Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [106]
Devon made fists. “Yeah, well, Annalise MacIntyre was in Charter Hospital and they taught her in group that family should never use words like always and never.”
“They said to never use them?”
“Funny, Ma.”
“Clare.” Steve put a hand on her arm. “I think I’m gonna take off.”
She glanced at her daughter and back to him.
“Don’t mind me.” Devon threw herself onto her bed and buried her face in crossed arms. “You two go on with your romance.” Her shorts hiked up to reveal a crescent slice of pale buttock above tanned thighs.
Steve turned away, his face flushed at her and Devon’s squabbling. Or maybe he was too nice a guy to look at her daughter’s backside. Clare followed him to the door.
He stopped and turned. “You take care of Devon.”
Even if she did need some time for managing the temper tantrum, she didn’t want him to leave. “Steve . . .” She heard the urgency in her voice.
He reached to cradle her cheek. “I’ll come back in a while. Maybe we can get that dinner.”
Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he walked away. Reluctant to go back and argue with Devon, Clare watched Steve, with his sturdy shoulders and slightly awkward yet determined gait, until he was out of sight. Against the last light on the western horizon, the black silhouette of an ash fell to earth.
In the confusion of her inopportune desire and Devon’s animosity, she’d almost forgotten about the fires.
With a sigh, she turned back to the door. The scant glow of the bedside lamp illuminated tousled golden hair on the pillow. It reminded Clare of when Devon was little and she’d tuck her in at night.
How could you know what was going on with your child? From the first moment of awareness, they began a tug of war with their parents that ultimately resulted in the fledgling flying from the nest.
Clare leaned against the splintery wooden doorframe. “We need to talk.”
“I’ll smoke if I please. I’m almost eighteen.” Devon spoke into the pillow gathered beneath her face.
“It’s not the smoking.” She came inside and stood between the beds. “It’s this business of you wanting to move out after your birthday. Elyssa said you might be seeing someone . . . older.”
“Annalise’s grandma was eighteen and her grandpa thirty-eight when they got married.”
“Times change.” Clare tried to sound reasonable. “Look at war years, when a lot of people get married because they don’t know if they will come back alive.”
Devon rolled over and sat against the wall, drawing her knees against her chest. Her boots soiled the covers. Clare ignored it and focused on blue eyes. “When you go to work at the fire station,” Devon accused, “I don’t know if you’ll come back.”
Clare felt as though she’d been struck. Devon had always presented a teen’s indifference when she left for her shift. Even when Frank had died, she’d kept her distance and Clare had resented the hell out of it. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about your life.”
“You don’t want a daughter.” Devon swiped at a fat tear tracking through a smeared mess of powder and blush. “You and Dad would rather have a wind-up doll you can send back and forth when you get tired of it.”
Clare went to the room’s wall sink. Carefully, she washed her heated face, appreciating how cold the water was here compared to Houston.
“You’ve got something going with Steve,” Devon challenged. “What do you care about me?”
In the small spotted mirror, Clare saw the flush rise to stain her already sunburned cheeks. The mirror also revealed the belligerent look on Devon’s tear and mascara-streaked face.
Clare laid her washcloth on the rim and took hold of the cool porcelain of the sink. How useless counting to three was in practice.
“From the way Steve looks at you,” Devon flung, “I’ll bet he knows what you look like naked.”
Clare whirled and stabbed her finger at Devon. “That’s it. As long as you live with me . . .”
“I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
If Elyssa were right, Devon was about to make the same life-altering mistake that Clare had made at little more than her age. In perfect hindsight,