Family Ties

Her father was an older version of Jim, heavier but still compact, about my height, with dark hair going gray at the temples. Something about him piqued my interest, a sort of buzzing vitality that age hadn’t diminished. He extended a hand.

“Harold Carmichael,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

I shook his hand firmly and met his eyes, ice blue like Christy’s. “Nice to meet you, s— Mr. Carmichael.”

“Call me Harold.”

“Yes, sir. Harold.”

Christy’s mother was an inch shorter but a few pounds heavier than her daughter. She had blonde hair going slightly gray and eyes the same blue as Jim and Danny’s. She was a small, elegant woman who’d probably been pretty as a girl, but had grown into her beauty as she’d aged. She smiled warmly.

“I’m Anne. Nice to finally meet you, Paul,” she said. “Christine’s told us so much about you.”

“She’s the only one who calls me that,” Christy whispered up at me.

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Thank you, dear, but call me Anne.”

“Okay, Anne. Nice to meet you. Thanks for inviting me to your lovely home.”

“You’re more than welcome. Have you eaten?”

“We had dinner on the plane,” Christy said, “but…”

“You’re hungry again? I’m a bit peckish myself. Why don’t you show Paul where he’ll sleep and then we’ll have a snack.” She smiled at me. “You can take your things through there. I hope you don’t mind the porch. We’re a bit cramped for space. The weather here never gets very cold, though, and it’s actually quite nice out there.”

“Danny said it’s fine,” I fibbed. I picked up my bags and took them out to the porch.

Christy followed and pulled the door closed to give us a moment of privacy.

The screen porch was fairly large, with comfy-looking wicker furniture.

The longer couch was made up as a bed. Danny’s suitcase sat atop it. My

“bed” was a military cot, the old style with a wooden frame. Anne (or someone) had made it up with sheets, a couple of blankets, and a pillow.

She’d even turned down the covers for me.

“Sorry you have to sleep out here,” Christy said. “Every other room in the house is full. Well, except my dad’s office. No one sleeps in there, even though it has a couch and more than enough space. He’s just—”

I kissed her.

She moistened her lips and slowly opened her eyes. “I was chattering,

wasn’t I?”

“Mmm hmm. Relax. I’ll be fine. Yeah, I’m a bit nervous, but your family has been super nice so far.”

“Okay. I’m just worried about my dad. He’s…”

“You’re his only daughter,” I said. “I get it. I’ll do fine.”

She nodded and then smiled up at me shyly. “Will you kiss me again?”

I was happy to. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

“Good. Now, we should get back inside before they figure out what we’re up to.”

I followed her in.

“I hope you like your bunk,” her father said. “It isn’t a five-star hotel, but it’s clean and dry.”

“It’s very nice, sir. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” he said automatically. “I’m just Harold at home. Would you like a drink?”

“Um… sure.”

“Why don’t we step into my office.”

Both Christy and her mother looked at us, Christy with surprise and worry, her mother with forbearance.

I realized I was about to get the “What are your intentions…?” grilling.

“Don’t keep him too long, dear,” Anne said to him. “He’s had a long trip.

He and Christine probably want to relax a bit.”

“Oh, he looks like a sturdy young man.” He gestured for me to precede him.

I’ll be fine, I said to Christy with a look. I’d thought long and hard about what to say to her father if we had this talk. I’d spent the entire morning playing out scenarios in my head as I ran, rehearsing and revising, and he was living up to the stereotype I’d imagined.

I walked down the hall and felt a shiver of fear and determination. I was about to step into the ring with a smarter, stronger, quicker, tougher opponent. He outclassed me in every way, yet I wasn’t going to back down. I couldn’t. Not now, not ever.

I barely saw the dining room on my right. The front entryway loomed at the end of the wide hallway, and a small part of me wanted to walk straight out and never look back. A double doorway to the right opened onto a formal living room. Harold’s office was on the left, behind a pair of pocket doors.

I turned in and automatically scanned the mahogany-paneled room. His “I love me” wall was full of photos and service plaques and commendations.

The wall on the left was lined with built-in bookshelves behind an antique desk. The front half of the room was arranged as a sitting area, with a leather couch and two matching wingback chairs in front of a large window.

“Have a seat.” He gestured at the couch and slid the doors closed. Then he opened a small liquor cabinet. “Whiskey all right?”

“Yes, thanks.” I sat and took a deep breath. My skin prickled with another surge of adrenaline.

Harold handed me a glass of amber liquid. Then he sat down in one of the chairs. He swirled the ice in his glass, took a sip, and rested it on the arm of the chair.

“I won’t beat around the bush,” he said. “I’d like to know your intentions toward my daughter.”