Divine by Choice by P.C. Cast

Author:P.C. Cast [Cast, P.C.]
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2010-05-21T02:57:51.086000+00:00

“Stay here. I’ll come around and get you.”

I watched as Clint moved stiffly out of the driver’s seat. He straightened slowly, with one hand pressed against the small of his back. Carefully he made his way over to my side and opened my door.

“Is your back bothering you?”

“Don’t worry about it—it gets like this.”

I wanted to ask him like what, but he brusquely motioned for me to join him. I felt shaky as I climbed from the Hummer. Clint took my arm and helped me plow through the snow to the front door, where we stood in a small pool of light.

“Uh-hum,” I cleared my throat nervously. I didn’t know how to proceed. Usually, I’d just holler,Dad!

Hey! It’s me! And let myself in. But now I was suddenly unsure of my reception. What if Rhiannon had alienated my parents, too? What if Dad didn’t want to see me? I looked down at myself, realizing that I was still puke spattered and totally bedraggled.

“You okay, Shannon my girl?” Clint asked, pushing a loose curl back from my face.

“I’m not sure—” Before I could finish my answer the front doorknob jiggled. The thick inside door swung open and I was left to squint through the screen door at the hulking shape standing inside.

“Shannon?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Dad. I have a friend with me. Can we come in?” My voice sounded like I was six years old again.

“Yep, yep.” Dad unlatched the screen door. “Worse storm I can remember. Damn near makes me think I’m back in Illinois!”

We stepped into the little foyer. There was a large oil lamp burning dully on the whatnot table near the door. Dad reached over and adjusted the wick so that the flame danced and we were suddenly illuminated in a flickering of soft yellow. Dad was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had the University of Illinois logo emblazoned in orange on navy (once an Illini, always an Illini). His feet were covered in thick socks that were pulled loose and floppy at the toes. His hair was mussed and he had his reading glasses on. He looked wonderful and solid and safe. I wanted to hurl myself into his arms and cry like a baby.

Instead, I shuffled my feet nervously, grasping at anything to say. “Um, why didn’t the dogs bark?” Dad raises dogs that are an imposing mixture of Irish wolfhound and greyhound. He doesn’t race them—he just enjoys them. And he really likes it that they keep the coyote population on his land at a decided minimum. There are usually half a dozen sleek, multicolored dogs maniacally greeting any and all visitors. (Note to self: remember those tails are like whips—beware.)

“Closed ’em up in the barn. Too damn cold and nasty out. I turned the heat lamps on, gave them a big bucket of food and shut them in with the horses.” He chuckled. “Those puppers probably think they’ve died and gone to doggie heaven.”

“Oh, Dad, I’ve missed you so much!” I stood on tiptoe and hugged him hard.

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