“If you be implying that my kids did that, you better step off, little man,” Chantal said, waving her head back and forth to match the finger she was waving at Mr. Valicielo.
“I don’t know whose kids they are!” Mr. Valicielo shot back. “I just know they were kids. Black kids!” he added.
“Oh geez, I wish you hadn’t said that,” Rachel said, but no one heard her on account of Chantal’s primal roar.
“You think just ‘cuz some black kids in this neighborhood that they did that?” she asked, punching her fists to her hips.
Mr. Valicielo at least had the good sense to look scared, but it did not stop him from speaking. The next thing Rachel knew, she was standing between Chantal and Mr. Valicielo, arms outwardly extended to keep them apart, begging Tiffinnae to stop baiting Chantal, and thoroughly disgusted with Jason and Mr. Gregory, who remained behind the screen door, peering out like scared little rabbits.
Rachel begged Mr. Valicielo to please go home and she’d make sure all the kids at her house were inside, and then she would come and clean his yard up when they were finished with the Thanksgiving meal. Then she begged Chantal to please get her kids inside before he actually called the cops and ruined Thanksgiving.
When they finally turned away from each other, both fuming, Rachel sagged against the porch railing, wondering what in the hell was going on here.
“Rachel.”
His voice startled her almost to her knees, and now Rachel was certain—something had gone terribly awry in the spell department, for now her nightmare was complete.
She turned slowly, pushed her hair over her shoulder, and tried to smile. “H-hey, Dad. I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
He sort of frowned, reached for the railing, as if he needed to prop himself up. “Did you honestly think I’d stay away?” he asked. “Well, I didn’t. I’m here. So are you going to invite me in?”
Oh man, this was the last thing she needed, the very last thing she needed. But Dad was standing there in his cashmere coat and scarf, a fedora on his head, and a suit beneath that, judging by the trousers and shoes peeking out from beneath the coat. But even under the bulk of his coat and suit, she could tell he was thinner, and his face, she noticed, was more gaunt than it had been a couple of months ago.
Yet . . . given what he had apparently witnessed so far, he didn’t seem particularly unhappy. Not particularly happy, either. More confused than anything else. Confused? That was weird—her father was many things, but confused was never one of them.
“Hello?”
She snapped out of it. “Of course, Dad,” she said, and reached out to him to hug him. “I have to warn you, my weaving class is here—”
“I gathered—you said so in that smarty e-mail.”
“Right,” she said weakly. “But they aren’t . . . they’re not exactly the sort . . .”
And then Dad, in an uncharacteristic display of affection, put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her into his side. “I got a pretty good picture a minute ago, baby girl,” he said with a crooked smile. “You don’t need to worry about me; I’m neither shocked nor appalled. I’m just glad to see you. You look great, you know it?”
“What?” she stammered. “What?”
He chuckled, kissed her temple. “I said, you look great.”
She could not remember the last time Dad had said anything kind about her appearance, and Rachel blinked up at him in complete astonishment.
And Dad laughed. He laughed.
Aaron had argued with Bonnie about making this trip. After Rachel’s sarcastic response to his e-mail, he could not see that anything would be gained from it until she had a major attitude adjustment. But Bonnie had convinced him a quiet Thanksgiving with his daughter was just the thing—they could relax, they could talk, and he could listen.
He really did want to make things right with Rachel, he really did. She was his baby girl. So he’d geared himself up for it—a day of listening and struggling to keep his mouth shut.
But naturally, he and Bonnie had misunderstood Rachel again—her sarcasm had been the truth, and as he looked around, he wondered, God in heaven, who were these people?