Dad faced Susan, face red and scowl etched in stone. “Explain.”
She didn’t know what to say first. “I was happy. I got good news. He was here…” Crap, that came out wrong. Susan’s brain was so twisted in on itself, she couldn’t think. “I mean, I got a new job. Maybe. This wasn’t what it looked like.”
“What kind of job?” Despite the lilt to her dad’s words, anger radiated from him.
Mercy stood to the side, drumming her fingers against her leg and looking like she was struggling to keep her mouth shut.
“Teaching.” Uncertainty kept the entire truth from coming out. Like the where. “It’s not for sure yet, but I’m pretty close.”
“You haven’t graduated. Where are you going to teach without a degree?” he said.
Say the words. Tell him the truth. “It’s a private, charter kind of thing.”
“Not a reputable one if you don’t need a degree. What are they called?”
She looked at Mercy, as if she might find answers there. Mercy’s face was pinched with sympathy, but her only response was a shrug.
“Ballet West.” Susan forced out the words. “Their academy in Park City is about to open a position for instructor, and they want to talk to me.”
“I see.” His voice took on a level of calm she only heard when he was furious. “Get out.”
“What?” She was told this could happen, by two different people. That didn’t make the words easier to hear or believe. She misunderstood. He didn’t mean for good.
“You were warned. Leave the phone and the car keys. I paid for your clothes as well, but I don’t know what I’d do with them.”
Susan didn’t understand. “But… It’s a stepping stone. A reputable job that I love.”
“It’s prancing around like a fool, in practically nothing, and teaching other little girls it’s okay to do the same. Whoring yourself out, the same way your sister did.”
“Whoa,” Mercy said.
But Susan couldn’t let that go unchecked. “Melissa is not a whore. Neither am I. We’re not freaking—I don’t know—Quakers or whatever. Dance isn’t against your religion. This is a celebration of movement.”
“It’s not the dance I have a problem with; it’s the way you do it. The ideas you associate with it. The rebellion that led you to go against my request in the first place. Do you want to be a stripper at a sleazy club in Wendover?”
Susan struggled to believe this conversation was real, but that didn’t mean she’d flinch away from it. “They’re nice girls.”
“Definitely sweeter than some of those from church,” Mercy added.
“This isn’t a discussion. You won’t live under my roof if this is the path you’re going to take. Get. Out.”
“Stop.” Mercy’s voice grew in volume. “She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s your fucking daughter. You’ve only got the one left.”
Her meaning spread through Susan on a cloud of realization. This was breaking the tentative relationship Mercy finally had with him.
“She’s done everything wrong.” Dad’s words hollowed Susan out, leaving a painful vacuum behind. “Defied my requests. Mocked my beliefs.” He looked at Mercy. “What did you do? Sell her to your business partner, the moment I let you back in the house?”
Mercy looked at Susan. “Let’s go.”
He stepped in her path. “You wanted to have this conversation. Let’s have it. You threw a tantrum ten years ago and stormed out. Don’t discard Susan’s life too.”
“Excuse me? Wanting to think for myself is throwing a tantrum?”
“Being an unreasonable child is. I wasn’t going to say anything when that friend of yours showed up at your wedding; your associates are your business. Speaking of business—Ian’s clients are none of mine, until it impacts my revenue.”
Susan didn’t know what to say. The cold words chewed at her world.
Mercy wasn’t held back by the same doubt. Or any doubt, apparently. She stood toe to toe with Dad, anger flashing in her eyes. “Smut Central is my client. Not Ian’s. Remember the R in R&T? It stands for Rowe. Not Thompson. Not Rice. Andrew’s also a good friend. I trust him with my life, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you.”