She brought a finger to her chin. “I think I want chicken,” she said, and I nodded.
“That sounds delicious. That’s just what I wanted, too.”
“But I don’t want to finger paint. It might get on my dress.”
“How about coloring? I’m not very good, but I can try.”
She beamed. “It’s okay that you’re not very good, Daddy. You can practice.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
For the first time since I’d started ferrying London to and from her activities, she was in a good mood on the way to dance, though the class had nothing to do with it. Instead, I listened to a constant stream of ideas about what she could wear that evening. She debated which dress to wear, and whether to pair it with a sparkly hairclip or bow, and what shoes would match best.
Once inside, Ms. Hamshaw motioned for her to proceed to the floor, but she suddenly turned around and ran back to envelop me in a hug before dashing to the door. Ms. Hamshaw evinced no reaction, which I supposed was as much as she could offer in the way of kindness.
While London was in class, I ran to the grocery store and picked up the makings for dinner. Knowing that we had an early morning the following day – we would meet at Emily’s at eight – I opted for a rotisserie chicken from the deli, canned corn, sliced pears, applesauce from a jar, and clear grape juice. If we started eating at half past six, she could still be in bed close to her normal bedtime.
What I hadn’t factored in was that five year-olds can take a long time to get dressed for date nights with their dads. At home after class, London raced up the stairs and forbade me to help. I went to my closet and got dressed up as well, even donning a blazer. I prepared dinner, which took all of five minutes, and then set the table, using our good china. Candles completed the picture once I poured the grape juice into wine glasses. Then I leaned against the counter to wait.
I eventually moved to the table and sat.
After that, I wandered to the family room and turned on ESPN.
Every now and then, I would walk to the stairs and call up to her; she would insist that I stay downstairs, that she was still getting ready.
When she finally descended the stairs, I felt a prick of tears behind my eyes. She’d chosen a blue skirt along with a blue and white checkered top, white stockings and shoes, and a matching blue hairband. The grace note was the imitation pearl necklace she’d put on. Whatever my reservations about Vivian’s frequent shopping expeditions with our daughter, even London knew that she’d made an impression.
“You look beautiful,” I said, rising from the couch. I shut off the television.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she said as she carefully approached the dining room table. “The table looks really nice.”
Her attempt to be as adult-like as possible struck me as almost unbearably adorable.
“I appreciate that, sweetie. Would you like to eat?”
“Yes, please.”
I went around the table and pulled out her chair. When she was seated, she reached for her glass of grape juice and took a sip. “This is very tasty,” she said.
I served and brought the plates to the table. London carefully spread her napkin in her lap and I did the same.
“How was school today?” I asked.
“It was fun,” she said. “Bodhi said he wants to see the lions tomorrow at the zoo.”
“I do, too. I like lions. But I hope they don’t have any mean ones like Scar.” I was referring, of course, to the villain in the movie The Lion King.
“They won’t have any lions like Scar, Daddy. He’s just a cartoon.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s right.”
“You’re silly.”
I smiled as she daintily picked up her fork. “I’ve heard that.”
After dinner, we colored. London happened to have a coloring book that featured zoo animals, and we spent an hour at the kitchen table, creating animals that could only have existed in rainbow-filtered worlds.
Though she’d only been in school for a few weeks, I noticed that her coloring had improved. She was able to stay inside the lines, and had even taken to shading various parts of the pictures. Gone were the smears and squiggles of only a year ago.
My little girl was slowly but surely growing up, which for some reason made my heart ache in places I didn’t know even existed.
CHAPTER 18
It’s Not a Date
A month after I graduated from college, I attended the wedding of a former fraternity brother named Tom Gregory in Chapel Hill. Tom was the son of two physicians, and his bride-to-be, a waifish brunette named Claire DeVane, had a father who owned fifty-six Bojangles’ restaurants, fast-food places specializing in fried chicken and biscuits. The business might not have the elite ring associated with investment banking, but it minted money, and as a wedding gift, Claire’s father had already given the couple a mini-mansion, along with a Mercedes convertible.
The wedding was, of course, a black-tie affair. I’d just started work at the Peters Group and had yet to receive my first paycheck; it went without saying that I was usually broke. While I had enough money to rent a tuxedo, I had to crash at another fraternity brother’s place. His name was Liam Robertson, and he was about to start law school at UNC. Though he was also from Charlotte, we’d never been particularly close – he was the kind of guy who took delight in abusing the pledges and fed Jell-O shots with Everclear to freshman girls – but Alpha Gamma Rhos stick together.
To that point, I’d worn a tuxedo only once in my life. I’d rented a navy blue tuxedo for my senior prom in high school and the photo of me and my prom date graced the mantel of the fireplace at my parents’ house until I married. That tuxedo, however, had a clip-on bowtie, while the tuxedo I’d rented for the wedding had one that I actually had to tie.