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ities between you and her. Some of the similarities I like, of course. Kiera, for all her faults, does have some good qualities. I’m not completely wasted here,” he said, as if Jordan could not have given her any of those qualities. “In any case, not being careful about with whom you form these early relationships can move you closer to her shoes, or the shoes she wore too long, if you get my drift.”

“That won’t occur, Mr. March,” I said. “I’m not going to say that you and Mrs. March are wrong about Ryder Garfield. He is a troubled person. I realized that almost immediately, but I think I can be a good friend to him and help him, as he said, navigate the rapids.”

That sharp, angry look invaded Mr. March’s face again. “Don’t develop the sin of arrogance, Sasha. Don’t take on more than you can handle. That will make you more like the Kiera we both knew too well.”

“I won’t,” I said.

He calmed a bit. “I hope not. In any case, I wanted you to know that I do have a strong interest in your welfare and will be here more for you than I have been. I know Jordan would love for you to think of her as you would a mother, but I’ll be satisfied if you simply think of me as a good friend, okay?”

“Yes, Mr. March,” I said.

His eyes narrowed, and lines in his temples deepened. “You know what I would like very much, Sasha? I’d like you to call me Donald instead of Mr. March. You’ve been here long enough to stop being so formal. I meant to tell you that. Will that be all right?”

“Yes, if it’s all right with you,” I said.

“More than all right. It’s what I would prefer. Makes you sound more grown up, too, don’t you think?”

I nodded.

He smiled and touched my hair again, holding some strands between his fingers. “You do have extraordinarily beautiful hair, Sasha. I imagine it’s because you take care of yourself.”

“It was one thing my mother wouldn’t forget to tell me to look after, no matter where we were,” I said.

He smiled. “You’ve been through so much. I’m sure you’re far more mature than most girls in your class, if not all of them. I want you to know that I don’t think of you as being a little girl anymore, Sasha. You’re a young woman in my mind.”

“Thank you,” I said. He was still fingering my hair.

“I should take you with me sometimes. I go to some very interesting places, and if I must say so myself, I do some very exciting things. There are so many important and beautiful things for a girl like you to see, but maybe it’s more important for a girl like you to be seen. Would you like that?”

“I guess,” I said, not really knowing what he meant by being seen. Seen by whom? And for what?

He nodded as if he was making up his mind right then and there. “We’ll do more things together, things I should have been doing with Kiera. That’s a promise. You really would be helping me, too,” he said. “I’d like to feel I can make up for the mistakes I’ve made. What do you say?”

“Sure,” I said. What else could I say?

He widened his smile. “We’ll get to know each other a lot better. I promise.”

He just stared at me, and then he leaned over and kissed me on my cheek, very close to my lips.

I was stunned. Donald March had never kissed me like that. He had never fondled my hair, either. I had been without a mother for years now, but I had been without a father for years longer. Maybe I had never really had one. He wasn’t a good husband, so how could he have been a good father?

When I was younger and I went somewhere with Jordan on weekends, I would see young girls my age walking with their parents, sometimes holding their father’s hand and not their mother’s, and I would wonder what that felt like, what they felt like. Surely having their fathers beside them, holding them, guiding them, gave them a wonderful sense of security. How great it must be to be loved and protected and have such a special place in their fathers’ hearts.

They were the girls I envied, the girls who enjoyed all of that, whereas I felt more like someone floating, unattached, drifting through my life without the sunshine of a mother’s or father’s smile to light the day. My parents were darkness and silence. Who, then, could possibly blame me for being so pleased, even a little intoxicated, with Donald March’s offer to become closer and be more of a father to me?

“I’m getting hungry,” he said, sitting back. “I didn’t have a single meal close to the quality of the meals Mrs. Caro makes for us.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms, and stood. “I’ll just finish a few things here and join you in the dining room soon.” He reached for my hand, and I stood up. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thanks for caring,” I replied.

“That’s very sweet of you to say.”

He smiled and hugged me, holding me a little tighter and a little longer than I would have expected. Then he kissed my forehead and went to his desk. I looked at him. He lifted his hand, and I walked out.

Thoughts were bouncing back and forth in my brain like ping-pong balls. I had so much to think about and to understand. Although I didn’t like what he had said about Ryder, it seemed obvious that my bringing Ryder here had triggered Donald March to take a more serious interest in my welfare. How could I complain about that? I could have argued with him more about Ryder, explained how intelligent he was and how sensitive and sweet, but for now, I thought it was better to leave it as it was. What a day this had been, I thought, and hurried up to my room to shower and change for dinner.

Lately, we hadn’t been having as many dinners together as we used to, and when we did, the Marches, mainly because of Jordan’s unhappiness, were often arguing about something. Whenever that occurred, I felt even more out of place, more like an intruder. Once, after a particularly bitter conversation between them, Jordan took me aside afterward to tell me that it wasn’t always like that.

“It started after Alena’s death and gradually grew worse when we began to have these problems with Kiera. You’ve seen some of that. I’m sorry you’re seeing it now.”