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  The doorbell interrupted her brooding. Heart pounding, she grabbed up two matching forks and one that was close enough, and deposited them on the table on her way to the door.

  “Hello, dear. It’s so good to see you.” Her mother held out a cake carrier. “I brought dessert. It’s devil’s food, your favorite.”

  “Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to do that.” If she knew her parents, they wouldn’t take any leftovers home with them, so she’d be stuck with almost a whole cake. She’d have to give it away or throw it out immediately, or risk looking like a hippo in her dance leotard.

  “You’ve fixed everything up so nice,” her mother said, looking around the living room.

  “Are the locks on these windows good?” Her father raised the blinds and tested the latches. “I notice you didn’t lock the dead bolt after you let us in. You need to get in the habit of doing that.”

  “I will. Just let me put the cake on the table.” She rushed to do this, then took care of the lock.

  Her father appeared at her shoulder. “I saw your car was parked at the back of the lot. You should park closer. Preferably under a light.”

  “There wasn’t a closer spot when I got home.” She forced herself to take a deep breath and face her father. “I’m very careful, I promise. You taught me not to be foolish.” She led the way to the table. “I hope you’re hungry. I have a lot of food.”

  “Oh, I’m sure whatever we’re having will be delicious.” Her mother settled into a chair while her father took the seat across from her, with Jen between them. After a week eating frozen dinners on the sofa, it felt strangely formal.

  “I’ll just get the food.” She popped up again and hurried into the kitchen.

  “I’ll help you.” Her mother followed right behind her.

  “Don’t expect me to sit here while you wait on me. I’ll help, too.” Her father loomed in the doorway. Even though he was trying to be subtle, Jen knew he was checking out the smoke alarm and fire extinguisher.

  She handed him a casserole dish. “You can set this on the table.”

  When all the food was out, they sat down again and attempted conversation while eating. At home—her parents’ home now, she reminded herself—dinners were quiet affairs. Her father sometimes expounded on some issue or event of the day, but Jen and her mother remained mostly silent. Now that they were eating in her home, she wanted that to change. She wanted real conversation at dinner.

  “I visited the Harry Ransom Center this morning,” she said as she transferred jalapeño-cornbread-stuffed chicken breast to her plate.

  “You should have called. I would have gone with you,” her father said. “I was there just last week, visiting the modernism exhibit. The Alex Katz piece they have there is good, but I think the one I have is better.”

  “Did you go by yourself or with a friend?” her mother asked.

  She buttered a piece of bread. “I went with Zach.”

  Her father’s fork clattered against his plate. “So you’re still seeing him.”

  She met his gaze, calm. “Yes, I am. He’s a very talented artist. Very knowledgeable.”

  “As if an uneducated tattoo artist knows anything about art.”

  She laid down her fork and folded her hands in front of her, her gaze cool, her voice steady, despite her pounding heart. “I want you to invite Zach to dinner this weekend. With me. I’d like him to see your collection.”

  “That’s ridiculous. That collection is worth a small fortune. Showing it to someone like him is paramount to an invitation to have it stolen.”

  “Zach is not a criminal.” She glared at him, her serene mask apparently no match for her father’s bigotry.

  “I didn’t say he was.” He sliced into his chicken and stabbed it with his fork. “But all he would have to do is mention the collection to one of his customers or some riffraff in a biker bar, and the next thing you know, I’d be answering an alarm call to my own house.”

  “You’re the one being ridiculous. I thought you enjoyed showing off your collection.”

  “To people who can appreciate it.”

  “Zach can appreciate it. He knows a great deal about art. He even studied to be a painter.”

  “Then why didn’t he succeed?” He shook his head and focused on his dinner, mechanically shoveling food into his mouth.

  Because no one gave him a chance. But she didn’t say anything. No doubt her father would have an argument for that, too. She’d have to find another way to change his mind.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “I almost forgot. A letter came to the house for you. From the Chicago Institute of Dance.”

  The mention of the dance company’s name made her heart race. “When did it come? Why didn’t you give it to me before?”

  “I meant to but it slipped my mind. It’s in my purse….”

  Jen was already up, racing to retrieve her mother’s purse from the sofa. With trembling hands, she took the letter from the outside pocket and slit it open. She pulled out several sheets of ivory linen paper and scanned the first one.

  We are pleased to welcome you as a probationary member of the Chicago Institute of Dance. During your time here you will be training for the opportunity to participate in Razzin’! This internationally renowned showcase of hip-hop, jazz and modern dance has wowed audiences around the world.

  Enclosed you will find a tentative schedule for your first month and a list of supplies you will need to bring with you. If you have any questions, feel free to contact us at one of the numbers listed. And once again—welcome!

  “What does it say, dear?” her mother asked.

  “Oh.” She tore her gaze from the page and looked at her parents. Her mother was smiling, while her father’s expression was more difficult to read. Not disapproval, exactly. More…disappointment? Regret?

  “It’s a letter welcoming me to the program, with a schedule and a supply list.” She folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope, then laid it on the bar. She’d imagined herself shouting and dancing around the room when this moment finally arrived, but all she felt was a strange unease. Yes, she was excited about having achieved this important step in her dream of dancing in a major show. But the excitement was tempered by sadness at the realization that having this dream meant leaving behind so many things she loved. Zach. Shelly. Even her parents. She took her seat at the table and picked up her fork, though her appetite had deserted her.

  Her father cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking that if you would agree to stay with friends of ours in the city, your mother and I would be more comfortable with your joining the dance company,” he said.

  This turn of events startled her. “Friends?”

  “A colleague of mine from work. He’s a detective with the Chicago PD.”

  Jen stared at him. “No one asked me about this before.”

  “We had to work out all the details first.”

  Of course he did. He wanted her whole life planned out neatly, and she’d always let him do it before. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry you went to so much trouble,” she said. “I really don’t want to live with someone I don’t even know.” She gripped the edge of the table, holding back her frustration. “I’ve really enjoyed having my own place here and I was looking forward to the same in Chicago.”

  “Out of the question. Your mother and I—”

  Jen held up a hand, cutting him off. “Let’s not talk about this right now. I invited you here so that we could have a nice, pleasant evening.” She looked him in the eye, her expression stern.

  To her surprise, and delight, he backed down. “You’re right.” He picked up his fork again and looked across the table at his wife. “The dinner is delicious, isn’t it, dear?”

  “Chez Zee always has been one of my favorites,” she said.

  Later, after persuading her father to relax in front of the television, Jen and her mother did the dishes in the kitchen. “I’m sorry about the situation with the detective and
everything,” her mother said. “I told your father you wouldn’t like it, but he wouldn’t listen.” She put a hand on Jen’s shoulder. “I’m really proud of the way you handled him this evening.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She swished a plate through soapy water. “I don’t know how you’ve managed all these years.”

  “I’m not his daughter.” Jen’s mother ran a dish towel around the edge of a glass. “You know he misses you terribly.”

  Jen nodded. “But I can’t live at home forever.”

  “I know, but it’s hard for him. And no sooner do you leave him than you’ve taken up with this man—it’s a lot for a father to take in.”

  Jen dried her hands and turned to face her mother. “Zach’s really nice, Mom. Not at all what you’d expect just looking at him. Please say you’ll invite him to dinner. And persuade Dad to be nice.”

  Her mother patted her shoulder. “I will, dear. But don’t expect your father to change overnight.”

  “All I want is for him to be civil to Zach. He doesn’t even have to like him. He just has to try.”

  “All right. Tell Zach we’d love to have the two of you over for dinner on Saturday. Is that all right?”

  “That’s great!” She kissed her mother on the cheek. “I love you.”

  “I know that. Mothers know these things.” She smiled. “Fathers are men. They need reminding.”

  When her parents got ready to leave a short time later—sans leftovers, of course—Jen stood on tiptoe to kiss her father. “I love you, Daddy.”

  He frowned at her. “What was that for?”

  She smiled. “Just because.”

  She saw them out and stood in the doorway, watching them walk down the hall. “Why do I get the feeling that girl is up to something?” her father said to her mother.

  “She is her father’s daughter, you know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing, dear.”

  Jen shut the door and collapsed on the sofa, smiling to herself. The evening had turned out well in spite of everything. She’d stood her ground with her father and persuaded her mother to invite Zach to the house. One tough dinner down, one to go. Before she knew it, she might be an old hand at this diplomacy stuff. Maybe instead of dancing, she should have gone into politics.

  13

  “YOU’RE GOOD TO GO.” ZACH smoothed the bandage over the new tat and gave his customer a thumbs-up. “Follow the care instructions I gave you, and if you have any problems or questions, give us a call.”

  “Thanks.” The young man grinned at his bandaged bicep. “I can’t wait to show my girlfriend.” The smile faded and he gave Zach a worried look. “I told her I was gonna have her name put there. You don’t think she’ll be mad I didn’t do it, do you?”

  “Her name is Rose. You got a tattoo of a rose. What does she have to be mad about? And this way, if it doesn’t work out with you two, your next girlfriend never has to know.”

  The young man nodded. “That’s smart, dude.”

  “Yeah, Zach is a genius all right.” Theresa looked up from behind the front counter. “Over here, big guy. I’ll take your money while Zach cleans up.”

  While the customer paid, Zach cleaned the tattoo machine and put away supplies. The bells on the door signaled Rose’s boyfriend’s exit.

  “Don’t you have dinner with Jen’s parents tonight?” Theresa asked.

  “Yeah.” He swept a pile of used gauze into a trash bag and knotted the bag closed.

  “Don’t you think you ought to go home and change?”

  “No.” He looked down at his faded jeans, motorcycle chaps and leather vest. “This is the way I always dress.”

  Theresa came out from behind the counter and stood, hands on her hips. “You have more conservative clothes. I’ve even seen you wear them.”

  He shoved the tattoo machine into its holder. “I won’t be something I’m not just to try to impress some snob I don’t even care about.”

  “Wrong answer.” The scowl on her face would have reduced lesser men—men who weren’t related to her—to dust. “You care about Jen.”

  He ignored the pain that pinched him at her words. “She says she likes me the way I am. This is how I am.”

  “Zach, don’t go there tonight with a chip on your shoulder.” Theresa put her hand on his arm, her voice softer now. “At least try to get along.”

  He shook her off. “So you’re in Dear Abby mode again?” He stripped off his latex gloves and threw them in the trash. “I’m outta here.”

  He took the long way around the lake, hoping the wind in his face and the rumble of the Harley would clear out the dark mood that had settled over him ever since Jen had issued her parents’ invitation. He’d picked up the phone half a dozen times in the past week to call and tell her he couldn’t make it, but he’d always hung up before she answered. He’d told her he’d go, so he’d go. He didn’t back down once he’d given his word.

  But he wouldn’t make concessions, either. Not even for Jen. Especially not for Jen. She wanted her parents to meet him, so they would meet him. The bad motorcycle dude who wasn’t good enough for their daughter. Her uptight father’s worst nightmare.

  JEN PACED THE LIVING ROOM, wearing a path from the front window to the sofa. “Afraid he won’t show up?” Her father addressed her from behind his newspaper.

  “If Zach said he would be here, he’ll be here.” She lifted the curtain enough to peer out at the street. She thought she’d heard his motorcycle five minutes ago, but when she’d looked out, no one was there. What was taking him so long?

  “It won’t bother me if he doesn’t show. We can have a pleasant dinner, just the three of us.”

  “You won’t get your wish. Here he is now.” Her heart raced as she watched the motorcycle coast into the driveway. Zach removed his helmet and stood for a moment, staring up at the house. When he finally started up the walk, she went to let him in.

  “Hello, Zach. Did you have any trouble finding the house?” she asked.

  “It’s not a neighborhood I usually hang out in, but I found it all right.” He moved past her into the living room and nodded to her father, who still sat on the sofa with his newspaper. “Chief Truitt.”

  “Hello, Zach.” He looked Zach up and down, frowning, but said nothing. Jen let out the breath she’d been holding. So far, so good.

  Her mother emerged from the kitchen. “Hello, Zach. I’m Jen’s mother, Laura. So nice to meet you.”

  Zach solemnly took her hand. “Hello.”

  “Can I get you anything to drink? A glass of iced tea?”

  “I’ll take a beer.” He moved past the women to the sofa.

  Jen’s mother’s smile faded. “I’ll, uh, see if we have some.”

  While her mom went to look for Zach’s beer, Jen sat beside him on the sofa. “Were you busy at work today?” she asked.

  “Pretty busy.” He propped his feet on the coffee table and stretched. “If things keep up like this, we may have to hire more help.”

  Chief Truitt glared at the motorcycle boots marring the blond wood of the coffee table. “Do you mind?”

  “What? Oh, sure.” He straightened and put his feet on the floor.

  Jen gave her father a pleading look. His eyes met hers, then shifted away. He laid aside the paper and cleared his throat. “So, Jen tells me you’re interested in art.”

  “Skin art, mostly.” He leered at Jen.

  She stared at him. What was going on? Was he drunk? Or maybe this was the way he behaved when he was nervous? She smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Why don’t we go upstairs, Dad, and see your collection? I’m sure Zach would love that.”

  “All right.” Her father looked less than thrilled, but he stood and led the way up the stairs.

  “You’re really going to love this,” Jen told Zach. “Dad’s been collecting for over twenty years.”

  “I try to focus on emerging modern artists,” he said. “I’ve had to build slowly, b
ut I’m quite proud of some of the work I’ve managed to acquire.”

  An upstairs game room doubled as a gallery. Chief Truitt opened the door and flipped the light switch, then stepped back to allow Zach and Jen to enter first.

  Zach stopped a few steps in, the hard look gone from his face, replaced by a mixture of disbelief and awe. Chief Truitt came to stand beside them, openly grinning now. “Pretty impressive, huh? There are museums that would kill to have some of these pieces. And most of them I bought when nobody had heard of the artists.”

  Zach walked over to a portrait of a man, a single head floating against a blank background, with a cartoonlike quality. “Julian Opie.”

  “You have a good eye.” The chief was clearly surprised. He joined Zach in admiring the painting. “One of my first acquisitions. Now one of the most valuable. Look at this one over here.” He led the way to a larger work, a cityscape that looked more like a photograph than a painting. “This is one of my newest finds. Daniel Beach. I think he’s going to be really big.”

  Zach stared at the piece for a long moment, as if trying to memorize each brushstroke. Jen watched him, joy swelling in her. She’d known this was a way her father and Zach could find common ground. A way to bring together the two men she cared about most.

  She touched Zach’s arm. “Aren’t you glad I talked you into coming here?” she asked.

  He looked at her and blinked, as if he were a man coming out of a trance. “Yeah, it’s a great collection.” He looked at her father. “Nice how some people have money for hobbies like this.”

  Her father stiffened. “I don’t consider this collection a hobby as much as it is an investment. And a way to support up-and-coming artists.”

  Zach’s smile was a sneer. “Aren’t you the generous one?”

  Jen shivered in the sudden chill that descended on the room. She frowned at Zach. “What has gotten into you?” she asked.

  He shook his head and turned away. Before she could question him further, her mother appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready.”