“I think it did,” I agreed, still a little shocked by this.
“Um, except for all that Secret Service stuff. Do you think he meant it?”
I bit back a laugh. My dad had started off the evening clearly trying to get in Clark’s head, happening to “casually” mention that he knew some of the VP’s Secret Service agents well, and did he know they were trained in all kinds of deadly force, not just firearms? “He was just messing with you,” I said, leaning my head on Clark’s shoulder. He kissed the top of my head, resting his chin there for a moment before we walked on. “So,” I said, turning my head and looking up at him. “Where were we?”
“Wasn’t there a tavern brawl?”
“Isn’t there always?” I replied, and he laughed.
I came back home a little over an hour later, Clark dropping me off in the turnaround, where we weren’t quite able to resist making out for another twenty minutes or so.
I let myself back in the house, half expecting that my dad would be in his office, watching the classic movie channel or reading a book. But he was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-eaten piece of cheesecake in front of him.
“Hey,” I said, smoothing my hair down. I hesitated, then crossed the kitchen toward him.
My dad looked up and smiled at me and pushed his plate slightly toward me. I decided more cheesecake was an excellent idea and grabbed a fork before sliding into the chair across from him. I speared a bite, realizing suddenly how nervous I was. What if my dad had been being his candidate self all night, pretending to get along with Clark while secretly hating him? I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter what my dad thought, knowing all the while that it did.
My dad was just calmly eating his cheesecake, like he had nothing to say, and I decided I wouldn’t ask. I’d just wait for him to tell me what he thought of Clark, but it wasn’t like I needed to know or anything. This lasted exactly one more bite before I blurted out, “So what did you think of him?”
My dad rotated the plate slightly, looking for the perfect bite, before he said, “He seems like a very nice young man. A little mistaken as to where Stagecoach fits in with Wayne’s filmography. But we can’t have everything.”
I rolled my eyes at that, not wanting to let my dad see just how relieved I was. “You freaked him out with all that Secret Service talk,” I said, rotating the plate back toward me as I cut off a piece with my fork. “I think he thought you were serious.”
“Who says I’m not? Though I suppose I didn’t need to say ‘Secret Service,’?” he mused. “I could have just mentioned some of my old clients. Some very bad people would love to do me a favor.”
I looked up at him, remembering something that had been in the back of my mind ever since the night of Bertie and the chocolates. “Hey, what happened to the drawing that used to hang in the foyer? The one of Stabby Bob?”
My dad looked at me, surprised. “What made you think of him?”
“I was, um . . .” I took a breath. “Clark asked me how you and Mom met.”
Something passed over my dad’s face then, sadness mixed with something happier. “Did I ever tell you she wanted to invite Bob to the wedding?”
“No way.” I hadn’t ever heard this before and was starting to smile, even though there was a slight tremble to it.
“She did. She thought he deserved to be there, being the reason we were introduced.”
“So did he go?”
“Well, he was serving fifteen to twenty by then. So no.” I smiled at that, and neither of us said anything for a moment, but it was like I could tell we were both thinking about my mom. Like just a little bit of her was here in the kitchen with us. My dad cleared his throat, then said, “I can try to find him for you if you want. The drawing,” he said quickly, maybe seeing what I was thinking. “Not Stabby Bob.”
I nodded. “That would be good.” I took a breath, wondering if this was the moment to ask him the question that I’d never stopped wondering about—what he had done with my mother’s Mustang. I hadn’t asked, five years ago, when it didn’t come to our new house with us, and I just hoped that he had saved it rather than sold it off to someone. I was getting ready to ask him about the car, when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
TOBY
Toby clearly wanted to know how dinner had gone, but it was easier these days to call or video chat with her rather than text her. But then it buzzed again, and I saw Palmer was texting now too.
PALMER
HOW DID IT GO?
“Let me guess,” my dad said, picking up the cheesecake plate and pushing himself back from the table. “Bri?”
“Toby,” I said, shaking my head. “And Palmer, too.” My phone buzzed again. “And now Bri.”