He was sitting in her tiny kitchen, drinking coffee, probably his fifth or sixth cup of the day. He had driven up from San Jose to Marin to surprise her. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death, but they would never speak of that. It would be there, the idea of it, in the air between them, all day. They would talk about her fancy job at the prep school, his lousy grocery store, her old best friend Emily who lives next to her old ma, his middle-of-the-night heart murmur, but they would never talk about her late mother, his wife.
“I don’t have time, Dad. I’m working too hard.”
“A young girl shouldn’t work so hard.”
“I like it,” she told him, sitting across the table from him. “I
“Love. Love is for boyfriends, not jobs.”
He looked old, her father, his hair mostly gone, his skin mottled with age spots, his face jowly. She calculated: thirty-five years older than she was-and just ten years older than Simon. Impossible, she thought. Simon was fit and firm, though when he slept she saw that his skin relaxed in a way that surprised her. It seemed to let go of his bones and suddenly he was vulnerable, soft. Something about that moved her, as if he too needed someone to watch over him.
But her father was old and cranky and out of touch with her world. Simon didn’t seem old to her. True, he was a world apart from the boys she usually fell for-the long-haired, rumpled, mumbling boys. The boys who come too quickly. The boys who throw on yesterday’s clothes. The boys who live in basement apartments and smell of pot and beer.
“Are you taking care of yourself, Dad? You still go for walks every day?”
“You think I sit around and do nothing? You think I’m getting fat?”
“You’re not getting fat, Dad. You look great.”
“You’re full of shit.”
She smiled. This was what her parents did, this squabbling. He looked pleased as punch, as if he’d just flexed his muscles for an admiring crowd.
“I worry about you,” he said.
“You shouldn’t worry,” she said gently. “I take care of myself.”
“So who’s the boyfriend?”
“There’s no boyfriend, Dad. I told you.”
“You got any cake? Coffee cake or something?”
Josie stood up and walked to the pantry. She took a loaf of whole wheat bread and sliced a couple of pieces, put them in the toaster. While she gathered jam, butter, plates, and knives, her dad told her about Emily’s new boyfriend, a lawyer in San Jose.
“Good for Emily,” Josie said, placing the toast in front of her dad.
“You and Emily used to be best friends. You couldn’t go anywhere without that girl.”
“That was a long time ago, Dad.”
“You call this coffee cake?”
“It’s all I have.”
“I should have told you I was coming. You could have bought me a cake.”
“I would have bought you a cake, Dad,” Josie said, smiling.
“I like a little surprise sometimes. But this is the price I pay.” He held up the whole wheat toast.
“Put jam on,” Josie urged him. “It needs a little something.”
“So what happened with you and Emily?”
“Nothing, Dad. Life. We grew up. I moved away, she stayed home. People change.”
“I don’t change.”
“Thank God for that.”
“You making fun of me?”
“Never.”
He smiled and she thought of her mother, sitting next to him, both of them short and a little fat, both of them fighting over every little thing, smacking each other’s arms like some married version of the Three Stooges. Josie was always embarrassed by them, embarrassed by her love for them, and then, when her mother died, she yearned for the noise of them.
“You could have a girlfriend,” Josie said gently. “It’s enough time.”
“Ha,” her father said. “You think there’s another Franny out there somewhere?”
“No.”
“One of a kind.”
“I know. Maybe the next one is a different kind.”
“There’s no next one.”
“You might try.”
“You want Emily to ask her nice boyfriend if he has any friends at the law firm for you?”
“No, Dad.”
The phone rang. She leapt at it.
“Hello.”
“I miss you.”
“My dad’s visiting. Can I call you later?”
“No. I’m headed into the meeting. I just wanted to tell you-”
He didn’t say anything. She waited. She watched her dad, who fiddled unhappily with his toast.
“Will he be there tonight?”
“No.”
“I’ll come by.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Hey, Whitney. My dad wants me to start dating. You know any eligible single guys to fix me up with?”
“Don’t.”
“Okay. Give it some thought. He’s right. I should have a boyfriend. I should fall in love with someone and bring him to meet my dad.”
Her dad nodded, smiling, his lips smeared with boysenberry jam.
“I wanted to tell you I’m falling in love with you,” Simon said.
“That’s crazy,” Josie said. “You must know some guys. The good ones can’t all be married.”
“Stop it.”
“My father would like you,” Josie tells Nico. They’re standing side by side, gazing at a photo of Marilyn, naked, a sheer scarf draped over her body.
“Not your mother? It’s usually the mothers I charm.”
“My mother’s dead.”
She moves to the next photograph on the gallery wall-Marilyn taking a long, lazy drag on her cigarette.
“Lung cancer. Eight years ago. She never smoked a cigarette in her life.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My father smoked. Quit the day she was diagnosed. A bit late, though.”
“You were so young.”
“I’ll tell you a story I’ve never told anyone. About my mother’s death.”
He looks pleased. This man is way too easy.
“That last winter my parents were in Palm Springs, staying with my aunt for a month. I flew down there a couple of days before my mom died and then flew back with my dad. They had my mother’s body flown up-Dad wanted her buried at a cemetery near their house. I had packed my mother’s clothes to have her buried in. When we were waiting for our luggage at SFO, standing in front of the…” Josie stops. She is suddenly there, waiting for the bags, no longer telling a story. It had been sweltering hot in Palm Springs and now it was frigid, even in the airport. Her coat was packed in her suitcase and she stood there, teeth chattering, waiting for the bags to
