me and leave. He scoffed, but I think he believed her, because he never did. We had horrendous fights when I got old enough to scream back at him, and a couple of times he lifted his hand, but he always thought better of it.”

      “Wow.” Food forgotten, Ann stared at Eva. “I never knew.”

      “I was ashamed.” Eva gazed with seeming blindness at her salad plate. “I never told anyone. My friends knew he and I fought, but I never told them that sometimes, when he got mad enough at me, he took it out on Mom.”

      Shock whammed her like a steel door of which she hadn’t stepped clear. “Oh, no! Eva…”

      This new friend offered a twisted smile. “Pretty sick, huh?”

      “You’re making me glad he had plenty of time to know he was going to die.” Seeing Eva wince, Ann closed her eyes. “That’s a horrible thing to say about your father. I’m sorry.”

      “No. Don’t apologize. When I said I hated him most of the time, I meant it. Once I left home we worked out a civil relationship, but my teenage years were hell. I was so full of anger I couldn’t restrain myself, and then the next morning I’d see Mom moving stiffly and I’d know.” She shuddered. “I despised myself and him both. I was mad at her, too, for taking it. I will never understand…” Eva stopped. Let out a breath. “Mom won’t even talk about it.”

      Ann bit her lip. “I almost envy you, being able to hate him like that. I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out why nothing I ever did made my dad proud. Even when he did give a compliment, it was embedded with an insult. This time I’d done okay, unlike my usual, was always implied. I don’t remember him ever, once, telling me I was great at something.”