46
The games we play. 1976.
Thomas thought he had it all worked out when he showed up at Emilee’s door on a Friday evening in late March with a bushel of roses, a bottle of wine, and a wicker basket.
“Surprise. May I?”
Emilee shrugged her shoulders and stepped back, Caitlynn at her side, beaming, to let him in the door.
“Uncle bring roses,” Caitie said, insisting on Thomas lowering his hand so she could smell the individual flowers.
“And he brought some wine and food,” Thomas said.
“Caitie doesn’t drink wine. Caitie drinks milk.”
Thomas laughed, put his gifts down, scooped her up, and twirled her around. First, he went slow, then increased the turning to a dizzying speed. He then ran in ever-changing circles with the little girl in his arms. They yelled and danced like Indians in a
