“Whoa. I changed my mind about the FBI. You must already be moonlighting as an agent for the CIA.”
He propped one of his crutches against the counter and opened the door of the barely warm oven. Holding a dishtowel, he lifted his plate off the rack. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, just the way I like it. When it’s brown it’s cookin’ and when it’s black it’s done.”
Amber set the salad bowl on the table and removed the plastic wrap. “Marla made me eat all my salad.”
“How’d she manage that miraculous feat?”
Amber wrinkled her nose. “She’s rilly bossy.”
He laughed. Yes, Marla was “rilly bossy.” Definitely a take-charge woman. A woman he liked more every day, and who apparently had some interest in him, or why had she wormed so much information out of his daughter?
He shook his head when he thought of the monumental paperwork battle required to finally get his divorce from Francine. She’d deserted them, and he hadn’t seen or heard a peep from her in nearly six years. He’d spent a fortune on all the legal advertising and hoops he’d had to jump through. For all he knew, she was dead by now.
The way Francine liked to live in the fast lane, he wouldn’t be surprised. He’d been totally seduced by her wild child ways in those days. Their first explosive sexual encounter had been her idea, and he’d enjoyed every down-and-dirty minute of it. What a dumb kid he’d been back then.
“If I eat all my salad will you let me have some ice cream, nurse? I promise to clean up my act.”
Amber pursed her lips with skepticism. “You always promise.” She scowled across the table, arms crossed in front of her. “Okay, but this is the last time. I rilly mean it, Daddy.”
Chapter Six
“Dang it!” Marla was halfway home when she remembered she’d forgotten her promise to Charlene to return to their parent’s house after she met with the Wylands. She’d left her cell phone in the car while at Dwayne’s. Her mother and sister had probably left a gazillion hysterical voicemails by now. She looked at the screen and groaned.
“What am I going to do, Skippy?” She sighed and made an abrupt U-turn in the middle of the block to retrace her route. Might as well face the music.
Her parent’s house appeared quiet when she pulled in the driveway. Charlene’s car wasn’t there. Gritting her teeth against the expected meltdown, she picked up Skipper, went to the front door, and pushed the bell.
Her dad opened the door. “Hi, honey. Come on in.” He stepped aside and held the door open.
“Hi, Dadley. Is Mom here? She’s probably ready to kill me.”
“No, and I doubt it.” He took Skipper from her and let the dog lap his face. “Why would you think that?”
“She called me in a fury over your birthday party. I got the impression you’d soon be divorced or she’d be a widow. She said you told her you wouldn’t come to your own party if John Dempsey couldn’t bring his wife. What a mess.”
Bradley Danaher pointed to a chair next to his recliner. “Take a load off.” He took a seat and set Skip in his lap, held up a glass of Irish whiskey and raised his eyebrows.
“No, thanks. Where is Mom? Where’s Char? I want to get it over with.”
“They were smiling and yapping when they went out shopping this afternoon, then they called and said they were adding dinner and a movie. Your mother seemed reconciled to my ultimatum. I think it took her all of five minutes to get over it.”
“You gave her an ultimatum?” Dadley never gave ultimatums. “Wow! I almost got an ulcer on the way over here.” Marla stuck her legs straight out in front of her, slid down in the chair, and dropped her head back. “I’ll have a wee dram after all, Dad. Those two are making me old before my time.”
Bradley chuckled and poured Jameson’s into a heavy crystal glass and handed it to her. “You were born grown up, my darling girl. You’re an old soul.” He tipped his glass at her. “Slainte!”
Marla smiled at her dad and took a sip. “Good health to you too, Dadley.”
They sat in companionable silence. Marla gazed around the room. Sil, a gifted decorator, made their home elegant and inviting. A fragrance of lemon lingered in the air, and a wave of nostalgia for her childhood engulfed Marla’s chest. What childhood? Like Dadley said, she was born grown up. She must have popped out of the womb wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase, and with a schedule for managing her parents and siblings. Somebody had to do it.
“Dad? How long have you known John Dempsey?”
“About forty-five years. Since we were in high school. I thought you knew that.”
Marla nodded. “I did. I guess my question is…why were you and Johnny friends in the first place? You’re really not very much alike.”
Bradley chuckled and set down his now-empty glass. “Our differences attracted us to each other I suppose, but we started out as rivals for your mother’s affections. Both of us panted after her as only two sixteen-year-olds could.”
Marla stared at her father. “What! You and John both wanted to date Mom?” John Dempsey chasing her mother? That was the last thing she expected to hear.
He poured himself another tot of whiskey and held up the bottle. She shook her head, so he put the stopper back in, took a sip, and continued. “Date is the polite way to say what we wanted.”
Heat crept from her chest, to her neck, and her scalp blazed. “I never knew that. I can’t imagine Sil
