perhaps this newer, better version of themselves could.
More important was the love that was reciprocated between father and daughter. There were times when he’d look down at her as he was driving her somewhere, and she would be wrapped up in her own games—singing to herself or playing with her dolls, or reading out loud. No matter what she was involved in, if Philip said, “I love you, sweetheart,” she would reply without skipping a beat, “I love you, too, Daddy,” because it was one of the things in life she was certain of. Even with all the chaos in their lives, Caitlin believed her mommy and daddy loved her, no matter what.
This happy reflection was cut short by the memory of the menacing look he had received from Marianne at Martin’s office. The implication suddenly hit him and it was enough to propel him bolt upright in his chair. Marianne had given him a chilling look when he reminded her that Caitlin would be spending half her time with him. How low could a person stoop? Using her child as a way to extort more money out of him. But her look said it all: she was planning something treacherous, he could feel it.
Philip jumped out of the chair—not an easy move considering the chair and his size—and grabbed his sports jacket. He couldn’t sit there another minute or he’d lose his mind. Without even thinking his plan through, he fairly sprinted the two blocks to the garage where he kept his car. He drove up FDR Drive, crossed the George Washington Bridge and took I95 all the way to Boston. He could not rest until he had Caitlin by his side again.
Eight
“Who is it?” Priscilla called out. Her recent experience with Brawny made her more cautious about opening her door.
“Cameron Diaz and Angelina Jolie,” a voice replied, followed by muffled giggles. Priscilla rolled her eyes and undid the three bolts to admit her uninvited guests.
“Hey, Sammy,” Darlene said as she crossed the threshold, followed closely by Rochelle. Priscilla noted with dread that both girls were decked to the teeth, which did not bode well for her evening. As soon as she was inside, Darlene shed her white rabbit fur jacket, revealing a strappy, python printed camisole atop her skintight white denim skirt. Rochelle was similarly attired in a faux fur cropped jacket in baby blue, under which she wore a low-cut black top—heavy on the spandex—over a dark blue leatherette skirt, shorter than should be allowed by law, and threatening to burst at the seams.
“By the looks of you two, I’d say you’re about to hop the next Dirty Dog bound for Vegas,” Priscilla said, as she evaluated their costumes.
“I wish ,” said Rochelle, the insult sailing right past her. Darlene, the sharper of the two, threw an arch look Priscilla’s way, but chose in the end not to be offended. Rochelle produced an improbably large bottle of rum from her bag, waving it about as if she had just made their evening.
“I hope you’ve got some cokes, preferably diet,” Darlene said as unburdened herself of her gear. Priscilla looked at her with mild exasperation. She hadn’t heard a peep out of these two in at least six weeks, which was fine with her, after how their last encounter had turned out. Figures they’d arrange an ambush of this nature.
“Sorry, fresh out of both varieties,” she said, arms akimbo, wondering what exactly they had up their collective sleeve this time.
“What’ve you got, then?”
“I think there’s some grapefruit juice in the fridge,” Priscilla said, intentionally neglecting her hostess duties as she tossed Darlene’s things out of the comfortable chair and flopped down in it.
“Damn, I knew we should’ve picked some mixers. You never have anything, Sammy,” Darlene complained, as she took down three glasses and searched for ice. “Okay, so what do we dilute this with? If I start drinking straight rum, I won’t know my ass from my elbow an hour from now. I can’t believe you can’t even be
More important was the love that was reciprocated between father and daughter. There were times when he’d look down at her as he was driving her somewhere, and she would be wrapped up in her own games—singing to herself or playing with her dolls, or reading out loud. No matter what she was involved in, if Philip said, “I love you, sweetheart,” she would reply without skipping a beat, “I love you, too, Daddy,” because it was one of the things in life she was certain of. Even with all the chaos in their lives, Caitlin believed her mommy and daddy loved her, no matter what.
This happy reflection was cut short by the memory of the menacing look he had received from Marianne at Martin’s office. The implication suddenly hit him and it was enough to propel him bolt upright in his chair. Marianne had given him a chilling look when he reminded her that Caitlin would be spending half her time with him. How low could a person stoop? Using her child as a way to extort more money out of him. But her look said it all: she was planning something treacherous, he could feel it.
Philip jumped out of the chair—not an easy move considering the chair and his size—and grabbed his sports jacket. He couldn’t sit there another minute or he’d lose his mind. Without even thinking his plan through, he fairly sprinted the two blocks to the garage where he kept his car. He drove up FDR Drive, crossed the George Washington Bridge and took I95 all the way to Boston. He could not rest until he had Caitlin by his side again.
Eight
“Who is it?” Priscilla called out. Her recent experience with Brawny made her more cautious about opening her door.
“Cameron Diaz and Angelina Jolie,” a voice replied, followed by muffled giggles. Priscilla rolled her eyes and undid the three bolts to admit her uninvited guests.
“Hey, Sammy,” Darlene said as she crossed the threshold, followed closely by Rochelle. Priscilla noted with dread that both girls were decked to the teeth, which did not bode well for her evening. As soon as she was inside, Darlene shed her white rabbit fur jacket, revealing a strappy, python printed camisole atop her skintight white denim skirt. Rochelle was similarly attired in a faux fur cropped jacket in baby blue, under which she wore a low-cut black top—heavy on the spandex—over a dark blue leatherette skirt, shorter than should be allowed by law, and threatening to burst at the seams.
“By the looks of you two, I’d say you’re about to hop the next Dirty Dog bound for Vegas,” Priscilla said, as she evaluated their costumes.
“I wish ,” said Rochelle, the insult sailing right past her. Darlene, the sharper of the two, threw an arch look Priscilla’s way, but chose in the end not to be offended. Rochelle produced an improbably large bottle of rum from her bag, waving it about as if she had just made their evening.
“I hope you’ve got some cokes, preferably diet,” Darlene said as unburdened herself of her gear. Priscilla looked at her with mild exasperation. She hadn’t heard a peep out of these two in at least six weeks, which was fine with her, after how their last encounter had turned out. Figures they’d arrange an ambush of this nature.
“Sorry, fresh out of both varieties,” she said, arms akimbo, wondering what exactly they had up their collective sleeve this time.
“What’ve you got, then?”
“I think there’s some grapefruit juice in the fridge,” Priscilla said, intentionally neglecting her hostess duties as she tossed Darlene’s things out of the comfortable chair and flopped down in it.
“Damn, I knew we should’ve picked some mixers. You never have anything, Sammy,” Darlene complained, as she took down three glasses and searched for ice. “Okay, so what do we dilute this with? If I start drinking straight rum, I won’t know my ass from my elbow an hour from now. I can’t believe you can’t even be
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