With each bite of the cheeseburger and sip of my drink concoction, I came closer to blowing off the Wainwright bash and remaining here for the evening. Libby and I attended a couple of these tonos back in the day, usually held on Noche Buena—the night before Christmas. They often went until four or five the next morning, and really picked up after the children were put to bed.
But just as I grew comfortable in my rickety lawn chair, I noticed a female in a fancy party dress awkwardly gliding over the snow in a pair of uncomfortable heels. It was still hard for me to believe that she was this grown up. It seemed like just thirty seconds ago she was crawling around the floor in her diapers.
Since Taylor would always be six years old in my mind, this womanly stuff was a big adjustment. While attending her high school basketball game last week, I was seated near some of her male classmates, who were admiring certain parts of her body. In other words, being normal teenage boys. I wanted to turn around and introduce them to one of my body parts—my fists. But besides ending up back in jail, I figured that my daughter would hit me with the look of embarrassment that only a seventeen-year-old girl can—a much tougher punishment. So I chose restraint, which had never been my first instinct.
I noticed Gustavo’s son, Angel, whom I’ve heard is no angel, staring at her. I gave Gustavo a look to let him know there were a few things I was willing to go back to prison for. He just shrugged and smiled.
When Taylor reached the Lake House, the women circled around her. She let out a big smile—as amazing as her mother’s—and pirouetted to show off the dress. They analyzed and admired everything from her purse to her heels. Taylor had always been like family to them—her first couple of years of life were spent on Wainwright Manor, and frankly, I thought she’d pick up less bad habits hanging out in this section of town than being around her grandparents, so I made it a point to bring her down here at every opportunity.
After the fashion show came to a close, Taylor made her way to the patio area. She traded greetings with the Amigos, and then informed me, “Dad—I’ve been ordered to bring you to the party … ASAP.”
“And this order came from?”
“Grandmother wanted to call the FBI and demand that they revoke your parole for storming past the party police, but I talked her off the ledge. She gave me ten minutes to bring you back, before she sends in the troops.”
It would be no surprise if the FBI had already found their way onto the property. Not only would it allow them to monitor my moves, as they’d been doing since my release, but they could kill a whole flock of birds with one stone, considering the white-collar-crime festival inside … and that was just the Wainwright clients. But I decided to keep this information to myself.
Taylor plopped in the lawn chair next to me. Like her father, she didn’t appear eager to return—she was going to use the entire ten-minute allotment. She yanked at her dress. I could tell that she couldn’t wait to shed it in favor of a sweatshirt and jeans when she got home. In that way she was very different from her mother, who found a formal gown as comfortable as a second set of skin.
After a few minutes of reminiscing about the “good old days” spent at the Lake House, most of which Taylor was too young to remember, we said our goodbyes, and my bounty hunter daughter dragged me back for my public flogging. The good news was that the walk provided another opportunity for some father/daughter bonding.
As strange as it might sound, we grew much closer during my stint in prison. In the prior years, I’d been too busy with my career, hobnobbing with celebrities, and cheating on her mother. Taylor visited me almost every week, and to prove that she’d inherited her sense of humor from the Collins side of the family, she would occasionally bring me a gag gift like a Hostess cupcake with a nail file stuck in it like a birthday candle. The guards didn’t always find it as funny as I did.
“Thanks for my Christmas gift, Dad … it’s the best gift ever! At least until you buy me that private jet I’ve had my eye on,” she said with a smile.
I looked at her with surprise, which she read. “Mom didn’t mean to give it away, but the camp called to confirm this week and I answered. I’m so excited to go!”
“Well, now that your grandparents are claiming to be destitute, you’re going to need to get that field hockey scholarship if you want to go to college.”
“Yeah, they’ll probably have to sell their kidneys just to scrape by.”
Or sell mine.
“And Dad,” she flashed me her patented look of disappointment. “It’s lacrosse camp, not field hockey. You only went to like ten of my games last fall.”
“Lacrosse—that’s what I meant.” The T-shirt she often wore popped into my head. “Chicks with sticks, right?”
“Ewe … when you say it, it sounds like tranny porn.”
You haven’t lived as a parent until you hear your little bundle of joy utter the term ‘tranny porn.’ “Your mom said this camp is the one you really wanted to attend, and it fits perfectly into your winter break from school.”
“The coach from Clemson is going to be instructing there. I really want to impress her … and get that scholarship. That’s where I really want to go.”
“Clemson? I thought Syracuse was your top choice?”
“It was … like last year! Do you ever pay attention?”
Obviously not.
“I’m thinking I wanna go to a warm-weather school. And it’s only like a few hours from Grandpa’s place in Hilton Head—he said I can use the place when I’m on break.”
That didn’t sound like such a good idea, but I couldn’t quibble with the warm weather part. I took notice that Taylor was shivering, so I removed my suit jacket and placed it over her bare shoulders. If I were a better parent I would have thought to do it about an acre ago, but I was making progress, and I think she respected that I was giving an honest effort. At least that’s what her smile told me.
We entered the party area, which led me to think that warning signs should be posted, like at the beach when the surf is too rough. The speakers were now blaring “Silent Night.” I could only hope.
“Seeing you in a suit reminds me of way back when we were kids. You were so Don Draper back then, always duded up,” Taylor commented.
Way back … as in a whole four years ago. “I can’t believe how much older you look in that dress. You’re turning into a woman, no matter how much I want to hold you back.”
“Speaking of old, I love how you’re rocking the gray goatee.”
My face still gave off that boyish innocence that was always very effective with juries, and occasionally got me carded at the liquor store. But the recent addition of the gray in the facial hair did make me appear closer to my age of forty-one, closing in on forty-two—maybe it’s a sign that I was finally growing up. The hair on the head was still its natural dishwater blond. I grew it out after my release, after having it cut to the nub while doing my time.
Physically, I came out of prison in the best shape of my life. But after suffering through three years of prison food, I fell off the wagon after my release, and gained twenty pounds in nine months, most of it in my gut. Luckily, my custom-tailored suit hid it well … along with the bulletproof vest I was wearing.