I want answers, but I don’t want to offendhim. “This is a hard question, but it’s important to me.”
“Please, ask.”
“Did you pay for all those medical bills as afavor to my father?”
For a fleeting moment I swear I see theAhin his eyes. He hadn’t known why I’d asked him to lunch.Apparently, my father hadn’t shared.
“No, Theresa. Not at all. You are aware thatwe are able to sit here and discuss Sofia’s full and happy lifebecause ofyou. You took a bullet formydaughter.There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Well, shit. There’s blue fire in his eyes. Heabsolutely means every word he said.
“I’m not being humble when I tell you it wasinstinct to protect her.”
“And I thank God for you every day.”
The waiter comes to the table, and we bothorder tea and Bento boxes. The Don’s differs from mine in itsabsence of any fried foods. No surprise there. He doesn’t look thisgood at his age – I’m guessing mid-fifties – by being careless withhis eating habits.
“Last question.”
He nods. Once.
“I’ll preface this by saying, I didn’t knowSubstantial Food Imports was your company until Thanksgiving.” Ipause not because I’m afraid to ask, but now I’m not sure I want tohear the answer. “How did you come to hire my father?”
Without hesitation he says, “We had mutualacquaintances in the food industry.”
Well, that’s open-ended.
“Did you know why he was looking for ajob?”
“So not the last question.”
“A follow-up.”
“I’m not avoiding the answer, but I thinkit’s best you talk to him about that. It’s not my place tosay.”
The Don and I put our napkins on our laps asour tea and miso soup arrive.
I want to remind him that not two minutes agohe said he’d do anything for me, but that’s churlish, and he’sright. It’s not his place to say. This is family business. Myfamily’s business, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I seeanother trip to Avon in my near future.
Over lunch we talk about how I’m building mypractice back up, and he tells Christmas decoration stories thathave me laughing. He pays for lunch, of course, and after we put onour coats, he grasps my upper arms, and then he bends down andkisses one cheek, the other, then back to the first.
As he turns to go, I grab his hand and say,“Thank you. Truly.”
He nods once, gives my hand a light squeeze,then walks away. Tommy, who has been sitting at a table in thefront by the window, gets up and steps in front of his Don, thenholds the door open as he heads outside into a typical drizzly,gray, late fall Connecticut day.
***
Early in the evening I call my dad on hiscell. I don’t want to go to Avon. I don’t want to talk to him inthat house. It reminds me of a giant mausoleum.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Is everything all right, honey?”
“Yeah. Sure. We didn’t have much timetogether on Thanksgiving, and I thought we could meet for lunch onSaturday.”
He doesn’t say anything for a couple ofbeats. “Only you and me?” he asks.
“Yep. Father daughter time. We haven’t donethat for years.”
