A large American flag, waving slightly in the wind, hung over the porch. His father, a Vietnam veteran, had been, in the best of times, a patriotic citizen, and no doubt he was now more so than ever. Looking back to his boyhood, Dylan could recall many reasons to have been proud of his dad. Why couldn’t he have realized it at the time?
As he stepped away from the cab and onto the walkway that led up to the front porch, Dylan experienced a moment of uncertainty. Standing at the front door, he hesitated before ringing the bell. Maybe he should have telephoned first to tell his father he was coming. Why the hell had he wanted his arrival to be a surprise?
Reminding himself that his father had been the one to call him, to extend the olive branch, to ask forgiveness, he punched the doorbell. Within seconds he heard footsteps inside the house, then the front door opened and there stood a broad-shouldered, stern-faced man of sixty, with a stock of neatly trimmed white hair and the same watery-blue eyes that Dylan remembered so well.
A sudden smile flashed across Carl Bridges’ face as he reached out to grab Dylan’s arm. “Come on in, son. Come on in.” Carl draped one arm around Dylan’s shoulders and escorted him into the house.
Dylan wasn’t sure what he had expected. A cordial handshake at most. But certainly not this warm, enthusiastic welcome. His father had never been an overly emotional man, and never one for displays of affection. The only hugs and kisses Dylan had gotten as a boy had come from his gentle, loving mother.
“I had no idea you would come home so soon,” Carl said as he led Dylan into living room. “I’d hoped you would want to see me as much I wanted to see you, but…” Carl cleared his throat.
Dylan stared at his dad, startled by the fact that the old man was almost in tears. This wasn’t the Carl Bridges he remembered. And this softer side of his father unnerved him. He had been prepared for both of them to feel and act a bit awkward, but it had never entered his mind that his father might have mellowed with age.
“Have you had supper?” Carl asked. “I could make us some sandwiches here at the house. Or if you’d like we could run over to the Mission Creek Café for some barbecue. Whatever you’d like.”
“Sandwiches here are fine with me, Dad.” Odd how easily he could say that word. Dad. And even more strange was how comfortable he felt in this house. The place had never felt more like home than it did at this very minute.
Dylan glanced around the living room and found fresh tan paint on the walls and a new sofa and chair. The same simple wood paneling around the fireplace and the sturdy coffee and end tables remained, but wooden shutters had replaced the heavy curtains and window shades.
“Come on back into the kitchen with me, son, and let’s talk.” Carl nodded the direction. “I’ll fix ham and cheese. That used to be your favorite.”
His dad actually remembered what his favorite sandwich had been. He would have sworn that his father hadn’t known a thing about him back then, certainly nothing as personal as his preferences in food. Guess it just went to show how wrong he’d probably been about other things, too.
“Yeah, it’s still my favorite.” Dylan followed his dad into the kitchen, a room that had changed even less than the living room. A new refrigerator seemed to be the only major difference. And the walls were now beige instead of the sunny yellow his mom had painted them.
“Sit down. Sit down.” Carl opened the fridge and began removing items, laying ham and various condiments on the table. “Tell me about yourself, Dylan. I know you live in Dallas and that you’re a stockbroker. That private detective I hired to find you told me that much.”
Dylan pulled out one of the wooden ladder-back chairs from the table and sat. “Why did you hire a private detective? Why didn’t you just use your local and state law enforcement connections?”
“You know me, boy, I go strictly by the book whenever possible. I call in favors only if I have no other choice.” Carl sliced several thick slabs of ham. “There are times when a man gets himself in a jam and he has to do whatever is necessary to get himself out of trouble.”
Staring at his father, Dylan wondered if he’d heard him right. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Is that why you asked me to come home? Do you need my help?”
Carl took a loaf of bread out of the cupboard, removed four pieces and placed them on two earthenware dinner plates. “I asked you to come home because I want a chance to get to know my grown son and—” Carl cleared his throat “—to make amends for past mistakes.”
“You weren’t the only one who made mistakes,” Dylan said. “I wasn’t blameless. I screwed up a lot, and most of the time it was on purpose. It seemed to be the only way I could get your attention.”
“I’m not making any excuses, but…well, I had a mighty difficult time after your mama died.” Carl spread mayonnaise and hot mustard on the bread, then stacked ham, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and dill pickle slices before adding the top piece of bread. “I should have been a better father. I should have done something to help you after you stole that Porsche from the country club. I let my stupid pride keep me from doing what I really wanted to do. But at the time, I told myself I was doing the right thing, letting you learn your lesson the hard way.”
“That’s exactly what I did,” Dylan said. “I had to learn everything the hard way back then. Even when I left the reform center, it took me a few more years to get on track and turn my life around.”
“You’ve done well, son, and I’m awfully proud of you.”
Dylan swallowed hard. “I…uh…I thought about calling you, you know. Over the years. From time to time. I even considered coming home, but I always chickened out. I wasn’t sure you ever wanted to see me again.”
Carl placed the plate in front of Dylan, walked around the table and laid his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Not a day has gone by since you left for Amarillo that I haven’t thought about you, worried about you and…cared about you.”
Dylan clenched his teeth, then lifted his hand and laid it on top of his father’s. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. That’s why I’ve come home for a while.”
Tears misted Carl’s eyes. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”
While nibbling on a Caesar salad, served to her at an umbrella-shaded table on the patio adjacent to the club’s outdoor swimming pool, Maddie went over her checklist for the Mystery Gala coming up in only a few more days. Everything was set. The menu had been approved by Chef Tomas. The jazz band from New Orleans was due to fly in on a charter plane on Friday afternoon at one. Actors from the local Little Theater had been hired to play the murder victim and the police detective, and both had been sworn to secrecy on the mystery plot. Mrs. McKenzie, the talented designer who owned Mission Creek Creations, had whipped up a perfectly divine little black satin gown for Maddie, and a matching satin shawl with pearls and Austrian crystals dripping from the edges. She’d wear diamond earrings and a couple of her diamond bracelets, but no necklace. Understated elegance was the style she preferred.
One of the things Maddie enjoyed most about being filthy rich was being able to afford the best clothes money could buy. Some people called her a clotheshorse; maybe she was. Well, actually, no maybe about it. Her walk-in, fourteen-by-sixteen closet was a dead giveaway.
A young waitress who was part of the staff that rotated shifts in the Empire Room, the Yellow Rose Café and the temporary Men’s Grill replenished Maddie’s iced tea, then asked, “Would you care for dessert today, Ms. Delarue?”
“I’m not sure.” What was the young woman’s name? Maddie tried to remember. Daisy something or other,