Page 21 of Scouting the Single Dad

When I walk out of the bathroom to tell Benny to change out of her wet clothes into dry ones, I notice a wicker basket and begin rummaging through it.

It’s a welcome basket filled with fruit and other shit. Apples. Bananas. Several leaf-shaped cookies, a bag of maple candies tied together with an orange plaid ribbon.

Fuzzy socks, two pairs. Adult doodle book and gel pens.

An envelope with a Welcome Fielder Family in bold, cursive letters and a cartoon drawing of an axe.

I glance from the basket to my daughter, who’s leaning against the balcony rails, gazing at the horizon.

Our room has a clear, unobstructed view of the lake.

Benny is transfixed by the view, like a tiny weather reporter. The lake spreads out in full, smug high definition. Docks stitched like notches, lights waking up along the shore, a lone kayak slicing gray water like a pencil line. If the town is only a mile long, it’s at least scenic about it.

I crack the envelope. Inside: a handwritten welcome letter on a thick, cream monogrammed card. The cursive is neat, tidy, with exclamations peppering the note.

Hello Hayes and Benny!

Welcome to Star Lake and the annual Fall Festival. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve agreed to come and participate in the festivities, which will help make this year a smashing success! Please reach out if you need anything or have any special requests.

Tomorrow during the festival, I will have you in a special booth so you don’t have to walk among the crowd and cause a stir and possible foot-traffic pile up. We’ve assigned an assistant for you. June will be available all of Saturday. I will make introductions then.

In the meantime, here is my cell number, do not hesitate to use it.

411-555-8960

I’ve taken the liberty of making you a dinner reservation at Velvet & Vine Supper Club at 6PM—but feel free to dine elsewhere in town, compliments of the Star Lake Fall Fest Committee.

Best,

Layla Monroe

I grunt as my eyes skim it again. Before I can set the card back in the basket, Benny is up my asshole, snatching it away and reading it out loud.

“Velvet and Vine—ooh la la!” She clicks her tongue, throwing her wet self on the bed. “Sounds delicious.”

“Sounds like a place that requires shirts without cartoon frogs,” I say, teasing because I know for certain it’s a T-shirt she packed. “And shoes that aren’t squeaking from water.”

She flips onto her back, legs bicycling in the air. “Can we go? Please, Dad? I’ve never eaten at a supper club before.”

Yes, she has. She just didn’t know it.

As my sidekick, Benny has eaten in more high-end restaurants than most adults—team banquets, sponsor dinners, and the ESPY Awards since I never have a date. It’s either my daughter or my parents, sometimes all three.

“Here’s the deal,” I say, thumbing toward her suitcase. “‘Supper club’ is just a fancy way to say ‘restaurant that has small snacks,’ like pickles and cheesy beer dip. Same rules apply for behavior.”

She nods. “Got it.”

“No ordering the forty-two-dollar mac and cheese and only taking two bites because you think it’s too creamy.”

Benny clutches her chest. “I would never.”

She would and she has.

“Here are the rules for tonight,” I add, ticking them off. “Do not call the olives ‘snack marbles.’ Do not go crazy on the complimentary bread—save room for dinner. And if the menu says ‘market price,’ do not order it. Period.”

She waits for more.

“Use your manners.”