Hot Streak

“You know their divergent creative impulses,” Allen said with sarcastic emphasis. “They're about to name weapons.”

“Shit. Do I have to do everything?”

“You always have.”

Carey sighed resignedly. “Okay, I'll come back tomorrow morning. Arrange for Jess to be ready to take off at nine.”

“Great! No offense, boss,” Allen quickly added.

“One more thing.” Carey hesitated.

“I already sent her back to L.A.”

Carey grinned. “That must be why I pay you so well.”

“We try, sir,” Allen replied with mock modesty, “to earn our princely stipend.”

Dinner that night was orchestrated by Carrie, newly christened “Pooh” to avoid the confusion of their names. Winnie the Pooh was her favorite stuffed toy from babyhood, and when the discussion turned to their similar names, the decision was simple.

“Some people call me Charles,” Carey had offered in the event Carrie preferred her name.

“I want a nickname,” his daughter declared from her spot between her parents in the front seat of the car.

“Should we discuss this?” Molly asked in that parental tone that always reminded her immediately after hearing her voice of a child psychologist dealing with a firebug toddler.

“I want a nickname. I want Pooh like a cousin to Winnie.”

Molly looked at Carey over their daughter's head and lifted one brow in inquiry. “Sounds good to me,” he said, his smile amiable.

“No discussion?” Molly had a tendency to over-verbalize. Carey, on the other hand, made decisions swiftly with a minimum of words. Apparently, his daughter did, as well. “Are we agreed?”

“Is this a town meeting?” Carey teased.

“Call me Pooh.”

“It's not a town meeting,” Carey declared with the faintest of smiles, experiencing instant bonding with his determined young daughter.

Carey had never seen a Chucky Cheese; the din was overwhelming. With the musical life-size toys and the raucous shouting of scores of children, conversation was impossible. So they ate their pizza while the decibel levels of a rock concert exploded around them. When they'd finished, Pooh took Carey into the game room next door. He was astonished with her expertise on the machines that lined the walls and formed aisles in the center of the enormous room.

“You must come here often,” he said, watching her coordinate two levers with superb reflexes as a careening car went down the computer-style mountain road without crashing into a losing score on the screen. “You're pretty good.”

“There's games in the hotel down the street from us. Mom lets me go there sometimes.” Her concentration was focused on the lighted screen. “Wanna try?” She had accepted Carey with a casual friendship he found endearing, and he marveled at the assurance she exuded. She seemed to take the changes in her life in stride.

“I'll play this one next to you so you can keep racking up your score. Wouldn't want to upset the record you've got going.” And for the next few minutes, father and daughter coordinated hand and eye, and set the machines humming.

Carrie ran out of tokens first, and she calmly surveyed Carey as he decimated a space army on the colored screen battle field. “You're pretty good yourself,” she said with the calm delivery he found so surprising in a young child. Highlighted by the fluorescent green from his game screen, her pale hair framed her face in an ethereal, surreal quality, like an underwater image. The other-worldly image was so vivid, it took him a moment to respond to her question. “I had lots of practice,” he finally said, remembering another surreal world of black violence and red death, remembering the base camps in Vietnam where playing the machines filled the endless morning hours when you were too hung-over to drink. He'd lived on Coke and Hostess Ho Hos those mornings, and had become proficient at the machines. For the next hour he and Carrie tested the two rows of electronic games nearest the dining room, enjoying a camaraderie based on mutual skill.

As they drove home, Molly said, “A person could feel like a third wheel real easy with you two pinball wizards doing your stuff.”

“Teach you how,” they both said in unison, and then laughed at their simultaneous response.

“I don't have time, although,” Molly said with a smile, “I'd be thrilled to learn, otherwise.”

Father and daughter looked at each other and raised their dark eyebrows. The dual effect was a devastating mirror image, and Molly wondered for the dozenth time why she hadn't realized Carrie's paternity years ago. They were so alike: pale-haired, dark-eyed and with smiles that began as grins, then grew into laughter. They'd have to tell her soon, she thought, but not tonight. It was too sudden. She wanted them to get to know each other better before the major announcement was made, although there was no denying their compatibility.

“Mom, you know you hate those games.”

“I never said that.”

“Did so.”

“Well, I suppose I might have said it's not my favorite type of amusement.”

“Right after Ping-Pong, you always said.”

“She doesn't like Ping-Pong, either?” Carey inquired in mock affront.

“Hates it,” Carrie replied with finality. “Mom's not much good at any games,” she added, matter-of-factly, in the way young children had of explaining adult idiosyncracies.

“Oh, your mom likes some games,” Carey said, catching Molly's gaze over their daughter's head.

“She does?” Carrie asked, her dark eyes intent on Carey. “What?” In her memory, her mother had rather systematically rejected all games, period.

And while Molly blushed, Carey replied, “Big people games.”

“Oh, you mean like bridge and backgammon?”

“Don't you dare,” Molly quietly warned as Carey's grin widened.

At her mother's warning, Carrie's gaze went from Carey to Molly and back again. “You mean mushy stuff,” she declared.

“Could we change the subject?” Molly said, not as unflappable as her daughter.

“What do you want for your birthday, Pooh?” Carey inquired, angelic innocence prominent in his expression.

Carrie's interest was immediately diverted. “How did you know my birthday's coming?”

“Er-” the twinkle in his eyes was boyish and lighthearted, reminding Molly of the young man she'd once known before the “international director persona” had taken precedence. “Your mom and I discussed your birthday last night.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Carrie's head swung back toward Carey. “Can you get me a date with Chachi from Happy Days?”

“Charlotte Louise, for heaven's sake!”

“Something smaller, huh?”

“I'm sorry, Carey, I thought I'd taught her some manners.” Molly's apology was part rueful but only mildly serious; after nine years she was familiar with her daughter's frankness.

“Hey, it's all right. I asked her, and it doesn't have to be small at all, Pooh, only not Chachi just yet,” he said with conspiratorial delight. “I don't think your mom would approve of you dating. Why don't you make a list when you get home and we can avoid the frown forming on your mother's face.”

Tardily remembering her manners, Carrie said, “You don't have to buy me anything. I mean, if Mom-”

“I want to buy you a present, and your mother doesn't mind. Do you?” he said with unmistakable emphasis.

Molly sighed, knowing she was the only voice of moderation between father and daughter's cheerful insistence. “No, I don't mind, but I'd like Carrie to-”

“Remember her manners. Okay. Make the list a polite list, Pooh,” he said kindly, “and everyone will be happy.”