“With feta and olives.” He winked. “And warm pita bread from the bakery.”
My stomach growled. “Mmm. That sounds so good.”
There was nothing like the comfort of home. Even though this house brought about painful memories, there were many good ones. Lazy lunches on a Sunday with my father definitely fell into the good category.
He sat down across from me. “So what brings you home early? I thought you weren’t coming until next weekend?” he asked as he poured a mug of coffee and handed it to me.
“Yeah, well, I’ve sort of had an issue at work that made me think of you.”
“Hope it wasn’t one of those foolish men you date.”
“No.” I laughed. “Although that situation really hasn’t improved.” I sighed. “This came from the Holiday Wishes column. You know, the one I normally get assigned around the holidays?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, there’s this little girl who sent a letter in to the column even though it’s summer, and it’s set off a chain of interesting events.”
Over two cups of coffee, I spent the next several minutes telling my father the story of Birdie and her letters. He listened intently and, as expected, found the entire thing quite endearing.
He shook his head as he poured more coffee for himself. “I can’t get over that adorable name. It sounds like something I would name one of my weather instruments.”
“Yeah . . . she’s adorable like you would imagine a Birdie to be, too.” I shook my head. “I’m very confused, though.”
“Are you wondering whether you should keep it going if she writes back?”
“I’m definitely torn over that. The other thing is, this whole situation has actually got me thinking a lot about my own childhood. Because of how similar Birdie’s and my situations are.”
“It’s definitely eerie that she lost her mother around the same age as you.”
“Yeah.” I sighed, then after a few seconds of inner debate, I decided to bring up the subject I’d been very curious about. “She mentioned in one of her letters that she’d gotten up in the middle of the night and caught her dad chatting with a woman on his laptop. She said it scared her, and she ran back to bed. It made me wonder whether you used to date when I was small. I always assumed you weren’t with any women at the time, because you didn’t do it in front of me. I suppose that might have been naive.”
My father looked down into his cup and nodded. “I’ll never love anyone like I loved your mother. You know that. No amount of dating in those years was gonna erase that.” He looked up at me again. “But loneliness does set in eventually. And there were times I’d tell you I was going to play poker with the guys or that I was heading over to your uncle Al’s when I’d really be meeting up with a lady.”
I nodded, taking that revelation in for a moment. “Around what age was I then?”
“It was probably about four years after Mom died, so maybe ten? The first couple of years, I hadn’t been able to even consider looking at another woman. But once I hit that three-year mark, well, it became about a man having needs. It had nothing to do with wanting to move on from your mother. You know what I mean?”
It was hard to imagine my dad having sex, but unfortunately, I knew exactly what he meant. “Of course. I understand that now. And it’s not like you could have explained casual sex to me back then. If I’d seen you with a woman, I would’ve assumed you were trying to replace my mother. It would’ve upset me.”
“Well, that’s what I figured. So . . . I tried not to open up a can of worms. But honestly, if I had found someone special, I might have brought her around eventually, because it would’ve been nice for you to have a positive female influence in your life.”
I stared off, thinking about the fact that I did definitely crave a female influence the older I became. “There did come a time, as I got into my early teen years, when I really did wish that you could have found someone . . . not only for you but for me.”
“It wasn’t in the stars. I had the great love of my life, even if it wasn’t for long enough. And now . . . I don’t need anyone else besides you.” He smiled and knocked a few times on the table with his knuckles. “And I beat cancer. What more can I ask for?”
When I was a teenager, my father had been diagnosed with colon cancer. I remember thinking his diagnosis was the end of my life, because if I had lost my father in addition to my mother, how could I possibly go on? He was my everything. Thank God, by some miracle, the treatments worked and my father remained in remission to this day.
Dad got up and walked over to the nearly empty carafe, then lifted it. “Want another cup?”
“No. Unlike you, I can’t drink an entire pot of coffee without repercussions. Pretty sure if they popped a needle in your vein, all that would come out is Maxwell House.”
Maxwell House.
Maxwell.
That had just hit me.
The can had been sitting on the counter this whole time, but I’d only now made the connection between Birdie’s last name and the brand of coffee my father always used.
Maxwell House.
I wondered what the real Maxwell house was like. Then, of course, my mind wandered to Sebastian Maxwell—his gorgeous face and hair. The way he’d doted on his daughter at the park. Birdie said he owned a restaurant—I wondered what that was like.
“You still with me?” my dad asked, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Yeah. I was just thinking . . .”
“About Birdie?”
“Indirectly, yeah.” I drank the last drop of coffee and sighed. “Anyway, I hope she doesn’t write back. As much as I loved making those little wishes come true, I can’t keep doing it forever—playing God.”
He smiled. “Speaking of God, I don’t pray for much besides health these days, but I do pray that one of these losers you take for a ride as part of your job actually ends up surprising you and turns out to be a decent man. I don’t want to have to worry about you when I’m gone someday.”
“I can take care of myself just fine. I don’t need a man.”
“It’s not about finances. I know you’re a strong, independent woman, honey, but the truth is . . . everyone needs someone. The only reason I was okay after your mom died was because I had you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing my daddy isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” I winked.
My visit with Dad lasted a few hours. After I’d stuffed myself with the yummy food he’d laid out for me, I called a car to take me back to the train station. Since Dad and I had shared a bottle of wine over lunch, I didn’t want him driving me.
When my father walked me out to wait for my Uber, he looked up at his weather apparatus.
He scratched his chin. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Humbug says it’s gonna rain.”
Sure enough, as I traveled home that afternoon, the storm my father predicted came through, pelting the windows of the train. Then, after, a beautiful recurrence of the late-afternoon sun shined over the New York City skyline in the distance, filling me with hope and, much to my dismay—continued thoughts of Sebastian Maxwell.