Page 44 of Feels Like the First Time
Two seconds after Ali left the kitchen, Loraine started texting her friends. By the time Ali had cleared the house of all contraband—a Drumstick inside the icemaker and a bag of chicharrones hidden in the linen closet—there was already a Facebook event set up for a magazine release party. Because the only thing Destiny Bay loved more than one of their own making was free food.
Determined to get to her dad and tell him the good news, before someone sent smoke signals over Destiny Bay, Ali went down to the dock. Which was empty. She stepped on the boat and followed the whistling below deck and found the subject of her search stretched out on the bed.
His deck shoes lying on the floor.
In cargo shorts, a faded U of W shirt, and with one socked foot crossed over the other, Marty had his reading glasses on his face and his nose casually stuck in a book.
“Oh, hey, honey,” Marty said, lowering the book and sounding surprised to see her there. Ali knew that, for her dad, surprise could easily be a front for guilt. “I didn’t know you were coming over today.”
“I come over every day.” Ali sniffed the air, but caught only the faint scent of air freshener over the salty brine of the Pacific. That’s when she noticed the coffee mug on the nightstand, and the pair of dress slacks at the foot of the bed. “Bridget said you were washing down the deck, not that you relocated to the boat.”
“I didn’t relocate, just didn’t want to wake Bridget when I got home, so I spent the night down here.”
“Why were you out so late, Dad?” Ali crossed her arms.
“I was out with the fellas, I lost track of time,” Marty grumbled. “I forget, is fun not on the doctor’s prescribed therapy?”
“No. I’m glad you went out,” Ali said, feeling awful. “You’ve just been tired lately, and I worry.”
“No need to worry, I got home before nine, surprised to find Bridget asleep on the couch. So I snuck down here, then headed back to the house this morning to see if Bridget wanted to go for a sail. I took one look at the laundry hanging everywhere and decided I didn’t want to share my coffee with Victoria and all of her secrets, so I came back down here to relax.”
He set the book on his chest and rested his reading glasses on top, and that’s when Ali noticed how tired her dad looked. He may have claimed to have slept like a baby, but she could see the subtle signs of exhaustion bracketing his features.
He shook his head. “Thank God you never did that.”
“Sure I did, but since my bras could pass for headbands, you just never noticed.” Ali sat on the bed next to him.
Up until she turned eighteen, Ali was small enough to pass for a twelve-year-old boy. Everywhere. A late bloomer, Loraine had called her. How accurate that term had become. Ali was pushing thirty and the most serious relationship she’d been in had lasted seven months with a logger from Spokane—who ended up being less of a lumberjack and more lumbersexual.
“I notice everything.” He lifted a single brow. “Like how you’re clenching your hands. What’s on your mind?” Marty sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. “Based on that smug smile, I’m guessing it’s good news.”
“My smile is not smug.” Marty looked at her clenched hands and she forced them to relax. “Okay, fine, maybe a little.” Ali handed her dad the envelope. “They picked my piece.”
“Of course they picked you!” Marty’s face went bright with pride and he smacked the papers across his knee. “Anyone in their right mind would take one look at your work and know it was something special. Unique. A one-of-a-kind treasure.” Marty threw his arm around Ali and pulled her in for a hug. “Just like my girl.”
Neither one of them was all that big on hugs, so it started out a bit awkward. But when Ali wrapped her arms around her dad’s middle, she held tight. He might be beanpole tall, but he was sturdy and sure—and Ali let herself sink into his warmth. Sure, sometimes she felt as if she’d missed out not growing up with a strong female figure in the house, but with Marty, she’d never suffered from a shortage of love and support.
“It will be on the cover, too,” she said, and Marty tightened his embrace. “And they want me to be there to talk about what inspired the piece.”
“I couldn’t be prouder,” he whispered.
“Thanks, Dad.” Ali breathed in the moment. The steady beat of her dad’s heart, the sound of the waves gently lapping at the dock, the familiar scent of—BBQ potato chips?
Ali pulled back, suspicion high.
“I’m proud of you too, Dad,” she said pointedly.
It was in Marty’s nature to hold things close to his chest, but he’d never kept secrets from Ali. Until last year when he’d had a diabetes-induced heart attack.
It was only then, as she watched the doctors rush him into the OR, that Ali learned he’d been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes—two years before.
The reason for his secrecy, he’d said, was that she was a worrier and he hadn’t wanted to worry her. But Ali knew the truth. Marty didn’t want to be a burden. So she’d spent every day since proving to him—and maybe to herself—that love could never be a burden. Not when it was honest.
“I know this past year has been hard on you,” she said softly. “Retiring, having to cancel your sail to Mexico, giving up chips.”
Marty cleared his throat and went back to reading the letter fromArchitectural Digest.
“But it’s important that you follow the doctor’s guidelines.” Ali pushed off the bed and walked over to the kitchen area. “You and I still need to make that fishing trip up to Alaska.” Seeing nothing condemning on the counter, she knelt on the bench that circled around the small dining table and casually peeked in the overhead cupboards for something suspect.
