Carly's Gift by Georgia Bockoven Page A

to your mother about this?”
    She shook her head.
    Jesus, how could the three of them have been so blind as not to have planned for this possibility? What was he supposed to do now? “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
    Again, she shook her head.
    Stalling for time, he got up and started to pace the narrow aisle between the chair and the door. “I really think your mother should be here. She should be the one answering your questions.”
    â€œWhy? So she can tell me more lies? I’ve already had fifteen years’ worth. I don’t need any more.”
    â€œShe can explain things to you.”
    â€œI didn’t come here for explanations,” Andrea said, a catch in her voice. “I want to know what my father is like. That’s not such a big thing, is it?”
    At that moment, he would have drained the ocean with a teacup if she’d asked. He sat back down in the chair. Tomorrow was soon enough to deal with the Pandora’s box that had been opened. Tonight, he would do what he could to ease the questioning soul of an innocent young girl whose world had just slipped off its axis. “What would you like to know about me?”
    She hesitated, as if caught off-guard by his capitulation and unsure where to begin. “When is your birthday?” she finally asked.
    No other question could have told him more completely how convinced she was that what she’d overheard last night was the truth. In her place, he’d have asked for dates and details, some kind of proof that he was her father. “Three days before Christmas.”
    She thought about that for a minute. “My girlfriend, Faith, was born on Christmas Eve. I always thought it was kind of a bum deal to have a birthday in December.”
    Their conversation had taken on a surreal quality. Where were the accusations, the bitterness, the hostility that should have been aimed toward him? “If I could pick another day,” he told her, “and it had to be a holiday, I’d pick the Fourth of July.”
    A small smile appeared and was gone. “Me too. I love fireworks.” She unzipped her jacket but made no move to take it off. “Did you always want to be a writer?” It was as if she were plucking her questions out of a grab bag.
    â€œNot always. Until the sixth grade, I wanted to be a fireman.”
    â€œMy mom used to paint,” she said, leapfrogging in yet another direction. “But she must not have been very good at it. All of her stuff is hidden away in closets around the house.”
    So that was how Andrea was dealing with her pain. She’d found a target in Carly, the one person she was confident would not strike back. He was an unknown quantity, someone she had to court favor with in order to get him to like her. Ethan was the outsider, a father but not her father anymore, or so she believed. “I remember,” he said.
    â€œI guess it’s not so strange that I want to be an actor after all—what with you a writer and Mom a wannabe artist.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s your mother you take after. Her talent is innate. The little I have comes from struggle and tenacity.”
    She gave him a long, hard look. “Why do you do that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPut yourself down. Whenever anyone says anything nice about your writing or one of your books, you act like they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
    Could she really have seen that in him or was it something she’d overheard? “I guess it’s more comfortable for me to deal with criticism than praise,” he said, something he’d never admitted to anyone.
    â€œIt’s the way you say thank you, like you’re not really listening to what someone is saying.”
    â€œThat’s quite an observation.”
    As if afraid she’d gone too far, she added, “It’s not like you’re being rude or anything. I don’t think