Drumsticks by Charlotte Carter

rather hear about your latest adventure in Paris anyway,” he said.
    Oh no, I told him firmly. That subject was also taboo. The last thing I wanted to do was relive my busted affair with Andre, let alone the Vivian nightmare.
    His curiosity about my Paris trip made me realize that Daddy must have kept the story of Vivian’s death a secret from him. So maybe he and Hinton weren’t quite so tight as I had thought. Maybe Dan didn’t even know “Eddie” had a sister.
    We still found plenty to talk about over our funky bouillabaisse, endive salad, and house red. Like both of us often being lonesome and desperate as the only child. Both of us often being lonesome and desperate as black Ivy Leaguers—him some ten or twelve years before me. Both of us having a taskmaster for a father, a striver for whom failure was not an option—not for himself and not for his child.
    I was letting my guard down. Maybe even showing off a little. It was risky to tell him about playing on the street. Neither of my parents knew about it. But I did it anyway. I knew he’d never rat me out to my father. He was too proud of his image as the good guy grown-up.
    â€œAre you serious!” was his immediate reaction to my revelation. Equal parts shock and admiration.
    Just the kind of response that little Nan craved.
    I was off and running with stories about the fantastic assortment of characters I’d met on the street; the narrow escapes from muggers; the all-night parties with musicians and assorted other fiends; the sax player I’d picked up who ended up dead on my kitchen floor. Escapade after escapade, any one of which would curl my daddy’s hair if he knew about it.
    I painted myself as a cross between La Femme Nikita and Edith Piaf. Danny Boy was eating it up. Much raucous laughter emanating from our little corner.
    â€œThat’s incredible stuff, Nan. You’re really fierce.”
    I probably batted an eyelid or two.
    â€œNo, I mean it,” he said. “You’re so different from the picture I had of you. I mean, based on what I know about Eddie—and the things he says about you.”
    â€œYou thought I’d be a black debutante, didn’t you? A real BAP.”
    He fumbled for a politic answer.
    â€œThat’s okay, I forgive you,” I said. “I figured you for one, too.”
    Yes, I’d say my guard was definitely lowered. Somehow it no longer seemed important to dislike Dan Hinton just because my father did like him.
    A mustachioed waiter went whizzing by with the dessert cart. Maybe a real femme on a first date would pass on dessert. But I got a good look at that pear tart and I knew I had to have it.
    We shared it, laughing all the way through the last dollop of cream. I saw Dan raise his hand. But he wasn’t calling for the check, or even for that end-of-the-night espresso. Instead he ordered another bottle of wine, with my hearty approval.
    I was just as agreeable when he moved out of his chair and onto the small banquette with me.
    We were only one glass into the new bottle when he mentioned that he was divorced.
    â€œShe left you, you said?”
    He nodded.
    â€œSo—what was the matter with her?”
    I was gambling with that line, hoping he would realize I was making a joke.
    He did. And after enjoying his laugh, he took my fingers and kissed them lightly, and thanked me for saying that.
    It took a long time for him to release my hand. He didn’t let go, in fact, until after he had kissed me lightly on the mouth. So very lightly that in the kiss there was just as much hello, dear cousin as there was sexual interest. The thing sent a tiny tremor across my top lip. I didn’t kiss back, I didn’t not kiss back.
    I had a bit more wine and then said, “You’ve been with a lot of women, haven’t you? Had sex with a lot of women, I mean—to be blunt.”
    I could see him calculating, trying to figure what kind of