find
your hot dog?"
She nods, nose wrinkling. "Do they soak these in oil before
cooking them?"
"Sure do. Bud's trademark. That's what makes them fresh." I pull
my hamburger from the bag. "Here's your change. Has The Bachelor
emerged yet?"
She shakes her head, her mouth full of hot dog.
"Guess I'll take this back to him then."
Here's what I am: A nice person. Mostly.
"Brandon!" I pound on his office door, then open it.
Brandon sits at his desk, fingers steepled, face pensive. He watches
me walk over without changing his expression.
"Lunchtime." I set the bag squarely on his desk, grease and all.
"Eat."
He moans. "Laurie . .
"Brandon ..." I follow suit.
He rakes his hands through his hair. "What have I done?"
I have to admit I feel sorry for the guy. "Nothing that can't be fixed.
If it makes you feel better, Hannah had more sense than you anyhow. She
didn't want to go out." I go around the desk and pat his shoulder.
He sighs. "I'm glad you work here, Laurie."
I pause midpat. "Can I have a raise?"
"No."
"Just checking. Eat up. Lots of nutrients in there. Grease, oil, grease,
and ..." I snap my fingers repeatedly. "What else? Oh! Oil."
A smile twitches in the corner of his mouth.
"A perfect specimen from Bud's."
Brandon pulls the burger from the bag. "How's Mikey?"
"Obviously still eating his pop's food. A colony of acne relatives are
living on his face." I watch him rip the paper off the hamburger. "I have
a date tonight and Tuesday."
Brandon nearly swallows his tongue. "You do?"
He could be more flattering. "Yes, me," I say with a growl. "Why is
that so hard to believe?"
"Well, who asked you?"
"Dad." Brandon's face relaxes for a moment. Only a moment. "And
Stephen Weatherby."
His mouth drops open. It isn't a pleasant sight with the half-chewed burger lolling around in there.
"Stephen?"
I nod. "Yeah."
"Weatherby?"
Nod again. "Uh-huh."
"The doctor?"
"One and the same."
Brandon stares at me. "And you said yes?" He is incredulous.
"Sure I said yes. He's a doctor. You don't say no when a doctor asks
you out."
"I thought you weren't ever getting married," he accuses.
I avoided his eyes. "Stephen knows that."
"Then why did he ask you out?"
The question could be strung up in the air with blazing, brightly
colored Christmas lights.
"I ... don't know," I falter. "Maybe just to catch up on old times?"
Brandon rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh. Right. Well, give my regards to the
poor man."
"Doctor's aren't poor men." I turn on my heel and walk out.
Brandon has to be wrong.
He has to. Stephen only wants to chat about the good old days in
elementary school.
After lunch I photograph six families, four of them with kids under the
age of five. So the day passes relatively quickly. My headache, however,
does not. I am taking aspirin when Dad shows up.
"What's wrong, Honey?" The bell over the door chimes as
he enters.
I swallow the pills. "I'm attempting to convince the little elves with
jackhammers in my head to take a break."
Dad frowns. Hannah smiles.
"Hi, Mr. Holbrook. I'm Hannah. I talked to you earlier on the
phone."
"Hello, Hannah, nice to meet you."
"Good night, Laurie. Have a good dinner," she says.
"Night, Hannah."
Dad watches her leave. "Ready to go?"
"Sure am."
I follow Dad out to his Mustang convertible and manage to cajole
him to put the top down. We drive the six minutes to Vizzini's in silence,
the cold wind whistling through my hair and drying out my eyes.
Once we are seated, Dad hands a twenty to the waiter, a tall, skinny
guy with a gold name tag reading "JACK," and asks that the breadsticks
keep coming and the water glasses stay full for the next two hours. JACK
is quite happy to oblige.
"So. What's up, Dad?" I ask this after Dad finishes blessing the two
plates of spaghetti in front of us.
Dad smiles. "You're a wonderful daughter, Laurie. I really have
enjoyed all the time we've been able to spend together since your
mom died."
I frown. "Are you
your hot dog?"
She nods, nose wrinkling. "Do they soak these in oil before
cooking them?"
"Sure do. Bud's trademark. That's what makes them fresh." I pull
my hamburger from the bag. "Here's your change. Has The Bachelor
emerged yet?"
She shakes her head, her mouth full of hot dog.
"Guess I'll take this back to him then."
Here's what I am: A nice person. Mostly.
"Brandon!" I pound on his office door, then open it.
Brandon sits at his desk, fingers steepled, face pensive. He watches
me walk over without changing his expression.
"Lunchtime." I set the bag squarely on his desk, grease and all.
"Eat."
He moans. "Laurie . .
"Brandon ..." I follow suit.
He rakes his hands through his hair. "What have I done?"
I have to admit I feel sorry for the guy. "Nothing that can't be fixed.
If it makes you feel better, Hannah had more sense than you anyhow. She
didn't want to go out." I go around the desk and pat his shoulder.
He sighs. "I'm glad you work here, Laurie."
I pause midpat. "Can I have a raise?"
"No."
"Just checking. Eat up. Lots of nutrients in there. Grease, oil, grease,
and ..." I snap my fingers repeatedly. "What else? Oh! Oil."
A smile twitches in the corner of his mouth.
"A perfect specimen from Bud's."
Brandon pulls the burger from the bag. "How's Mikey?"
"Obviously still eating his pop's food. A colony of acne relatives are
living on his face." I watch him rip the paper off the hamburger. "I have
a date tonight and Tuesday."
Brandon nearly swallows his tongue. "You do?"
He could be more flattering. "Yes, me," I say with a growl. "Why is
that so hard to believe?"
"Well, who asked you?"
"Dad." Brandon's face relaxes for a moment. Only a moment. "And
Stephen Weatherby."
His mouth drops open. It isn't a pleasant sight with the half-chewed burger lolling around in there.
"Stephen?"
I nod. "Yeah."
"Weatherby?"
Nod again. "Uh-huh."
"The doctor?"
"One and the same."
Brandon stares at me. "And you said yes?" He is incredulous.
"Sure I said yes. He's a doctor. You don't say no when a doctor asks
you out."
"I thought you weren't ever getting married," he accuses.
I avoided his eyes. "Stephen knows that."
"Then why did he ask you out?"
The question could be strung up in the air with blazing, brightly
colored Christmas lights.
"I ... don't know," I falter. "Maybe just to catch up on old times?"
Brandon rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh. Right. Well, give my regards to the
poor man."
"Doctor's aren't poor men." I turn on my heel and walk out.
Brandon has to be wrong.
He has to. Stephen only wants to chat about the good old days in
elementary school.
After lunch I photograph six families, four of them with kids under the
age of five. So the day passes relatively quickly. My headache, however,
does not. I am taking aspirin when Dad shows up.
"What's wrong, Honey?" The bell over the door chimes as
he enters.
I swallow the pills. "I'm attempting to convince the little elves with
jackhammers in my head to take a break."
Dad frowns. Hannah smiles.
"Hi, Mr. Holbrook. I'm Hannah. I talked to you earlier on the
phone."
"Hello, Hannah, nice to meet you."
"Good night, Laurie. Have a good dinner," she says.
"Night, Hannah."
Dad watches her leave. "Ready to go?"
"Sure am."
I follow Dad out to his Mustang convertible and manage to cajole
him to put the top down. We drive the six minutes to Vizzini's in silence,
the cold wind whistling through my hair and drying out my eyes.
Once we are seated, Dad hands a twenty to the waiter, a tall, skinny
guy with a gold name tag reading "JACK," and asks that the breadsticks
keep coming and the water glasses stay full for the next two hours. JACK
is quite happy to oblige.
"So. What's up, Dad?" I ask this after Dad finishes blessing the two
plates of spaghetti in front of us.
Dad smiles. "You're a wonderful daughter, Laurie. I really have
enjoyed all the time we've been able to spend together since your
mom died."
I frown. "Are you
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