For once I was glad to be running behind when I got h
ome, if only as an excuse to grab a few minutes by myself. One shower, shirt, and blazer later, I was at least looking fit for public consumption.
By the time I was sitting down at my favorite restaurant, with my family chattering and laughing all around me, I was even starting to feel halfway human again. David Yarboro was on piano that night; I had a nice glass of pinot noir in front of me; and for just a little while, I could pretend that my biggest problem was deciding between the salmon and the New York strip with Kinkead’s Scotch whiskey sauce.
Life was good. It really was.
After everyone ordered dinner, I pushed back my chair and stood up with my glass. It got some glances from around the room, and I noticed Jannie looking a little mortified—but if embarrassing your kids isn’t one of the privileges of being a dad, I don’t know what is.
“I’d like to make a toast,” I said.
“White, wheat, or rye?” Nana joked, and got a laugh all around the table. My grandmother reads me as well as anyone. I’m pretty sure she could tell I needed a boost that night.
“To our guest of honor,” I said. “Damon, you make me proud, every single day. We’re going to miss you like crazy while you’re gone, but in the meantime—here’s to you. Here’s to a great quarter at Chapin. And most of all, here’s to summer vacation, when we get to see you again.”
“Here’s to summer vacation!” the kids chorused back.
“Close enough,” Bree said, and we all clinked glasses around the table.
After that, Damon stood up to make a toast of his own. I could see all too well that my oldest boy, standing there at the head of the table in a jacket and tie, wasn’t really a boy anymore. It didn’t help that he was fifteen but looked twenty.
“Here’s to Ava,” he said, looking right at her. “I know you and I haven’t really spent that much time together, but I just want to say, welcome to the family.”
“Welcome to the family!” everyone echoed back.
I looked over at Ava and was a little shocked to see her grinning from ear to ear. Ever since the school lottery, she’d been scowling her way through the day, and spending long stretches of time alone in her room. Now it was like someone had turned on the lights for the first time in a long time.
And that’s why my boy Damon is a star. With just a few words, he managed to get something out of Ava that I’d barely been able to do in four months. He may be the quietest of my kids, but that’s the thing about the quiet ones. When they do speak up, it’s usually for a good reason.
Or even a great one.
Suddenly, my eyes were stinging and the room went a little fuzzy. I never even saw it coming. It was like the whole day just washed over me in one big wave—all that stress on the way in, and everything I was so grateful for on the way out.
“Daddy?” Ali leaned over and looked up into my face. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Well, maybe just a little.” I pulled him up onto my lap and put my arms around his little string-bean body. “But they’re happy tears,” I said.
“Don’t mind him, children,” Nana told everyone. “Despite appearances, Mr. Dragonslayer over here is just an old softie at heart.”
“True that,” I answered.
Then Nana gave me a wink and raised her glass to make one more toast. “Here’s to old softie, who can cry all he likes, but he’s still paying for dinner!”
CHAPTER
17
RON GUIDICE GOT HOME AROUND TEN THIRTY THAT NIGHT. AFTER GETTING up at five, and crisscrossing the city all day, he was exhausted. Still, there was plenty of work to do. It was probably going to be another all-nighter.
Just inside the door of his simple Cape house in Reston, he stepped out of his shoes. It was an old habit from growing up in New Hampshire, with its long winters and subsequent mud seasons. He set his Timberlands in the rubber tray by the door, alongside Emma Lee’s little sneakers and his mother’s old slip-ons.
“Hey, Mom, I’m home,” he called out.
Lydia Guidice jerked awake on the couch, with a chubby hand to her chest. She’d been sacked out in front of NCIS, or CSI, or SVU—whatever it was. Guidice could never tell one of those shows from the other.
“Good Lord, you scared the bejesus out of me,” Lydia said. “I still can’t get used to that beard of yours. Makes you look like some kind of terrorist.”
“Uh-huh.” Guidice leaned into the fridge and pulled out a Bud. “Emma Lee eat okay?”