Maybe

39

MY NEXT CALL is to my daughter, Kimberly.

“Maybe Taylor,” she says.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I’m in a hotel room with a dead guy.”

“That’s got to be more fun than you’re making it sound.”

I try to keep the smile out of my voice as I ask, “Where are you?”

“Out drinking. But don’t worry, I’m not driving. I’ve got a hotel room upstairs.”

“Not the room where I’m standing, I hope.”

“Nope. I’m down the street.”

“You’re drinking you say?”

“Uh huh.”

“Got troubles?”

“I broke up with my boyfriend tonight.”

“Yeah. That’s sort of why I called.”

“I know.”

“You want some company?”

“Tomorrow? Sure. But not tonight.”

“But you’ll be okay?”

“I will.”

“Because?”

“I’ve got a great job, working with my dad.”

“Your dad sounds very handsome.”

She giggles. “He is.”

We’re quiet a while.

Then I ask, “Anything you want to say to me?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t tell Mom what I did, okay?”

“Okay.”