Page 67 of By A Thread

My father’s gleeful pronouncement when I walked into the lounge room melted off the lingering cold. A rush of love so swift and fierce swamped me.

“Dad!” I crossed to him and hugged him hard, delighted when he hugged me back, rocking side to side in that way of his that had once been so familiar.

“Have a seat,” he said, patting the bench next to him. “Tell me everything.”

This tiny window of time was open, and I needed to savor every moment of it. Not willing to miss out on one second of this, I fired off a text to Zara.

Me: Running late. Family emergency. I promise I’ll make it up.

I’d work till midnight every night if it meant I got to enjoy my dad being my dad.

“Let’s take a selfie before I have to go to work,” I insisted. I took one on every good day, knowing now how precious these moments truly were.

Dutifully, he slung his arm around my shoulders, and I clicked away as we hammed it up for the camera. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head before pulling back.

“Where are you working again?” he asked, a frown touching his lips as he bumped up against the hole in his memory.

I cleared my throat. “It’s a new job. I’m working for a fashion magazine.”

“Well, isn’t that something. Do you love it?” he asked. My father was a firm believer in doing as much of what you loved as possible. A job was no exception.

I thought about it for a beat, then nodded. “I do. It’s fun and fast-paced, and the people are… interesting.”

“Is there a Miranda Priestly?” he asked, nudging my shoulder.

“When did you ever seeThe Devil Wears Prada?” I demanded with a laugh.

“I read the book.”

“Smarty-pants,” I said fondly. “The Miranda at my job is actually a Dalessandra, and she’s pretty wonderful. Her son is another story though.”

“Tell me everything,” he said, noodling out a Sammy Davis Jr. tune.

“About what?”

“This son. Is he evil?”Dun dun dunwent the piano keys.

I laughed and thought about Dominic. “Evil? No. A pain in my ass? Yes.”

“Sometimes pains in the asses make life more interesting. Do you remember this one?” he asked, his fingers working the keys, teasing out another familiar favorite.

I smiled and rested my fingers on my end of the keys. I remembered everything. And now I treasured it.

* * *

I stayedanother hour before leaving Dad at the piano when he volunteered to teach another resident a jazzy little tune on the piano. It was always a struggle knowing when to leave. If I left while he was still present, I was missing out on time with him. But if I stayed too long and the mood slipped, the ensuing disappearance of Dad was devastating.

Too in my own head, I didn’t notice the danger until it was practically on top of me in a pink chenille sweater.

“Ms. Morales, I trust you’re here to pay your late fees?”

Shit.

Front Desk Deena, harbinger of late fees, lurked just outside the memory ward. She had thin, flat lips that were always painted a bright pink. Her red hair reminded me of Ronald McDonald… if Ronald dabbled with a jewelry fetish. Today she was wearing four diamond rings, a pendant with several birthstones that suggested this woman actually had a family, and rather large diamond studs in her long ear lobes.

She terrified me.

“Uhh…” I hadn’t even formed an actual word, but my neck was doing its best impression of a sunburn.