Page 67 of Homeport

“I could have figured that out for myself, Rodney.” But her stomach was already busy tying itself into knots over the lie.

“You’ve had less than three hours’ sleep. You’re sluggish. Where are your cups?” He reached into a cupboard.

“No, don’t use the everyday.” She waved an absent hand. “Get the good china out of the breakfront in the dining room.”

He lifted his brows. Good china was for company, not for family. It gave him another insight into Miranda Jones. “I’ll get two. I believe Rodney perceives your father wants to have a private chat with you.”

“Coward,” she muttered.

She arranged the pot, the cups, the saucers meticulously on the tray, and tried not to be annoyed that Ryan had gone up the back steps and left her to deal with it alone. She squared her shoulders, lifted the tray, and carried it out to the parlor, where her father stood in front of the fireplace, reading from a small leather notebook.

He was so handsome, was all she could think. Tall and straight and tanned, his hair shining. When she was very young, she’d thought he looked like a picture out of a fairy tale. Not a prince or a knight, but a wizard. So wise and dignified.

She’d so desperately wanted him to love her. To give her piggyback rides and cuddle her in his lap, to tuck the blankets around her at night and tell her foolish stories.

Instead, she’d had to settle for a mild and often absent kind of affection. No one had ever given her piggyback rides or told her foolish stories.

She sighed the sorrow of that away and continued into the room. “I asked Rodney to give us a few minutes alone,” she began. “I imagine you want to talk to me about the burglary.”

“Yes, I do. It’s very upsetting, Miranda.”

“Yes, we’re all very upset.” She set the tray down, settled into a chair, and poured out as she had been taught. “The police are investigating. We have hopes to recover the bronze.”

“In the meantime, the publicity is damaging for the Institute. Your mother is distressed, and I’ve had to leave my project at a very key time to come here.”

“There was no reason for you to come.” Hands steady, she held out his cup. “Everything’s being done that can be done.”

“Obviously our security is not at an acceptable level. Your brother is responsible for that.”

“This isn’t Andrew’s fault.”

“We put the Institute in his hands, and yours,” he reminded her, and idly sipped his tea.

“He’s doing a marvelous job. Class attendance is up ten percent, gate receipts have increased. The quality of our acquisitions over the past five years has been astonishing.”

Oh, and it galled so to have to defend and justify when the man across from her had walked away from the responsibilities of the Institute as easily as he had the responsibilities of family.

“The Institute was never one of your priorities.” She said it mildly, knowing he would only tune out anger. “You preferred fieldwork. Andrew and I have put all our time and energy into it.”

“And now we have our first theft in more than a generation. It can’t be overlooked, Miranda.”

“No, but the time and sweat and work and the improvements we’ve made, they can be overlooked.”

“No one’s faulting your enthusiasm.” He waved it aside. “However, this must be dealt with. And with the negative publicity from your misstep in Florence added to it, it leaves us in a difficult position.”

“My misstep,” she murmured. How like him to use some limp euphemism for a crisis. “I did everything I was required to do in Florence. Everything.” When she felt the emotion spurting up, she swallowed it and met him on the dispassionate level he expected. “If I could see the results of the retesting, I could analyze my own results and determine where the mistakes were made.”

“That’s something you have to take up with your mother. Though I can tell you, she’s very displeased. If the press hadn’t been notified—”

“I never talked to the press.” She rose now, unable to sit, unable to pretend she was calm. “I never discussed The Dark Lady with anyone outside of the lab. Damn it, why would I?”

He paused a moment, set his teacup aside. He hated confrontations, disliked messy emotions that interfered with smooth production. He was well aware that there were floods of those messy emotions simmering inside his daughter. He’d never been able to understand where they came from.

“I believe you.”

“And to be accused— What?”

“I believe you. While you may be headstrong and often wrong-minded in my opinion, I’ve never known you to be dishonest. If you tell me you didn’t speak to the press about this matter, then I believe you.”

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