“She was speaking with George and Allison Moore and the next thing she was racing toward the house.”
Racing? In other words, she was running. “What did they say to her?” Fuck. Brent warned me. I glare at my mother. “Or did you say something?”
“Me?” Her palm is at her throat. She can’t believe I’d ask her such a thing. “I said nothing.” For some reason, my mother sounds affronted by my question. Typical.
“Lay off your mother, son. I overheard George ask her something about her last name. If she was any relation to someone named William. I stepped away after that.”
“What? Why?”
At that moment, George and Allison Moore approached me looking concerned, “We’re so sorry we upset your young lady, Hudson. When we heard her name, we wanted to know.”
“Know what?”
“If she was any relation to William Clariday.”
I stare at the pair. I don’t know who that person is. I ask, “Was she?”
“She was. William was her father.”
Was?
George turns to include my parents into the conversation. “William Clariday was the officer who saved our Sonia and our precious granddaughters.”
I’m still not following. And then it hits me. “The carjacking?”
Allison nods. “He was the police officer who intervened. Because of that, Sonia and the girls were able to get away unscathed.”
Except, as I recall, that police officer did not. “Shit.”
My father asks, “How long ago was that, George?”
“Nearly a year ago.”
Handing the champagne flutes to my father, I turn and take off toward the house. I need to find her.
* * *
I’m sittingon a stool in the McAllister’s kitchen when my father walks in. “Did you find her, son?”
“She’s gone.” I searched every square inch of the house. Then I checked my phone. She sent me a text.
Happy-Go-Lucky:Sorry, Hudson. I wasn’t feeling well. I called an Uber so you could stay and enjoy the party.
Enjoy the party?That’s a joke.
“I’m sorry.” My father sits next to me. “She was a lovely young woman.”
“Was?”
“Hudson…” Dad places his hand on my shoulder. “It’s obvious she isn’t one of us, which is unfortunate because it’s apparent, to me at least, that you care for her.”
Hell. Here’s the funny thing.I’mnot one of us. I hadn’t realized that until I saw these people through someone else’s eyes. At least, I don’t want to be one of them: rude and pretentious.
“I like her, Dad. She’s beautiful, kind, and funny.”
“What about strong? Is she strong enough to handle your mother? The Monica Fitzgeralds of the world?”
Interesting. I’ve always seen my father as only focused on things like work and golf, but maybe he’s been paying closer attention than I thought to the people around him. “Why would my future wife need to ‘handle’ my mother? And Monica? That’s my job.”
