Even before I finish the sentence I wish there was a way to take it back. My big mouth is no better than Lindsey’s and Mrs. Anderson’s and everyone else’s back home. I suck in my breath, terrified I’ve ruined an otherwise perfect week.
Dad looks back at me with a calm and knowing bob of his head. When did he get so Zen? I swear, the longer he runs a day, the nicer he is. “No, we didn’t, at least not as a family, and I regret it. Your mother and I went on some long weekends here and there where we splurged, but I never gave us the time or permission to do it all together. I see that now. I see so many things differently.” He takes a slow sip of champagne, then reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. Two months ago I’d have pulled away, but somehow this seems natural, like it would’ve coming from Mom. “This week would have made your mother so happy.”
“She’s here,” I say, “watching us. I know it.” As I say the words I sense her affirming them.
“Yeah, I guess I do too. Mostly, I hear her laughter when something is funny, particularly if the joke is on me and I’m not amused.”
“She had the best sense of humor.” I blot a napkin to my tears, checking the linen for mascara.
“She did. And an enormous heart.” We never talk like this. It’s hard to celebrate how wonderful she was without getting weighed down by how she died.
The waiter refills our water glasses. I can tell he’s curious about our relationship. In Wellesley my dad and I are a known tragedy, here we’re a curiosity. Based on our age difference, father and daughter is the most logical, but without a mother at the table people check us out. Rich guy with a young lover? Sleazeball and his escort?
When we’re alone again, I say, “Thank you for this trip.” I know he understands I don’t mean the hotel or the clothes or the facial—or I do, but only partly—it’s mostly a thank-you for proving there are good times to be had.
“You’re welcome.” He shifts his chair closer to me and scratches his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. “Listen, I actually have some news on that odd journal about Grandma.”
I blink to catch up. “What kind of news?”
He tells me about finding Marie and Paul and his trip to Reston. I’m hurt. “You should’ve told me. Even if you didn’t want me to go. I’ve asked like a million times if you heard back from Bobby.”
His expression offers some sympathy, but he doesn’t apologize. “I needed to go alone.”
“She was my grandma.”
He nods. “Yep. She was. But I’m sure you can appreciate that it’s a sensitive situation for me.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one always saying we only have each other. We can’t afford to have secrets.”
Half his mouth winds up in a teasing smile. “So you don’t keep any secrets from me?”
I think about Dameon’s kiss and the journal and my recent struggle to see the point of life, then say, “Well, for the most part, I don’t.”
“I don’t, for the most part, either.” We grin at the fuzzy middle ground. My dad is funny. Well, maybe not funny, but not as serious as I thought either.
“So what were they like?”
He grunts. “They’re whacked.”
“Dad! I can’t believe you just said that.”
“It’s the truth. They’re eccentric, and I did not receive a warm welcome.” He must sense my pity because his voice turns upbeat. “It’s for the best. I don’t need any more on my plate.”
“Were they mean to you?”
“Nah. They just weren’t nice. But the trip wasn’t a waste. I learned a lot. With Mom gone, and everything I’ve uncovered about my own mother, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ve missed something with the women in my life, maybe even something about life in general, and I refuse to make the same mistake with you.”
I’m honored. It’s like winning a grand prize in a raffle I never knew I entered.
And there it is, the tender shiver of my mother crawling up my spine, cheering us on.
Brady
I had no idea my daughter was a young woman, subject to the seductive glances of men and envious glares of less-blessed females, until this trip. I never even recognized her as beautiful, beyond the way I assume most fathers think of their offspring as good-looking. But Eve is what the current generation refers to as hot. Her complexion is clear and she adds a hint of blush to each cheek, so she always looks like she just returned from grabbing fresh air. She walks with her shoulders back in a confident posture and when she laughs, which has to be earned, her whole body moves with the sound, how it did with her mother. It’s strange to put words to, but I’m getting to know my daughter and I like her. I mean obviously I love her, but I am discovering that I also enjoy her company. She’s sarcastic as all hell, but she’s fearless.
Her appeal sits with me now like something I can’t quite digest. It’d help if this hot-air-balloon guide would stop staring at her breasts. I ignore him, knowing Eve will be annoyed if I make a stink. “I think that’s the vineyard we ate lunch at yesterday,” I say, pointing.
“Yeah, there’s the stone patio. This is amazing. I feel closer to Mom up here.”
Before I can respond, the guide says, “I do too. It’s why I took this job.”
Eve rolls her eyes at him and whispers, “He feels closer to my mom?”
Although this dipshit just ruined a moment I’m paying nine hundred dollars for, it’s a relief to see her respond to the predator with authority. Still, the revelation makes me less certain about the boarding-school decision. It was one thing for Eve to leave when I thought of her as a child under the supervision of adults, but quite another if she’s a young lady, capable of making adult-sized mistakes.
When we step out of the basket, my feet wobble to find their place on the ground. “You okay there, old man?” Eve teases.
The guide lets out a belly laugh disproportionate to the humor provided. I take advantage of the only offensive move I have and leave without offering a tip. He can ogle his heart out, but he’s not having a drink on me tonight for the privilege.
We sit for lunch, both famished, having gotten up at four this morning. Eve replays how cool it was to float through the sky, but I’m distracted. She stops talking mid-sentence and says, “Hello? Dad. You there?”
I cannot hold back my observation. It’s time for one of Maddy’s serious talks. “Sorry. It’s just … well.” My palms start sweating. “I’ve noticed…”
“Sp-sp-sp-spit it out,” Eve says with a laugh.
She’s right. I can’t go through life afraid of her. “Okay, fine: I’ve noticed how much older you look, and how many men look at you with interest, and-and I want to make sure you’re aware of it also, so you don’t land in a precarious situation.”
“Precarious situation?”
“It means—”
She puts a hand up. “I know what it means, Dad. Stop worrying. I think that’s just how the French, like, are.”
How can I explain that she’s too beautiful not to worry without me turning into the inappropriate one? “Well, I do worry, Eve. You’re at the age where people don’t know if you’re seventeen or out of college, and I’m not stupid enough to believe your admirers only exist in this country. It’s a problem.”