Coming Home (Sequel to This Time Around)

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

McKenna didn't believe what she was hearing, didn't believe what Loki was saying. She shook her head. "No. That can't be right. I haven't seen him since I was eight years old."

"Well, he says he's your father, McKenna."

"How did he find me?"

"Probably the title to the house. Your name is on it."

She scowled at him. "I have to explain the simplest expressions to you, and yet you know all about public records?"

"Do not be angry with me, McKenna." He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm only the messenger."

"I know." She ran a hand through her hair. How was it possible that after nearly thirty years, her father could just simply turn up on their doorstep and think she would want to see him? Her only memories of him were faint and fuzzy at best, and she wasn't even certain they were her memories or if they were the product of something her mother once told her.

"What did you tell him?" she asked, looking up at him.

"I told him to wait a moment and I'd ask you if you wanted to see him." He crouched before her, taking her hand in his. "I understand if you want me to send him on his way. Just say the word."

She hesitated. He certainly would be the one to understand. Would understand her being torn between wanting to see her father and wanting to tell him to go to hell. And if she said the word, Loki would make damn certain her father never showed his face around their house again.

"So, he's just standing on our front porch?"

"More or less."

She glanced over at the twins, dozing in their bouncy chairs, warm and cozy in a soft sunbeam. Then she looked down at Loki, still crouched before her, and nodded. "I'll see him."

He straightened, pulling her up with him. "Do you wish me to stay with you?"

"Please."

"Of course."

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed the living room toward the front door. Her hand tightened about Loki's of its own, and he squeezed back gently, his thumb brushing along hers. "Easy, love. I'm right here."

Her mouth went dry, her hand hovering above the door handle. She took a deep breath and tugged open the door to find herself face to face with the man she hadn't seen since her eighth birthday.

The memory nearly knocked her off her feet as it slammed into her like a tsunami. It was something she'd completely forgotten about.

Until now.

"Thank you for the Barbies, Daddy. And for the Ken doll. But I'm going to call him John because I don't like the name Ken."

"You're welcome, munchkin." Daddy lifted her up, like he always did, and she draped her arms about his neck. He'd nicked himself shaving that morning. She could see the dried blood just under his chin. As always, he smelled of tobacco and Brut cologne, which he always wore. Usually, she loved the scent of it. It reminded her of whenever she was sick and he'd sit on her bed, reading her story after story until she fell asleep. Or of him running alongside her, shouting encouragement in her ear as she struggled to learn to ride her two-wheeler.

But now, there was something different. He looked sad. His eyes, blue with hints of gray around his pupils, were reddish. "What's the matter, Daddy?"

"There's something we need to talk about, munchkin." As he talked, he carried her over to the avocado green velour sofa. One cushion had a huge stain on it, where she'd thrown up on it and Mommy tried everything to get rid of it, all to no avail.