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And when Dale came over and told me it was time to go to dinner, I couldn’t believe it. Had we really talked so long? It had gone by in a blink. I tucked the pictures back into my purse, but I let Ben keep the one he asked for—the Shirley Temple snapshot. And then Ben put his big arms around me and hugged me goodbye. And for the first time in my life I called someone, “Dad,” and meant it.
And even when Dale insisted, I still didn’t want to let him go.
CHAPTER NINE
“I just don’t get why he didn’t try to find you before now.” Dale parked the car in the Olive Garden parking lot, pocketing the keys. Dale still didn’t own a car so we were driving my old Dodge Dart.
“When my mom took off, he says at first he was relieved.”
“Nice.” Dale opened the door for me and I stepped in, my stomach growling. I’d only had a scone and a hot chocolate all day and now I was starving. I could smell garlic and onions. I was suddenly wishing we’d called ahead because all the people waiting in the lobby were standing between me and my dinner.
“Come on, he was just a kid—younger than us,” I reminded him. “Would you want to have to take care of a newborn at that age?”
Dale didn’t answer. He was looking over the crowd, trying to find Aimee and Matt.
“Once he got a little older and thought about looking, he couldn’t find us,” I explained, hanging onto his sleeve as he weaved through the crowd.
“He seemed to find you pretty easy,” Dale countered. “Took him just one afternoon.”
“Well he agreed to the blood test,” I snapped.
Dale stopped, looking back at me. “You asked him?”
“I figured I’d better, before you brought it up,” I said, sticking out my tongue.
He snorted, taking my hand and leading me toward the bar.
“I don’t get why it was so hard to find you before. Didn’t your mom tell her family where she was going?”
“She didn’t see them much.” I shrugged. “One of my first memories is of grandmother asking for our address so she could send me a birthday gift and my mother refusing. I was so mad at her. I just wanted my birthday present.”
“Why didn’t she want them to know where she was?” Dale asked, brow knitted. He was still trying to find Matt and Aimee but I was beginning to think they weren’t here yet. “My grandfather used to beat her. That’s what my mom told me.”
“Why does this not surprise me?” Dale muttered. He stopped, turning around and putting his hands on my hips. “What did Dr. Jarvis say about that when you told him that?”
“You know exactly what he said.” I rolled my eyes. “And he also said he was proud of me for breaking that abusive cycle.”
“With me,” he replied smugly. Then he leaned over, grabbing my ass and whispering, “Because as often as I want to spank you, I refrain.”
“We still have time,” I reminded him, laughing as I pulled away. “We haven’t had kids yet.”
“There will be no spanking in our house,” he proclaimed. “Unless it’s me finally spanking you—”
“Hey guys!” I waved to Aimee and Matt. They were already here, sitting at the bar. My stomach seemed to understand that meant we would get to eat sooner and grumbled loudly.
Turned out we were twenty minutes late, which was perfect because the hostess called us before Dale and I could even find seats. The hostess seated us at a booth and the waitress came to take our drink orders. Aimee had pictures back from their honeymoon. We’d already heard about how blue the water was and about the giant tortoise they’d seen when they were snorkeling and how burnt Aimee got the first day because she forgot to put on sunscreen, but now we got to hear about it all over again, with visual aids.
“At least I didn’t get all sunburned before our wedding night,” she said sheepishly.
“Close enough!” Matt protested. “She wouldn’t let me touch her for three days. Three days!”
“I was beet red.” Aimee sighed. “I think I was redder than my hair. I made him keep going down the hall to get more ice for the bathtub.”
“Just what I wanted to do on my honeymoon,” Matt interjected through a mouthful of breadstick.
“My mom even warned me. She put sunblock in my purse for pete’s sake.”Aimee slapped her forehead. “And I still forgot!”
“You were just too caught up in being Mrs. Aimee Green,” I teased, taking a sip of my Diet Coke and wishing the waitress would hurry up with my Tour of Italy. I couldn’t wait to eat my lasagna—even if it wasn’t quite as good as John’s homemade.
