Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,1
this was hasty in the extreme.
The store seamstress, who was assisting a bride up on the dais in front of a huge trifold mirror, turned to look at us. Her dark hair was scraped up into a knot on top of her head, and her face was contoured to perfection. She made me feel like a frump in my Sunday no-makeup face. Which, in my defense, was not my fault, because when I’d left the house to meet Dad, I’d had no idea the address he’d sent was for Brianna’s Bridal. I’d been expecting an urgent care; in fact, I wasn’t sure yet that we didn’t need one.
Glen Martin, Harvard mathematician and all-around nerd dad, had been coerced into participating in a silver-fox bachelor auction for prominent Bostonians by my sister, Annabelle, to help raise funds for Boston Children’s Hospital. I had gone, of course, to support my sister and my dad, and it had mostly been a total snooze fest.
The highlight of the event was when two socialites got into a bidding war over a surgeon, and the loser slapped the winner across the face with her cardboard paddle. Good thing the guy was a cosmetic surgeon, because there was most definitely some repair work needed on that paper cut.
But my father had not been anywhere near that popular with the ladies. No one wanted a mathematician. No one. After several minutes of excruciating silence, following the MC trying to sell the lonely gals on my dad’s attempts to solve the Riemann hypothesis, I had been about to bid on him myself, when Sheri, a petite brunette, had raised her paddle with an initial offer. The smile of gratitude Dad had sent Sheri had been blinding, and the next thing we knew, a flurry of numbered paddles popped up in the air, but Sheri stuck in there and landed the win for $435.50.
“Two weeks is all it took,” Dad said. He shrugged and held out his hands like a blackjack dealer showing he had no hidden cards, chips, or cash.
I stared at him with a look that I’m sure was equal parts shock and horror.
“I know it’s a surprise, Chels, but when—” he began, but I interrupted him.
“Dad, I don’t think a bachelor auction is the basis for a stable, long-lasting relationship.”
“You have to admit it makes a great story,” he said.
“Um . . . no.” I tried to sound reasonable, as if this were a math problem about fitting sixty watermelons into a small car. I spread my hands wide and asked, “What do you even know about Sheri? What’s her favorite color?”
“Pink, duh.” He looked at me with a know-it-all expression more commonly seen on a teenager than a grown-ass man. Hmm.
“All right, who are you, and what have you done with my father?” I wanted to check him for a fever; maybe he had the flu and he was hallucinating.
“I’m still me, Chels,” he said. He gazed at me gently. “I’m just a happy me, for a change.”
Was that it? Was that what was so different about him? He was happy? How could he be happy with a woman he hardly knew? Maybe . . . oh dear. My dad hadn’t circulated much after my mom’s death. Maybe he was finally getting a little something-something, and he had it confused with love. Oh god, how was I supposed to talk about this with him?
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. Parents did this all the time. Surely I could manage it. Heck, it would be great practice if I ever popped out a kid. I opened my eyes. Three women were standing in the far corner in the ugliest chartreuse dresses I had ever seen. Clearly, they were the attendants of a bride who hated them. And that might be me in sparkly pink or gray if I didn’t put a stop to this madness.
“Sit down, Dad,” I said. “I think we need to have a talk.”
He took the seat beside mine and looked at me with the same patience he had when he’d taught me to tie my shoes. I looked away. Ugh, this was more awkward than when my gynecologist told me to scoot down, repeatedly. It’s like they don’t know a woman’s ass needs some purchase during an annual. Focus, Martin!
“I know that you’ve been living alone for several years.” I cleared my throat. “And I imagine you’ve had some needs that have gone unmet.”