Page 160 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

“I’m sly.”

I noogie him just to remind him he’s thirteen and not Casanova.

“When’s the movie over?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“If your mom’s not home by ten-thirty, you text me.”

“She’s been better since you were gone. I think your friend Brenna might have said something.”

“Did she?” That probably shouldn’t surprise me. I don’t see Brenna holding back if she feels something’s wrong. When Ty nods, I say, “That’s good. I’m glad your mom’s been around more. But if there’s a problem, text me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ty grumbles like it’s such an imposition.

I give him a super-noogie.

Cynnie, standing on the marble steps of the venue, wearing the dress we bought her, the top cupping her breasts like my palms, the skirt hugging her round hips, her skin glowing gold against the rosy silk, the silk curtain of her hair blowing lightly in the night breeze, is so beautiful my chest seizes.

Eyes prickling, but conscious that I’m here as her friend, not her boyfriend, I hold out my hand to her instead of drawing herinto my arms. When she puts her fingers in mine, I lift our joined hands to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. “You look amazing.”

Her dark eyes gleam. “Thank you.” She draws close and whispers. “Wish we were alone so you could growl for me.”

“I will later,” I promise her. She giggles.

Inside the function hall, which is a single large room with the string quartet playing on a low stage, a small, parquet dance floor in front of them, circular tables scattered around the rest of the room, and a full bar tucked into one corner, Cynnie takes me on a meet-and-greet around the room.

There are a few aunts, uncles, and cousins in the crowd, but it’s mostly businesspeople. The third person Cynnie introduces me to, a bald man built like a Sumo wrestler, she calls her “number one client.” He’s effusive with his praise of her, and if he has any criticisms about her ability to get projects submitted on time, he certainly doesn’t air them. That’s a pattern that’s repeated all around the room. There’s nothing but smiles and praise as we circulate.

Until we get to her immediate family.

Her grandmother and stepmother are standing together with two much younger family members, whom Cynnie introduces as cousins. Cynnie’s grandmother is wearing an impossibly stiff and complicated outfit that’s a cross between a skirt suit and a kimono, with the jacket sleeves trailing to the ground. The silk of it is so white I’m afraid to even breathe near it for fear of marring all that whiteness. It’s thickly embroidered with red and gold phoenixes that glare at me with jeweled eyes.

Cynnie’s stepmother, in contrast, is wearing a simple black dress. It showcases her hourglass figure without being suggestive. With her black hair piled high on her head, her long neck, and the simplicity of her dress, the focus is on a collar of pearls and diamonds that looks like an heirloom. She’s maybe mid-forties and could be Cynnie’s older sister rather than herstepmother. Cynnie introduces her as Harmony, which is good because although Cynnie’s mentioned her stepmother once or twice, I don’t know her name.

Cynnie’s grandmother introduces herself as Baachan. She makes it sound like a title. She doesn’t offer to shake my hand and I give her a bow instead, which softens her imperious expression slightly.

After a few minutes of slightly tense chit-chat, Cynnie’s father makes his way over to us. I’m prepared for another stiff introduction, but he shakes my hand warmly. After asking me to call him Ken, he tells me how pleased he is to meet Cynnie’s “very special friend” and asks questions that tell me Cynnie’s talked up my work with Logan.

When I express my admiration for his family business, he gives me a long explanation of the business’s history, the way-back of which was hand-carved anatomical models. He shows me his hands, which are crisscrossed with small white scars, and laughingly tells me how relieved he was when they switched over from chisels to keyboards.

Although the rest of the group looks distinctly bored with the direction of our conversation, I ask him about 3-D printed models and he launches into another comprehensive explanation of that aspect of their business. Cynnie chimes in on the programming behind the printing, and we draw off a little from the rest of the group when he pulls out a smartphone and shows me schematics for what look like very advanced printers.

Once Cynnie’s grandmother, stepmother, and cousins give up on our conversation and move away, Cynnie’s father tucks his phone away and holds his hand out to me again. “I know you understand what a special girl Cynnie is.”

I glance from him to her. She’s blushing furiously. “Papa.”

“Cynnie is very special,” I agree, smiling at my bumble. “She’s talented and smart. Wiser than I’ll ever be. And she spreads joy wherever she goes. I’m very lucky to be her friend.”

She blushes brighter, but a shy smile lights her face. “Thank you, Max.”

“Good,” her father says. “You understand.”

“I do. I’d never do anything to dim her joy.” I take her hand and squeeze it. “It’s precious and should be protected.”

Her father nods his gray head. “Cynnie is the flower of our family. A rare orchid. She should not be transplanted from the soil in which she grew. Do you understand me?”

I don’t. Not immediately. Did Cynnie tell him I asked her to move in with me? I can’t tell anything from her expression. Her eyes are on her father’s face. Her expression’s guarded.