Page 142 of Smooth Sailing

We did, but I did it shakily due to Dad acting like Hendrick’s was priceless.

I mean, he lived in a seven thousand square foot pad in Paradise Valley, he could afford better than Hendrick’s, even if Hendrick’s was great.

“This is Harlan,” I said, indicating Hugger with a weird, restless flick of my hand. “Harlan McCain. Harlan, this is my dad. Nolan Armitage.”

Dad offered a hand. “Harlan.”

Hugger took it. “Nolan.”

“Let’s get in and get you some drinks,” Dad invited when they broke.

As we followed him, I noticed Dad had added a few pieces to his collection of art, but other than that, the home I shared with him when we moved into it when I was fifteen hadn’t changed much.

We hit the back family room, which was close to the kitchen, and on the other side was the dining room, all of which had views to the beautifully landscaped courtyard and the equally beautifully landscaped pool in the backyard, and Dad offered, “What can I get you to drink?”

I wanted to mainline vodka, so I said, “A dirty martini.”

Dad nodded and turned to Hugger.

“I’m drivin’, so nothin’, unless you got a pop,” he said.

“I’ve got Coke and Sprite,” Dad told him.

“Coke’d do me,” Hugger replied.

Dad went to the built-in bar, saying, “Make yourselves comfortable.”

God, this was so strange.

I kinda grew up here. This had been my home. And as far as I knew, a person’s childhood home, no matter they moved into it when they were a teenager, and moved out of it still as a teenager, was always their home.

But I felt like a stranger here, and it made it worse when Dad urged me to make myself comfortable.

Hugger pulled me to one of two white couches facing each other perpendicular to an adobe fireplace.

We sat, doing it close at Hugger’s physical command, and Hugger remarked, “Nice house.”

“I’m thinking of downsizing,” Dad said from the bar.

That sorta hurt.

Why did that sorta hurt?

“It’s a lot for one man,” Hugger noted.

“Precisely,” Dad agreed.

Okay, the strange quotient kept climbing, considering Dad hadn’t even roused himself to look askance at a big dude with long hair and an unkempt beard wearing nice jeans and a shirt, but doing this with motorcycle boots.

Dad approached with a fancy tall glass filled with chipped ice and Coke and gave it to Hugger.

“Thanks, man,” Hugger muttered, taking it.

Dad returned to the bar asking, “How did you two meet?”

“In an elevator,” I said quickly, glancing sideways at Hugger.

He was smiling into his Coke.

---