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.The thick inside door swung open and I was left to squint through the screen door at the hulking shape standing inside.“Shannon?”“Yeah, it’s me, Dad.I have a friend with me.Can we come in?” My voice sounded like I was six years old again.“Yep, yep.” Dad unlatched the screen door.“Worse storm I can remember.Damn near makes me think I’m back in Illinois!”We stepped into the little foyer.There was a large oil lamp burning dully on the whatnot table near the door.Dad reached over and adjusted the wick so that the flame danced and we were suddenly illuminated in a flickering of soft yellow.Dad was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had the University of Illinois logo emblazoned in orange on navy (once an Illini, always an Illini).His feet were covered in thick socks that were pulled loose and floppy at the toes.His hair was mussed and he had his reading glasses on.He looked wonderful and solid and safe.I wanted to hurl myself into his arms and cry like a baby.Instead, I shuffled my feet nervously, grasping at anything to say.“Um, why didn’t the dogs bark?” Dad raises dogs that are an imposing mixture of Irish wolfhound and greyhound.He doesn’t race them—he just enjoys them.And he really likes it that they keep the coyote population on his land at a decided minimum.There are usually half a dozen sleek, multicolored dogs maniacally greeting any and all visitors.(Note to self: remember those tails are like whips—beware.)“Closed ’em up in the barn.Too damn cold and nasty out.I turned the heat lamps on, gave them a big bucket of food and shut them in with the horses.” He chuckled.“Those puppers probably think they’ve died and gone to doggie heaven.”“Oh, Dad, I’ve missed you so much!” I stood on tiptoe and hugged him hard.He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.“Well, you’re home now.”I smiled up at him through tears of relief, thanking my Goddess that whatever else Rhiannon had done, she had not ruined my relationship with Dad.His eyes strayed curiously to Clint, who immediately held out his hand.“Mr.Parker, it’s a pleasure to meet you—”“Dad, this is my friend, Clint Freeman.” I broke in, blushing furiously at forgetting my manners.“Clint, my father, Richard Parker.”They shook hands and Dad pointed into the living room.“Come on in—make yourselves to home.Shannon, why don’t you get Clint and yourself something to drink.You know where everything is.”We followed Dad into the living room, which was separated from the kitchen by an island that held the grill and lots of kitchen cabinets.Dad motioned Clint to the couch and he took his usual easy chair that sat next to a table laden with books and racehorse magazines.I retreated to the kitchen.“What can I get you, Clint? Coffee, tea or something stronger?” I asked as I searched for mugs.“I’ll take coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”“Already have some made,” Dad spoke up.“Hope you like it strong,” he said to Clint.“I do.” Clint smiled.“Bugs, I believe I have some single malt in that cupboard that you haven’t touched in more than six months, in case your taste has turned back to it.”Hearing him use my nickname made tears rush to my eyes, and I had a hard time focusing on pouring Clint’s coffee—until I processed the rest of what he had said.I love single-malt scotch.I have since my first trip to Scotland more than a decade ago.But I had learned during my time in Partholon that Rhiannon loathed scotch.She thought it was common.Dad’s comment was a tangible reminder that she had been here; she had been poking through and intruding upon yet another aspect of my life.It made me feel pissed off and violated.I nuked some warm water for my tea and carried both mugs into the living room.“Do you need anything else, Dad?”“Nope.I’m still working on my Baileys and coffee.” He looked curiously at me and added, “You know I usually don’t drink coffee so late, but something told me I should stay awake tonight.”I sat on the couch next to Clint, and tugged fretfully at my tea bag [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]