Three Little Words

His expression didn’t give anything away, but he grunted agreement.

After dessert we moved to the living room for drinks. I couldn’t find a polite way to add water to mine, so I sipped as slowly as I could. Christy helped me out, but I was still fairly drunk by the time we went to bed. As far as I could tell, Harold’s plan was to keep refilling my drink until I was too tanked to even think about sleeping with his daughter. Then again, maybe he just owned stock in a whiskey company. Whatever it was, he got exactly what he wanted.

I woke up early and with a miserable hangover, so I decided to go for a run to burn the remaining alcohol out of my system. Harold was eating breakfast when I returned. He took one look at me and chuckled evilly. Anne stood and asked what I wanted to eat.

“Just some orange juice, please. My stomach’s still trying to decide if it wants to play nice or not.”

She set a glass in front of me and gave me a sympathetic smile. Christy joined us a few minutes later. She wore her red flannel pajamas but sported normal slippers instead of her usual bunnies, which were back home in Knoxville. She kissed my cheek and then her father’s. I had the presence of mind to look guilty, which earned a snort.

“Don’t apologize, son.”

“Yes, sir. Harold. Sorry. It’s the uniform, I swear.”

“You know who to call if you want to ‘sir’ me for real.” Anne began humming at the stove, and he took the hint. “Or you can stay a civilian and keep Birdy happy.”

A few minutes later Anne set a mushroom and cheese omelet in front of Christy and an identical plate in front of me. She added pieces of toast with a smile. Then she topped off my orange juice and sat down.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

“I already have.”

“I don’t think I can eat the omelet. Thank you very much, but…” I patted my stomach and winced for effect. “Shame to let it go to waste, though. Are you ready for second breakfast?”

She gave me a curious look.

“He thinks we’re hobbits,” Christy explained. “They’re short and eat a lot.”

“That sounds like you all right,” her father said. He glanced at me. “The two of them eat more than the rest of us combined.”

“You’re just jealous,” his wife said.

“Darn right I am.” He winked at me and then hid a grin behind the newspaper.

“Here,” I said to Anne as I slid my plate in front of her. “Enjoy. I’ll just filch the toast, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, dear. Thank you.”

After we finished eating, Harold stood to leave for work. He smiled and thanked me for the excuse to drive Anne’s car.

“Um… my pleasure?”

“No, mine,” he said. “The Cadillac’s too respectable. It’s an admiral’s car.”

“And the Mercedes is a fighter pilot’s?”

“Close enough. It isn’t a Porsche, but she wouldn’t let me buy her one of those.”

“You can buy whatever you like when you retire. Until then, you’re keeping the Cadillac.”

“Yes, dear,” he said with just enough contrition to excuse a roguish grin.

She shot him a look that I knew well from her daughter. It combined equal parts affection and exasperation.

“It was nice to see you again, Paul,” he said, all business. “Look after Birdy.”

“I will… Harold.”

“He does that so well,” Anne said.

“He does,” Harold agreed.

“I thought I’d practice,” I said. “I might be doing it for a while.”

Christy gave me a heart-stopping smile, which her parents didn’t miss.

Anne covered a much more subdued smile, while Harold simply grunted.

“We’ll see,” he said. He gave her a hug. “Goodbye, Birdy. Have a safe trip. We love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

He kissed his wife and then shook my hand. “Have a safe trip. Come visit us for spring break.”

My eyebrows shot up.

He chuckled and winked at me. “Politics and war. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Oh, Harold,” his wife said, “be nice.”

“Yes, dear.” He gave me an “I’ve got my eye on you” squint.

“Roger that,” I said.

Then he took his coat from Christy and left with a jaunty step and a self-satisfied smile.

Our flight to Atlanta was canceled because of mechanical problems. We returned to the ticket counter only to discover a long line of people ahead of us. A brusque businessman told us that a connecting flight to Dallas had been canceled as well. The overwhelmed ticket agents were doing their best to reroute hundreds of disgruntled passengers.

Christy and I stood in line with everyone else, and I debated whether or not to show my company ID. We had full-fare tickets, but sometimes being an employee’s family had benefits. I made up my mind when it was our turn and the agent couldn’t find any connections that would get us to Atlanta before the millennium.

I leaned over the desk and pitched my voice low. “Would it help if I show you this?”

The agent looked at my dependent ID, pursed his lips, and sighed. He’d had a frustrating morning and was trying to decide how I could make it worse.

“I don’t wanna cause trouble,” I explained quickly.

He studied me in silence.

“Revenue, standby, or interline,” I added. “Whatever makes your life easiest.”