8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
“ B ut is it going to be fun?” my dad asks as he sits at his big, ancient, oak work desk. “We need some fun.”
It’s Wednesday and Chelsea, Devon, and I are all standing around my dad’s desk in his office at the shop, discussing the upcoming party we’re having to celebrate the anniversary of Cooper’s.
I’ve had a hard time getting Chase off my mind since we texted yesterday. I never heard from him again. There were quite a few times throughout the day that I found myself picking up my phone to text him back, but I stopped myself. It would be one thing if Chase were a long-lost friend of mine or even an acquaintance. But he’s a stranger. A stranger who now has my mom’s phone number. That’s our only connection. That and now I guess the fact that we’ve both lost our moms.
My mind keeps going back to him, though. Back to his texts. It’s hard to keep myself in the present.
But I need to because I can see that today my dad is antsy. He seems jittery … possibly hopped up on caffeine? And Chelsea looks like her head might pop off at any minute.
Which means everything is going as expected.
My dad’s office is just down the hall from mine. But, unlike mine, his has papers all over his desk and also a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in plastic that I’m pretty sure was from yesterday. Thank goodness there’s plastic on it. This is Arizona, for crap’s sake. Ants are a continuous problem.
My mom used to clean up his desk, stating how symbiotic they were. Dad, with his constant stream of thinking and the clutter that comes with it (he might be a tad ADHD), and Mom, with her organization and planning skills. Chelsea is like our mom, I’m a mix of the two, and we’re not sure what Devon is.
It’s been twenty-five years since Cooper’s opened. My dad started the shop when Chelsea was four and I was barely a year old. It’s been a part of my life since I can remember. I took my first steps in the front room of the small building my dad rented when he was getting things started.
As I grew up, so did the shop. We went from just my dad doing all of the work to a staff of thirty-five. Devon, Chelsea, and I run the day-to-day now, and my dad can just sit back and watch the well-oiled machine he built from the ground up do its thing.
If only that were the case.
Our dad is supposed to be traveling the world right now with Mom, visiting all the things they’d planned to see. Fulfilling so many lifelong wishes. But a large wrench was chucked into those plans when my mom got her diagnosis. They stopped looking toward the future and instead had to react to the present. Hospital visits, specialist calls, hours of research. There were lots of ups and downs and some promising outcomes that then turned out to not be promising. When they both realized that this was their future—and how little time was left—it became more about time, comfort, and long bouts of just being together.
Luckily, my dad had this totally organized business that stayed afloat during those times. Even Chelsea, Devon, and I were able to spend more time away from the shop and with our mom during the last part.
But now that our mom is gone, instead of finding a hobby or taking up golf, my dad has stuck his nose back into the shop.
He’s a questioner, my dad. Lots and lots of questions. Even I, his most even-tempered kid, have felt my patience run thin with his questions.
“How can we make this party even better?” he asks, his head moving from me to Chelsea to Devon, and then back to Chelsea.
“We’ve got it all covered, Dad,” Chelsea says, her face and voice indicating that she feels like this is a personal attack on her. Which, of course, it isn’t. But Chelsea has headed up most of the decisions for this party, and Devon and I have let her because we know our roles. And also, neither of us wanted to do it.
“I know, Princess,” my dad says, and Chelsea visibly relaxes, her shoulders falling just slightly. “I’ve just been looking forward to this.”
“It’s going to be great. I’ve rented the tent and ordered the food, and the DJ is scheduled. There will be an open bar and lots of opportunities to mingle.”
All the employees are invited, as well as many of our clients. It’s going to be quite the deal, with a big tent set up out in our parking lot. We’ve also asked some of our clients if they’re willing to display some of their cars we’ve worked on around the outside of the tent. The Lamborghini that is my dad’s pride and joy will be front and center. It’s currently wrapped in a bright apple-green color with the shop’s logo on both doors, the hood, and the trunk.
The ridiculous car was a “business investment.” I believe those were the words my dad used when he had the harebrained idea to buy it. I think he just always wanted a car like that. He got a killer deal on a two-year-old Huracán. He’s now had it for two years. He still sighs when he looks at it.
It does look great for the business, even if it’s the most uncomfortable car I’ve ever been in. It was not designed for a woman like me, who needs space for her purse and also doesn’t have the thigh muscles to get out of the thing without looking like a clumsy child just learning to walk. Let’s just say a fairly tall girl of five foot eight plus heels is not a fit for a Lamborghini.
It’s not like I use it. It’s my dad’s baby. Sometimes he’ll let Devon take it out or let him race it when we do our charity race, Drives for Dreams, but it mostly stays at the shop, parked up in front of the store. We regularly change out the wrap for clients to see how easy it is and how safe it is on the paint.
“Sounds great,” my dad says. “What about a comedian?”
We all look at him.
“You know,” he says, looking at each of us in turn. “Someone who can make us laugh. Couldn’t we all use a laugh?”
I look over at Chelsea and see her throat bob.
“I thought we were just going to keep it casual,” she says.
“Yeah, Dad,” Devon pipes in. “It’s just supposed to be relaxed. No agenda. No big speeches or anything.”
“What about a juggler or … maybe a clown?”
This time Chelsea gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. We’re supposed to be dressed up for this party. Jugglers and clowns probably wouldn’t fit into Chelsea’s expectations.
I clear my throat. “I think we’re running out of time for all that,” I say. “It’s in ten days. ”
“It’s going to be great as we planned it, Dad. Don’t worry,” Devon offers.
My dad reaches up and swipes a hand down his face. “You’re right. I was just … trying to amp it up a bit. But let’s leave it how it is.”
Chelsea lets go of the breath she was clearly holding.
“Are you bringing anyone to the party, Devon?” my dad asks.
“I thought we weren’t bringing dates,” Chelsea says.
My dad looks to Chelsea. “Mark will be there, won’t he?”
“Well, I mean, yeah. But we’re married. He swore in his vows that he would be my arm candy till death do us part. I meant I thought we weren’t bringing people that won’t understand that this isn’t just a party—it’s also a marketing event.”
“Not for me,” my dad says. “I plan on having some fun. We all need to have fun. Let’s not get caught up in making this about sales.”
“I’m sure I could find someone to bring,” Devon pipes in, clearly getting on board with this idea.
“I was going to make Hannah come with me,” I say.
Really, Hannah insisted that she come.
“Oh, good,” Devon gives me a smirk. “Maybe I won’t bring someone.”
I reach over and grab the back of his arm and pinch him, hard.
Devon cusses, loudly, the words bouncing around the epoxy-finished cement floors of the office. He rubs the back of his arm and gives me a look that I know well. I better watch my back—revenge is coming.
“Devon,” my dad says, his voice annoyed. My dad thinks there are better words than cusswords. Our mom, however, enjoyed dropping them freely, and especially for shock value. She was, by most definitions, the quintessential mom. Caring, nurturing, loving … but with a potty mouth.
My dad takes a big breath, sitting back in his chair, he weaves his fingers together and places them in his lap. “I’m going to bring June,” he announces.
Silence lands on the room. You could hear a pin drop. Or an ant scurry.
After a moment of staring at my dad, I turn my face to my left and right to see that both Chelsea’s and Devon’s eyes are wide and Devon’s mouth is hanging open.
“You—you’re bringing June?” I say after I can’t take the silence anymore. “As your … date?”
June, our neighbor? The widow?
My dad just looks at all of us. “As my friend,” he says.
I feel the tension in the room take a big dramatic breather. I reach up and grab the k pendant and run it back and forth on the chain.
My dad takes another big inhale. “She’s been very helpful with … everything. She’s been doing the widow thing for a while now. It’s been nice to have someone to talk to. So as a thank you, I invited her to the party.”
In my peripheral vision I see Devon’s back go less rigid.
“Well, I think it’s great,” I say, trying to ease the tension that still hangs in the air. I’m not sure I feel all that great, to be honest.
Just the sheer fact that he’s bringing someone to the party that’s not our mom is weirding me out. I need to get over myself, though. My dad is a grown man. He can have friends. He just can’t fall in love with said friends and then replace my mom and, oh my gosh, is the heat on in here?
“Yeah, Dad,” Devon says, his voice void of inflection. “It’s … great.”
I look to Chelsea to see her nodding her head rapidly, like she’s experiencing some sort of tremor.
We are clearly not okay with this.
“Thanks, kids,” Dad says. “For all your hard work. I think it will be a great night.”
We all say our goodbyes and file out of my dad’s office.
I nod at my siblings as we walk down the hallway and, without words, we all go to my office for another sibling meeting.