As I headed to Dad and Meredith's house I was feeling pretty good. I'd managed to make some headway on work and load up my files on my laptop before leaving my house.
I had a plan: eat dinner, explain shit to Dad and Meredith, do both of these things very fast then hole myself in Dad's Den and work until my vision got blurry.
The only flaw in this plan was that I was tired. I'd only had about four good hours of sleep last night so I was running on empty. In my business attention to detail was key and getting fuzzy was not good.
But I figured I had enough mojo left to squeeze in two or three good hours of concentration and, if I got a decent night's sleep, tomorrow I could hit it fully loaded and kick some book-editing ass.
With my plan of attack all sorted out, and my excuse of having to get work done a good one so Dad would cut his lecture short, I was feeling good, totally psyched up for dinner at my parents'.
That was until their house became visible and I saw a dark, metallic gray kickass Camaro parked out front.
I was beginning to understand why people were moved to acts of extreme violence when I parked behind the Camaro.
Even so, as I turned off my car and set the parking brake, I did take a moment to reflect on the fact that it was too bad Hawk and I were so over. I would love to ride in that Camaro.
I got out, rounded the car and grabbed my bag and laptop. Then I walked to the house.
If I was a different kind of woman, in other words I didn't have my mother's blood in my veins, I would have walked to the house slowly, considering my options, calming myself, building a plan of attack.
I did not do this. I stomped up to the house, opened the door, encountered a wave of strong garlic smells and stomped in.
My parents lived in a big house on a slight rise. Stairs dead ahead leading to a landing with a big window. Huge living room to the left that had a small den off of it at the front of the house, another small conservatory-like space behind the den also off the living room. Enormous kitchen to the right with a big area for the dining room table. Half bath and utility to the back of the kitchen that led to a garage. Wall to wall wool carpet throughout except the kitchen which was tiled. Three bedrooms and two baths upstairs, one shared, one off the master suite.
The garden level was an apartment that they'd rented out since I could remember to a woman named Mrs. Mayhew who had three cats. In her tenure in the apartment the cats had rotated due to kitty death, and, once, kitty desertion though Mrs. Mayhew contended it was kitty theft and I was prone to believe her since she treated those cats better than most people treated their children, but Mrs.
Mayhew never rotated. She had been old as the hills for as long as I could remember. She was also a silent neighbor. No loud music, no loud parties, no stream of constant visitors. And best of all, she put up with Ginger because she admired Dad, adored Meredith and cared a lot about me.
Before Ginger and I moved out (I never moved home after graduating U of C - Ginger took longer and graduated high school by what we all considered a minor miracle), there were four bedrooms upstairs but after I moved out Dad had turned one of the smaller bedrooms into a master bath. And Dad, being Dad, and Meredith, being Meredith, meant the whole pad was well-maintained, well-decorated, homey, warm and comfortable.
Like it was right then with a fire burning in the grate of the living room fireplace and candles lit throughout.
But once I'd swept the house with a glance, seeing Dad was entertaining Hawk in the living room and the table was set for four, my gaze swung left again and I took in Dad in his armchair and Hawk on the couch, his back to me, his arm stretched across the back of the couch but his neck twisted to look over his shoulder at me.
I dropped my bags and opened my mouth to shout.