Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [8]
When had Angela changed? When had she become so . . . belligerent, so . . . strange? Sylvia tried to think of a specific incident, something she could point to and say that was what did it, but nothing came to mind.
And so now here they were, mother and daughter, still living in the same house but worlds apart. Poor Angela, she really needed someone who understood her, someone who had all the time in the world to talk to her and listen to her. Sylvia toyed with the idea of going to her daughter, but she had no idea what to say to her or how to calm her fears. Instead she reached for her purse, swung open the door and rushed past Angela, fleeing the house.
Hearing the purr of the Mercedes in the driveway, Angela knew she had been deserted again. She tore through the rooms of the house. Looking for someone, needing someone. Anyone! Gleaming cherrywood tables winked back at her, mocking her confusion and loneliness. Her narrow face was streaked with tears and flushed with frustration. Her dull brown hair adhered to her damp forehead in frizzy ringlets. She caught her lower lip between her even, white teeth. Fifteen thousand dollars to straighten them, and Sylvia had complained to the orthodontist: “But they still look so—so big!”
Having as little thought for Angela’s presence as Sylvia, the doctor had retorted: “Her teeth are beautiful, Mrs. Steinhart. I’ve done a creditable job if I say so myself. If only her face weren’t so narrow. She’s a little too young for cosmetic surgery, but—”
Angela had raced out of his office, ignoring the expressions on the faces of her mother and the orthodontist. Even now, almost six years later, the incident still stung. She didn’t care what that idiot of a doctor thought; it was the sudden look of interest on Sylvia’s face that had terrified her, as if her mother were considering the possibilities.
Angela’s panic and feelings of loneliness nearly paralyzed her, to the point where she couldn’t even cry. She contemplated her next move. Her father. Maybe Daddy would listen. Somebody had to.
In her bedroom she fished for the white cordless phone buried beneath a mound of undone laundry. She dialed her father’s office from memory and waited. “Daddy. This is Angela. I hope you haven’t left for London yet. Could you come home? I have to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”
“Honey, if it was any other day but today, I could swing it. What is it? Boyfriend trouble? You are taking the pill, aren’t you?”
Inappropriate question, to say the least. But he meant well, unlike her mother. “No, it’s not boyfriend trouble. Daddy, please, could I meet you somewhere? Or come to your office?”
“Broke again? You know money is never a problem,” he interrupted. “There’s five hundred dollars in my top dresser drawer. Take what you need.”
“Daddy, it’s not money. I have to talk to you, I really do. It’s about my visions—I had the worst yet, and I’m scared. Please, I have to see you!” She struggled to control her voice, to stifle the sobs rising in her throat.
“Look, honey, you know I’m catching a midnight flight to London, and I have a thousand things to get done before I leave here. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll see you in a few days, over the weekend. Be a good girl till I get back and I’ll ship home an antique for one of your displays. Remember how much you loved the curio shops when we went to England together?” The connection was broken and Angela found herself staring at the phone in her hand.
Well, what had she expected? He was indifferent in his own way, and fundamentally just as messed up as her mother. They had