I Liked My Life(77)

Dameon squeezes my hand and says, “I wish you well, Charlotte.” I sigh and turn toward the hotel. Part of me wishes I got his number or tried to make plans for tomorrow, but I don’t want to be a tourist fuck. I speed back to meet my dad, delirious over the fact that I French-kissed a Frenchman in France. I guess I’m not that mature after all.

*

Dad eyes me suspiciously at dinner. I know I’m beaming but can’t shut it off. It’s been forever since I had fun. He asks three times exactly what I did while he was on the run. I’m out of ways to say I just walked around.

Without reason, his eyes tear. “What is it?” I ask, relieved for the spotlight to shift.

“Mom would’ve loved seeing you so happy. Even more than Paris, and she would’ve enjoyed this trip immensely, she’d love this moment with you.” His words send a bullet of shame to my heart—I spent the last three hours desperate to forget Her.

I can’t come up with a response, so I nod and butter my bread. When the moment passes, I ask whether we’re rich. “Officially I guess it depends which party is in office,” he says, “but by most people’s standards we are, yes.”

“I guess I never realized it until this trip.”

I don’t expect the wary look he gives. He takes an aggressive cut into his steak. “You’ve lived a very privileged life, Eve, and if you didn’t realize it before now, that’s disconcerting.”

I wave my hand in the air to cool him off. “Oh, calm down. I knew we were well off. I mean, everyone in Wellesley is, pretty much. It’s more like … this past week—staying at such an outrageous hotel, going to the spa all day, ordering fancy champagne at dinner—it seems different. I mean, I’d never even heard of a personal shopper. You have to admit, Dad, we never went on a trip like this when Mom was alive.”

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.”