Maybe I could—
Yeah, running or walking away in the other direction at a fast clip isn’t going to work. I’ve managed to avoid Dad for the last two days, but eventually my luck would’ve run out. Tomorrow’s Sunday, which means Sunday dinner. So maybe it is better to get this over with sooner. Because I have zero doubts this conversation is going to be about King and what happened at Hunt Auto. Still, on the courthouse steps? And with Justin, too?
Just…damn.
Swallowing a sigh, I paste a smile on my face and stop on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps. It’s not lost on me that I feel like a defendant waiting on a verdict from the jury. And judgment is striding towards me in three-piece suits and matching frowns.
“Dad. Justin.” I turn up the wattage on my smile. “It’s Saturday. In case you haven’t heard, the courthouse is closed.”
“The wheels of justice don’t limit themselves to nine to five, Monday through Friday,” Dad says, and that’s not pretentiousat all. “Justin asked for my advice on a case he’s working on.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Especially if that case winds up in front of you?” I’m teasing. But…I’m not.
Dad already played the role of mentor to Justin before we started dating. But in the four years we were together, the lines between friends and jurist/attorney seemed to blur a little. Dad’s favoritism towards Justin is the courthouse’s worst kept secret.
“Don’t worry, Lennon. Everything is above board,” Justin informs me with a small chuckle. “Thank you for being concerned about me, though.”
For the love of…
“Actually, I think my concern was more for the sanctity of the judicial system.” I add a smile to it, but he had better read the room.
If he believes I’ll cave to any pressure, subtle or overt, to give him another chance just because we’re in front of my father, he really didn’t learn anything about me in the last four years.
Could be he receives my message since slashes of scarlet darken his cheekbones and his lips firm into a flat line.
“I’ve invited Justin to lunch. Join us,” Dad demands, because it’s not an invitation.
“I’m actually on my way to meet Lena and India for lunch.” I glance down at my cell phone’s screen. “And I have about twenty minutes before I need to be there.”
“Cancel. You work with them every day. They should understand that you’re spending time with your father.” Dad doesn’t wait for my acquiescence, but starts walking off toward the courthouse parking lot, Justin beside him. “Follow us to the house.”
“Sorry, Dad, but no.”
He draws up short, slowly pivots and stares at me as if he doesn’t understand the words I’ve uttered. That’s fair. People don’t usually tell the Honorable Terrance Ward “no.”
“Excuse me.”
I can’t lie. My heart speeds up the tiniest bit and the muscles in my belly quiver. What daughter enjoys disappointing her father or witnessing that disapproval on his face? Not me. But I also can’t allow his needs and expectations to supersede my own. I’m not his little girl anymore or someone appearing before him in his courtroom. Sometimes, he can’t discern the difference.
“I’m sure Lena and India would understand if I asked for a rain check. But I don’t want to. I’ve had plans for this all week. And being surrounded by children and co-workers all day isn’t the same as a relaxing lunch for three. And the fact is, Dad,” I glance at Justin, “this isn’t just a lunch with my father. So, again, I’m sorry. But I have to request the rain check from you.”
“Is this what you really want to do, Lennon?” he quietly asks.
“Decline a lunch invitation when I’ll see you tomorrow for Sunday dinner? Yes, Dad, I’m comfortable making that decision,” I reply in the same low tone.
He studies me, his gaze resembling brown chips of ice. A tiny muscle jumps along his clenched jaw. We both know we aren’t talking about a simple meal.
“Maybe we should take this to my office,” Justin offers, scanning the sidewalk and surrounding area.
Oh yes, can’t have anyone reporting back that the judge engaged in a public spat with his daughter. Then they might start questioning the reason.
“Not necessary.” Dad waves a hand, but he doesn’t shift his attention away from me. “It seems my daughter isn’t adverse to making a spectacle of herself lately, so this shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.”
The damage a boxer could wreak with his fists was nothing compared to the wounds my father can inflict with his words. And he had no problem laying people out with it—including me.
“If you want to talk to me about something in particular, then we can do that. But I’m not going to stand here and trade innuendoes or have you jab at me, Dad. I don’t deserve it.”
“When I see you making mistakes that will jeopardize your future then, as your father, I have the right to give my opinion.” He tilts his head. “If you’re making your decision, then, as your father, I’m going to make mine.”