Page 98 of The Homemaker

“Do you smoke cigars, Murphy?”

“No.”

“Well,” he opens his door, “you do today. Come on.”

I head toward the door.

“Nope,” he says, nodding toward his Corvette. He sits in the driver’s seat and retrieves cigars from the glove compartment.

With a laugh, I sit in the front seat.

“Don’t inhale. Just enjoy the flavor then let it go.”

I light it and feel confident that I’m not inhaling. It’s when I go to release it, I realize there’s a little inhaling taking place.

Hunter laughs when I cough. “I’m sorry your dad’s not here.”

“Did Vera put you up to this? Did she ask you to sit me down and offer to be my new father figure?”

He looks at the ceiling and exhales a plume of smoke. “Yup.”

I laugh, and the grin on my face isn’t forced. No “owly” Murphy at this moment.

“I love your daughter,” I say, meaning every word.

“I know you do. But she may still change her mind.”

I nod then try not to inhale again. This time I manage to blow out without coughing. Does it taste good? No. But sometimes we do things because it makes other people feel good. I don’t know if Blair and I will make it to the altar and both say, “I do.” But I like Hunter. He’s unapologetically himself, even when it’s frowned upon or offensive. Blair hates that about him. I can respect it without agreeing with everything he says.

“Would your father have liked my daughter?” he asks.

“My dad liked everyone. He was an artist too. So he would have been drawn to Blair’s passion.”

“She’s a good person,” he says. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I’m proud of her. We’ve tried to give her everything, but she’s always found more joy in forging her own way, achieving success on her own. She’ll be a good mother and wife.”

Again, I nod. He’s not telling me anything about Blair that I don’t already know. She’s beautiful, talented, and kind. Any man would be lucky to have her.

“So”—he takes a puff and blows it out—“what are your … what was the word? Icks?”

I chuckle. “You first.”

“Murphy, my wife hired a homemaker for me. She’s perfect.”

“Your wife or the homemaker?”

Hunter doesn’t look at me, but he smirks.

“My ick with Blair is she’s been engaged three times but never married. And I feel pretty arrogant thinking I’m different.”

“You’re confident. She needs that. Hell, she needs you to drag her to the altar by her hair if need be.”

This is the perfect example of things he says that angers Blair, but I find humorous. I’m more laid-back than my fiancée. It’s easier for me to enjoy life without running it through a filter, dissecting everything to determine if it offends someone before I let myself laugh. I try to tell her intention and context matters, especially with her father’s generation.

“By the way, thanks for the dance lessons. I got laid.” He holds out his fist.

Golfing and sharing inappropriate jokes are one thing, fist-bumping after he nails my future mother-in-law is another. Still, I bump hisfist.

“I got laid the same night too.” I offer my fist.