“He wouldn’t say anything to you, Kane. If he’s going to say anything, which I doubt, it will be to me. It’s late. He’s probably asleep in front of the television.”
“What time should I come over tomorrow? He’s working, right? The construction guys always work on Saturdays around here.”
“Yes. He’d work seven days a week if he could.”
“Then we can get much further into the diary.”
“Maybe we should just take a breather,” I said. Even in the dim glow coming from the light on the garage, I could see he looked like he had just lost his best friend.
“Why?” he protested. “I thought you were into it as much as I was. We should take advantage of every opportunity.”
“We’ll see.” I relented. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”
“Whatever,” he said, his disappointment drifting into a shade of anger.
“Kane, I’m just a little nervous. I was hoping you’d be understanding.”
“I am. I am. I just feel as if it’s almost . . .”
“Almost what?”
“Almost unfair to Christopher.”
“What? How?”
“In my mind, he’s trusting us with his words. I know his diary was hidden and locked away, but I bet he’s thought about it often since he left the original Foxworth Hall, and he’s hoped that whoever found it would hold it sacred.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“What?” he asked.
“I can’t help but think we’ve completely changed places here. Those were my feelings when you first discovered it under my p
illow and wanted to read it aloud with me. I was afraid you would end up making fun of it or something.”
He grimaced. “You thought that of me?”
“Kane, come on. You haven’t exactly been Mr. Serious before this. You’re not disrespectful or a cutup in school, but you have a way about you.”
He turned completely to me, putting his right arm on the top of the seat. “Go on. You’re on a roll. Don’t stop with the Kane Hill description.”
“Your family is one of the most respected in Charlottesville, but you’re not conservative. I don’t mean how you dress. You’ve got rebel in you. You enjoy being an individualist. It’s what makes you kind of . . . dangerously attractive,” I said. “You’re unpredictable. That’s all I meant. So I wasn’t sure how you would react to the diary once we were into it. Okay?”
He smiled, his eyes capturing the illumination from the light above the garage and dazzling me with their twinkling deep affection. “Kristin Masterwood,” he said, “I can’t imagine falling in love with anyone else would ever be any better than the way I feel about you right now.”
Slowly, he leaned toward me to kiss me. It was a gentle kiss, more loving than passionate, a sign of truly deep feelings and not just a call for sex. It was the sort of kiss shared between people who have been together for a very long time, reminding them how important each was to the other. The sincerity surprised me.
“Speechless finally?” he asked, when he pulled back. His words did make my heart flutter, as if I’d had a baby bird emerge from its shell under my breast, and stole away my breath.
“Yes,” I managed.
“I’ll wait for your call in the morning,” he said.
I got out. He watched me walk around the car and up to my front door before he started his engine again. Then he pointed toward the attic and backed out. I didn’t open the door until he drove off. I wanted to gather my wits and not look like I had just stepped off a cloud.
I wasn’t surprised that my father was awake in front of the television tonight. He would have been no matter what he had seen or heard earlier. Whenever I went out, he stayed awake and only half listened or followed whatever he was watching. He turned when I entered. Maybe he heard me enter; maybe he just knew whenever I was suddenly near him.
There are so many little ways to read someone’s face, especially a father’s. There was no anger in it, and he didn’t look hurt, exactly. I would say he looked a little stunned, the way he might look if he had just heard or seen something very unexpected. But at the same time, he was obviously trying to hide it, hide his feelings.