HE GOT ON a navy-blue blazer, black slacks, and a tie when we hook up. Standing outside my building next to his car he say, “Here.” Then he reach into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Ask for George.” He gives me a white envelope.

I rip it open. “The Fount! You got me a job at The Fount!” I hug him. “You don’t know how bad I need this.”

“Daddy always knows.”

He opens the back door, buckles me in. He in the front seat of the car when he tells me his brother is the night manager there. “He likes to hire people from the neighborhood. To keep the money flowing in the community. There’s a big party next weekend. They need extra help.” He looking back at me, winking. “I told him you would be perfect.”

I ask why he didn’t tell me about his brother before. He don’t answer. Maybe he’s like JuJu. “Don’t be so quick to tell people everything you know,” she’d say.

“You want breakfast?”

“Yes, Anthony.”

“Jerome, you know where to go.”

I feel like Cinderella. My dress is pink sherbet with sparkles. My hair bounces with the car, stops past my shoulders. Black lipstick and lots of makeup make me look grown up, amazing. Even the driver say how pretty I am. Not Anthony though, so I ain’t sure he like it. Maybe I’ll ask his opinion before I get something done next time.

I never ate in a restaurant with a real tablecloth. Before I sit down, Anthony pull my seat out. Then he sits across from me, not next to me. He snaps the white napkin like a magician, spreads it over my lap. At first, I think it’s meant to hide my short dress. Then Anthony said what he just done is good etiquette. Bet Maleeka know how to spell that word. He explaining what it means. “How you know so much?” I ask.

He always wanted the best out of life, he says. “Good wine. A great place to eat. Plenty of money in the bank. A house in the suburbs. You know, a easy, comfortable life. Remember this, Char—if you don’t work hard and watch your money, you’ll die broke.”

I smile really big and tell him I’ll remember.

“Good.” He pats my hand.

I read over the menu. Scrambled eggs and bacon; French toast with powdered sugar; blueberry pancakes, home fries, and sparkling water—I order it all. Anthony said I could.

I got eggs in my mouth when he asks my father’s name. I swallow and say it for the first time in years. “Nate. Nathanial Hunter Jones.”

“Nate raised you well.” He pointing to his cup. A waiter fills it with black coffee. “He would want someone looking out for you. Protecting you.”

“I miss him. Nobody knows how much I miss my father.”

“I do.”

I put another forkful of eggs in my mouth but don’t feel much like eating. He pushes a curl behind my ear. “What was his nickname for you?”

“How you know he had one?”

He slides his warm cup my way. Says he bets I’d like coffee if I gave it a real try. I do it for him. It’s bitter. I don’t like it. Guess the expression on my face tells him that. Anthony mixes plenty of sugar and cream in the cup. I sip till it’s gone. He wipes drops of coffee off my bottom lip, licks the spoon. “So, what was his nickname for you?”

“Charlie. He was the only one who called me that.”

“Charlie. Maybe I could call you that.”

“If you call me that I’ll think about my dad. I used to think about him all the time. Till it got too hard.”

“Okay, then I will not call you Charlie. Not unless you want me to.”

“Thanks.” I cut my pancakes and pour warm syrup on ’em, lift my fork and eat.

“You could call me Daddy, if you wanted.”

“No, I only got one daddy.”

His hand covers mine again. Pressing down hard, he say, “No thank you, Anthony.”

“That’s what I meant to say. Ouch! No—thank you, Anthony.”

He smile at me, then snap his fingers. The waiter bring the check. “Sixty-five dollars for that?” I say.

He don’t answer. Doesn’t let me finish my food either. He stands up. Pulling my chair out. Walking out the door ahead of me. On the ride back, he don’t talk to me at all, even though I’m trying to talk to him.

Soon as I get in the building, I call him to apologize. He don’t answer. All night long, I worry and think about what I did wrong. Five in the morning, I leave another message. “Daddy, I promise never to do nothing to make you mad at me again.”

This time he takes my call. “You my baby girl, Char?”

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy.” While I’m at it, I tell him it’s okay for him to call me Charlie.