“You really don’t want me in there,” I joke.
“Things have been off with my dad.”
“I can handle uncomfortable family dynamics. Trust me.”
I never got to know Daisy’s dad the way I knew her mom. Her mom welcomed me over all the time, came to events at school that even my parents didn’t attend, and more than anything, she believed in me. When I saw Daisy’s parents together, her mom was always the more talkative one—the one who laughed louder, the one wanting to connect. Plus, half the time, Mr. Johnson wasn’t in the picture.
Daisy hasn’t reached for her seatbelt. She had such a steadfast relationship with her mom, and it can’t be easy to see her dad remarry.
“How can I help tonight?” I rest a hand on her thigh. Her eyes dart directly to the point of contact. Her skin is buttery soft.
“Just be yourself. We’ll eat, we’ll chat, and hopefully we’ll be back in this car before Stacey’s even left The Mirage for the night.”
Daisy’s dad greets us at the door, and he’s exactly as I remember him—stout, jolly, and on the quiet side. Going in for a handshake with him sends a pang of missing Daisy’s mom straight into my heart.
He introduces Oona to me, a petite woman who is the human equivalent of a hummingbird. She cranes her neck to smile up at me before wrapping me in a bony hug.
“Come in, come in,” she urges, waving us into the house. The place appears modest from the outside, but they definitely splurged on furniture. They have a sitting room filled with ornate art, a small library of travel books, maps, and an entire shelf of birding gear—and the dining area has an impressive mid-century modern table that looks like real teak. A hallway storage desk has photos resting on top, many of Oona and Daisy’s dad, but one of Daisy and some other family members.
“When Daisy said she was bringing someone tonight, I couldn’t believe it.” Oona turns to Daisy and pats her on the shoulder. Daisy doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t soften with affection either. “You never bring guests. Does she, Pooks?”
He barely has a moment to nod before Oona continues.
“Well, I made plenty. Lots to eat. Are you allergic to anything?”
I shake my head. “I’m an adventurous eater.”
“Oh, I love that.” Oona beams with a smile, but it falters when she sees Daisy gripping the handrail up the two steps from the foyer. “You poor thing. Need help?”
“Just taking it one step at a time.”
“Here,” I say, swooping my arms under her to do a fireman’s carry into the living room. Oona gasps with joy. I wink at Daisy, and she snorts out a laugh, which she then pretends is a coughing fit.
Sitting on the sofa, Oona asks me a billion questions. I’m happy to keep the attention off of Daisy. I get what Daze was talking about—Oona’s a lot. She doesn’t seem malicious, though, just enthusiastic. She conducts a mild interrogation until a timer dings in the other room.
“It needs to cool, and I have to set the table,” she says, standing. “Dearie, can you show Max the rest of the house? Pick up some wine from the garage while you’re at it. Give me and Daisy some girl time. Or—” She rubs her hands together. “If you’d rather go with your dad, that’s fine.”
Daisy smiles and says she doesn’t mind. It’s the same smile I saw her use with Mr. Hollis—polite and warm, but restrained. Definitely not the kind when she’s laughing at a joke I told her or when we catch eyes from across the room.
Her dad leads me on a tour through their home. Compared to Oona’s mile-a-minute talking pace, Richard seems like the most laid-back dude in California. He shuffles through the house, pointing out an interesting art print or the unique aspects of the architecture as he goes.
“How are your folks?” he asks as we head into the garage.
“I’ve had a lot going on since returning to Harlow, so we haven’t spent a ton of time together, but, uh, good.”
“I barely see Daisy sometimes, what with all the hotel stuff. What about your sister? Ava’s her name?”
“Yeah. She’s killing it at school. Setting out to become a lawyer.”
“Bet your parents are pretty pleased ’bout that.”
“How’d you guess?” I say with a wry smile.
“They were always tough on you, weren’t they?”
I definitely underestimated Daisy’s dad and his memory of me.
“Here, whaddaya like to drink?” he asks. “White, sparkling?” We walk to one corner of the garage where he’s constructed some bottle storage and made space for a wine fridge. “We’ve got a bit of everything. Daisy usually goes with something like a Sauv blanc.”
