Ache For You

4

“Unless he sees the pictures online.”

I consider that, but decide the likelihood that my technology-challenged father will be near enough to a computer to glimpse evidence of his only child being roundly mocked by the crème de la crème of San Francisco society is close to nil. I sent him a k****e for Christmas one year, and he wanted to know how to open it. He thought it was a really flat book.

“Tell me again why we didn’t go on your honeymoon like the girls did in s*x and the City after Carrie got dumped by Big at the altar?”

“Because two weeks at a dude ranch in Montana was Brad’s idea of bliss, not mine. And you know very well Carrie didn’t get dumped at the altar. She got dumped over the phone at the church before she had to walk down the aisle.”

Lucky b***h.

Sounding wistful, Jenner sighs. “Au contraire. Two weeks at a dude ranch sounds like absolute heaven, darling. Just think—all those cowboys. And their lassos. Oh my.”

When I look up at him, he’s fanning his face with the empty bag of chips.

“No. No cowboys. No boys of any kind, for that matter. I don’t care if I never see another man for the rest of my life!”

Jenner stops fanning and quirks his brows. “You do realize I’m the proud owner of a p***s, yes?”

“You don’t count.”

“Ouch!”

“You know what I mean!” I flop back into the pillow, but pop back up when I hear a knock on the front door.

Jenner and I look at each other. My heart starts to pound. The knock comes again, this time louder.

Half-terrified and half-furious, I whisper, “Do you think it’s Brad?”

Very droll, Jenner says, “I rather doubt it, darling, since he has a key. He’s probably still picking bits of cartilage out of his teeth, anyway.” As the knocking continues, Jenner sits up and looks toward the door. “Do you want me to get it?”

“Why are they knocking and not ringing the bell?” For some reason, that strikes me as an ominous sign. What kind of person would rather pound a fist on the door over and over than press a nice civilized button?

“I’ll just go look through the peephole and see who it is.”

Before I can protest, Jenner has glided out of the room. In a moment, his voice drifts down the hallway. “It appears to be a courier. Should I open up?”

A courier? More likely another member of the paparazzi trying to snap a candid picture of the senator’s poor, cast-off daughter-in-law-to-never-be.

My curiosity gets the better of me. I trot barefoot to the front door in my ice cream–stained sweats and push Jenner aside so I can press my face against the door and look through the peephole.

Sure enough, it’s a uniformed courier, holding a small envelope and a clipboard.

I whisper, “Do you think it’s a trap? Like is that really a guy from TMZ and that clipboard is a camera?”

“Oh, yes,” says Jenner, his voice dripping sarcasm. “The infamous clipboard camera. I hear they’re all the rage these days.”

“What about the guy yesterday who knocked on the door and said he was from the electric company but turned out to be a journalist from The Examiner wanting to know if the reports that I was suicidal were true?”

Jenner purses his lips. “You have a point.”

“I know I do!”

Jenner sighs. “If this is a man trying to take your picture to sell to the tabloids, I’ll divest him of his testicles. Happy?” He sweeps me out of the way and pulls open the door. “Hello. How may I help you?”

“Got a package for Miss DiSanto.” The courier looks Jenner up and down. “That you?”

It would be a ridiculous question, but considering Jenner is wearing my fuzzy purple bathrobe and a long red wig I bought for Halloween a few years ago that he dug out of my closet, it’s a legitimate question.

Jenner is prettier than most women I know. Strike that—all the women I know.

“Although that has a lovely ring to it,” says Jenner, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that I’m not, in fact, Miss DiSanto.” He points to me. “Here is the lady in question.” He pauses. “And I’m using the term lady loosely, mind you.”

The courier thrusts the envelope at me. When I take it, he shoves the clipboard at me and says, “Sign on number twelve.”

I sign, the courier leaves, and Jenner closes the door. Then I rip open the thin cardboard envelope and look inside. There’s another envelope, this one square and ivory. On the outside my full name is written in scratchy black ink, the handwriting slanting and loopy.

Peering over my shoulder, Jenner says, “Ooh. Fancy. Do you think it’s an invitation to a ball?”

“Ha.” I tear open the glued flap, withdraw the piece of thick note paper inside, and read aloud, “I have been unable to reach you. Come at once. Your father is gravely ill.”

The card flutters to the floor as I tear off down the hallway, headed for the phone.

On the best of days, San Francisco International Airport is a nightmare. But on the day you’re desperately trying to get to Italy before your father dies, it’s absolute hell.