Page 9 of Pleasure Island

Christopher made a face. “No, I’ll pass. I’ll take a good dry red any day.” The server appeared, and my father pointed to my glass, asking if I wanted more. I nodded, and he placed his order too. Once we were alone, I wracked my brain thinking for something to talk about that didn’t involve why he was worried about my safety, or that might lead to some row between us.

My father and I, we were like oil and water.

Everything to him was money, money, money. I should appreciate the fact that he loved me – and I did. But I was more like a second thought to him.

What came first and last with my father was the pursuit of the almighty dollar.

Determined not to let myself brood, I reached for my menu and opened it. We tried a different restaurant almost every time we went out – at my insistence. If my father had his way, he’d stay with the five-star joint he’d taken me to for my graduation.

He was something of a stick in the mud, especially in some ways.

It was little wonder the two of us had so much trouble seeing eye to eye.

“You’re upset with me.”

His quiet voice had me raising my head, and I met his eyes levelly. I suppressed a sigh but couldn’t quite manage a smile for him either. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m upset, Dad. I just…” Waving a hand between the two of us, I said, “We can’t ever quite seem to hit a niche. It was like we lost the ability to really connect when Mom died.”

His mouth tightened, and he looked away. “I do try,” he said, finally looking back at me.

“I know. So, do I.” Closing the menu, I reached over and touched his hand. “So, we’ll keep on doing it. But…Dad?”

He gave me an appraising look.

“I don’t want to get dragged into any of your messes, okay?”

He squeezed my fingers. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

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