The Motive by John Lescroart

eat some stupid lox, which was right out here on the table in front of me. Okay, if I ate it, I’m sorry. But what do you want me to do, Mom? Barf it back up?” She put her finger into her mouth.
    Following the action, Vincent suddenly threw his comics page down and jumped up, away from the table. “Easy, Beck. Come on.”
    Hardy intervened at the same instant. “Don’t barf it up. I’ll just go throw a couple of my tropicals on this bagel…”
    “Don’t make a joke out of it,” Frannie said. “It’s not funny.”
    “I’m not going to really barf it up.” Rebecca rolled her eyes in what Hardy believed was an expression of the platonic ideal of teenage pique.
    “All right then.”
    Frannie obviously didn’t think it was even slightly all right, but the fight had gone out of her, and she turned and disappeared back into the kitchen. Hardy debated whether to follow her or not and decided they’d both be happier in the long run if he didn’t. If he went to her, they’d just keep talking about the Beck and how they were losing control over her, how she didn’t respect them any longer, how he didn’t take an active enough role anymore. It would all escalate and somehow become all about him and Frannie.
Didn’t he see the way she was getting? Didn’t he care what was happening to his daughter?
    He did care. He simply didn’t spend as much time with her as his wife did, didn’t identify with her in a more or less absolute way, and didn’t really think he needed to. His daughter was growing up, becoming independent, which he believed was her fundamental job. And doing fine at it. Better than fine, even, with her incredible grade point average, president of a couple of clubs, working a night a week this semester tutoring math.
    Hardy honestly believed that she hadn’t heard Frannie issue her warning about the lox. She would never have eaten it if she’d thought it was meant for her father. But Frannie would have said that was the problem—she didn’t think about anybody but herself. To which his answer was, “Of course not, she’s a teenager.” But this wasn’t a popular response.
    He sat down and took a bite of his bagel, pointed to the rest of the newspaper down by his son’s elbow. “Vin, could you please hand me a section?” he asked. Then, sotto voce to the Beck, “I don’t think you ate my lox on purpose, but you might want to go tell your mother you’re sorry you yelled at her.”
    “Except, you know, Dad,” she whispered, “she yelled at me.” But shaking her head, she got up anyway and disappeared back into the kitchen.
    Vincent, back in his chair, shook his own head, rolled his eyes. Girls. Hardy nodded in understanding. In this, he and his son were allies. Then he pointed again, said, “The paper, please. If I can’t eat lox, at least I can read my morning paper.” Vin reached over and grabbed the front page—double-time—and went to pass it up the table, glancing at the front page as he did. “Hey,” he said. “Uncle Abe.” And the paper’s progress halted.
    “Vin.” Hardy, his voice suddenly sharp, snapped a finger. “Now. Please.”
    The tone brooked no argument. In a second, Vincent up and over his shoulder, the two males were reading the caption under the four-column, front-page picture of Glitsky smartly saluting the mayor. “Deputy Chief of Police Abraham Glitsky gets his marching orders from Kathy West yesterday afternoon at the Ferry Building at the beginning of the mayor’s first ‘Neighborhood Stroll.’ The new administration plans to bolster police presence as well as civic awareness in troubled areas of the city, and Glitsky’s appearance, according to the mayor, underscored the spirit of cooperation between her office and the Police Department that both sides hope to build upon.”
    “Uncle Abe’s getting famous,” Vincent said.
    “Just what he’s always wanted.”
    “I always thought he hated that stuff.”
    “He does. He’s going to hate