his back until the coughing subsides. My father takes a deep breath and gulps down the rest of the milk. Then he relaxes into the couch cushions and puts an arm back around me, as if nothing happened.
“Are you all right?” I keep my voice calm. “That sounded really bad.”
He peers down at me and smooths the hair away from my forehead. “I know it does, baby girl. And yes, before you ask, I’ve been to the doctor. He’s treating it.”
“When was your last appointment? And when is your next one?” Given my father’s aversion to showing weakness, it’s probably been months since he visited the doctor and instead he’s “treating” his cough with Robitussin and Mucinex.
“You’ve got no faith in me,” he says with a frown. “I see Doc every few weeks. He checks me out, adjusts my meds. But at my age a cough can be a pesky nag that never goes away—a bit like you.” He winks and smiles.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I’m coming to your next appointment. If I’m being cast as a nag, I want to nag effectively.”
He chuckles and says, “All right, all right. Next one is on Halloween.”
The rooster clock on the wall crows. My father sighs and kisses the top of my head. “Well, I’d better quit lollygagging around.” He groans as he stands up and stretches his back. “You should think about visiting the Spoons sometime today. Freshen up on how we do things around there and get some practice time in. You only have a few weeks until the Upper Crust, and I won’t have no goddamn apple turnover winning again.”
Leave it to my father to act like I should be training for this charity event as though it’s some kind of Olympic sport. Too bad my plan of attack is to show up and wing it. I almost tell him this just to see him get all bent out of shape. Instead I grab the box of doughnuts and follow him into the kitchen.
“I need to do some work for my actual job. You know, the one in Chicago that I get paid for? I’m being slated to be a partner.” Then I remember the binders and stacks of papers I stole from the diner that are still a disorganized mess and say, “But maybe I’ll drop by after I finish up.”
He takes the doughnut box from my hand and places it on the counter. “I bought extra cobbler ingredients for you to use.”
“Dad, I’m not competing with that recipe. I’m going to prepare something of my own.”
He turns to face me so abruptly his shoulder knocks into mine, and I stumble a bit. “You ain’t doin’ no such thing.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, but what I really want to know is how he can pretend that my mother didn’t throw away our family, how he can pretend she didn’t throw me away.
My father grumbles something under his breath before he clears his throat and says, “Because it’s a darn good recipe, and we’re in this to win, baby girl. That’s all there is to it.”
I sigh. My head is starting to ache.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” my father says, rifling around in his pocket. “I’ve got a present for you.” He drops a set of tarnished gold keys in my hand that belong to my old Ford truck.
“When did you get it back?” I say, puzzled, remembering how I abandoned the clunker in an airport economy parking lot the day I boarded a plane to Chicago.
“That’s not important. You didn’t honestly think I’d let you ditch that dinosaur, did you? Big Blue’s a part of our family.”
I shrug, closing my fingers around the keys and squeezing so hard the teeth bite into the soft flesh of my palm. “I suppose not.”
“Think of this as your homecoming gift,” he says with a wink. “She’s got a rebuilt engine, new tires, and a clean bill of health. Picked her up from the shop this morning.”
“Thanks for rescuing her for me. It saves me from spending a fortune on the rental. I’ll call to make arrangements for it to be picked up.”
My father’s mustache twitches, and a funny expression flits over his
“Are you all right?” I keep my voice calm. “That sounded really bad.”
He peers down at me and smooths the hair away from my forehead. “I know it does, baby girl. And yes, before you ask, I’ve been to the doctor. He’s treating it.”
“When was your last appointment? And when is your next one?” Given my father’s aversion to showing weakness, it’s probably been months since he visited the doctor and instead he’s “treating” his cough with Robitussin and Mucinex.
“You’ve got no faith in me,” he says with a frown. “I see Doc every few weeks. He checks me out, adjusts my meds. But at my age a cough can be a pesky nag that never goes away—a bit like you.” He winks and smiles.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I’m coming to your next appointment. If I’m being cast as a nag, I want to nag effectively.”
He chuckles and says, “All right, all right. Next one is on Halloween.”
The rooster clock on the wall crows. My father sighs and kisses the top of my head. “Well, I’d better quit lollygagging around.” He groans as he stands up and stretches his back. “You should think about visiting the Spoons sometime today. Freshen up on how we do things around there and get some practice time in. You only have a few weeks until the Upper Crust, and I won’t have no goddamn apple turnover winning again.”
Leave it to my father to act like I should be training for this charity event as though it’s some kind of Olympic sport. Too bad my plan of attack is to show up and wing it. I almost tell him this just to see him get all bent out of shape. Instead I grab the box of doughnuts and follow him into the kitchen.
“I need to do some work for my actual job. You know, the one in Chicago that I get paid for? I’m being slated to be a partner.” Then I remember the binders and stacks of papers I stole from the diner that are still a disorganized mess and say, “But maybe I’ll drop by after I finish up.”
He takes the doughnut box from my hand and places it on the counter. “I bought extra cobbler ingredients for you to use.”
“Dad, I’m not competing with that recipe. I’m going to prepare something of my own.”
He turns to face me so abruptly his shoulder knocks into mine, and I stumble a bit. “You ain’t doin’ no such thing.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, but what I really want to know is how he can pretend that my mother didn’t throw away our family, how he can pretend she didn’t throw me away.
My father grumbles something under his breath before he clears his throat and says, “Because it’s a darn good recipe, and we’re in this to win, baby girl. That’s all there is to it.”
I sigh. My head is starting to ache.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” my father says, rifling around in his pocket. “I’ve got a present for you.” He drops a set of tarnished gold keys in my hand that belong to my old Ford truck.
“When did you get it back?” I say, puzzled, remembering how I abandoned the clunker in an airport economy parking lot the day I boarded a plane to Chicago.
“That’s not important. You didn’t honestly think I’d let you ditch that dinosaur, did you? Big Blue’s a part of our family.”
I shrug, closing my fingers around the keys and squeezing so hard the teeth bite into the soft flesh of my palm. “I suppose not.”
“Think of this as your homecoming gift,” he says with a wink. “She’s got a rebuilt engine, new tires, and a clean bill of health. Picked her up from the shop this morning.”
“Thanks for rescuing her for me. It saves me from spending a fortune on the rental. I’ll call to make arrangements for it to be picked up.”
My father’s mustache twitches, and a funny expression flits over his
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