considers typing my most useful skill. From birth he considered me an untapped labor source. In high school, he pestered me for three years until I took a typing class. The minute I passed with thirty words a minute, he put me to work. I wished I had at least one sibling to share Dad. But I’m such a pain, to hear him tell it, that they decided they couldn’t handle any more kids. I bet he regrets it, considering the amount of work he’s gotten out of me over the years.
The doorbell rang as I poured my cocoa into a mug. I went down the hall and peeked around the big newel post at the foot of the stairs to the front door. Someone small was standing on the other side of the four-foot cut glass oval, but I couldn’t see who it was. Everyone who was anyone knew my parents were out of town and clients didn’t come to the house. Since a visitor would delay me awhile and a computer-downing blackout might come through to save me from typing, I flipped on the intercom system and asked, “Who’s there?”
“Hello. I’m here to see Thomas Watts.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Claire Carter. I’m a friend of his daughter.”
Claire Carter. I hadn’t seen her in years and I looked like crap. See what I mean about timing? Claire was famous for being put together. We were satellite friends in high school. Satellite friends are when you’re friends with the same people, but never call each other up or anything. She was the girl who had guys panting down the halls after her. To put it mildly, I was a Marilyn Monroe look-alike. So I got a lot of looks, but very few dates. Apparently, my face was intimidating. That never made any sense to me. I was a human cupcake with lots of blond frosting. The guys who did ask me out tended to do it with a hand on my ass and that got a response full of personality, something I had no shortage of. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure Claire had a personality. A friend of mine dumped her after three months because she would never tell him what movie she wanted to see or choose a restaurant.
I sucked it up, disengaged the alarm, and opened the door.
“Mercy!” she said. At least I was recognizable.
“Hi, Claire. My dad’s not here.”
“I guess I should’ve called first.”
She stood there looking beautiful and pathetic with a veil of sleet behind her. I wanted to tell her to go away, but if I did, I’d have to type.
“Come in. It’s miserable out.”
“Thanks. I don’t mean to bother you.”
“No bother.” Not much anyway. “Come into the kitchen. Do you want something to drink? I’m having hot cocoa.”
“No thanks. I’m on a diet.” Claire was on a diet. Surprise, Surprise. I’d bet she’d missed a lot of brownies over the years. Still, I wanted to dump my cocoa down the sink.
“What’d you want to see Dad for?”
“Oh. I don’t know. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“How bad can it be?”
She folded her umbrella, took off her thick cashmere coat, fluffed her hair, and said with uncertainty, “My husband’s disappeared.”
“Chris disappeared?”
“Not Chris. Evan.”
Evan? Who was Evan? The last I’d heard she was married to Chris Donner. He’d been her second husband. Troy Abbott from our class was her first. I didn’t know why the first marriage had broken up and I wasn’t dying to know about the second.
“Er, yeah, Evan.”
“We’ve only been married two months. I don’t know what happened. I’ve been checking at all the hospitals and I made a police report.”
“When did you last see him?”
“When he left for work two weeks ago.”
“So you want to hire Dad to find him.”
“Well, yes, but how much does it cost?”
“Depends. There’s not like a flat rate or anything, but Dad’s not cheap.”
“I quit my job.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Evan said I didn’t need to work, that he’d take care of me.”
“Uh huh. Where does he work?”
“He’s in sales.”
“What’s he selling?”
“Some
The doorbell rang as I poured my cocoa into a mug. I went down the hall and peeked around the big newel post at the foot of the stairs to the front door. Someone small was standing on the other side of the four-foot cut glass oval, but I couldn’t see who it was. Everyone who was anyone knew my parents were out of town and clients didn’t come to the house. Since a visitor would delay me awhile and a computer-downing blackout might come through to save me from typing, I flipped on the intercom system and asked, “Who’s there?”
“Hello. I’m here to see Thomas Watts.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Claire Carter. I’m a friend of his daughter.”
Claire Carter. I hadn’t seen her in years and I looked like crap. See what I mean about timing? Claire was famous for being put together. We were satellite friends in high school. Satellite friends are when you’re friends with the same people, but never call each other up or anything. She was the girl who had guys panting down the halls after her. To put it mildly, I was a Marilyn Monroe look-alike. So I got a lot of looks, but very few dates. Apparently, my face was intimidating. That never made any sense to me. I was a human cupcake with lots of blond frosting. The guys who did ask me out tended to do it with a hand on my ass and that got a response full of personality, something I had no shortage of. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure Claire had a personality. A friend of mine dumped her after three months because she would never tell him what movie she wanted to see or choose a restaurant.
I sucked it up, disengaged the alarm, and opened the door.
“Mercy!” she said. At least I was recognizable.
“Hi, Claire. My dad’s not here.”
“I guess I should’ve called first.”
She stood there looking beautiful and pathetic with a veil of sleet behind her. I wanted to tell her to go away, but if I did, I’d have to type.
“Come in. It’s miserable out.”
“Thanks. I don’t mean to bother you.”
“No bother.” Not much anyway. “Come into the kitchen. Do you want something to drink? I’m having hot cocoa.”
“No thanks. I’m on a diet.” Claire was on a diet. Surprise, Surprise. I’d bet she’d missed a lot of brownies over the years. Still, I wanted to dump my cocoa down the sink.
“What’d you want to see Dad for?”
“Oh. I don’t know. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“How bad can it be?”
She folded her umbrella, took off her thick cashmere coat, fluffed her hair, and said with uncertainty, “My husband’s disappeared.”
“Chris disappeared?”
“Not Chris. Evan.”
Evan? Who was Evan? The last I’d heard she was married to Chris Donner. He’d been her second husband. Troy Abbott from our class was her first. I didn’t know why the first marriage had broken up and I wasn’t dying to know about the second.
“Er, yeah, Evan.”
“We’ve only been married two months. I don’t know what happened. I’ve been checking at all the hospitals and I made a police report.”
“When did you last see him?”
“When he left for work two weeks ago.”
“So you want to hire Dad to find him.”
“Well, yes, but how much does it cost?”
“Depends. There’s not like a flat rate or anything, but Dad’s not cheap.”
“I quit my job.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Evan said I didn’t need to work, that he’d take care of me.”
“Uh huh. Where does he work?”
“He’s in sales.”
“What’s he selling?”
“Some
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