Page 23 of Crash Course
5
On Sunday evening,using the excuse of checking on his Charleston trip, Cilla swung by her father’s house. As usual, she touched the doorbell, a useless endeavor since the guard at the gate had announced her, but this had been her habit since she’d moved out and she stuck to the ritual. She strode through the oversized door and stepped inside where her boot heel hit marble, the thunk reverberating through the two-story foyer and the grand curving staircase lined with gold railings.
"The mausoleum," she muttered, referring to her childhood home, "strikes again."
Closing the door, she set her purse and keys on the entry table. "Dad?"
"Kitchen!" he called.
She wandered the hall to the back of the house where Dad stood at the French doors peering out over the massive yard and the golf course beyond. He wore khaki pants, loafers, and a white collared shirt. Casual wear.
Hearing her clunking heels, he turned. "I’ve decided to put a putting green on the other side of the pool."
"Okay."
"Should have done it years ago. It’s good for stress."
"I agree."
She moved closer and he opened his arms. Wrapping her arms around him, she pecked him on the cheek, took in the woodsy scent of his cologne and closed her eyes. There were moments with her father she’d always cherish. The smell of his cologne and that feeling of . . . home . . . were some of them.
No matter how he drove her bonkers infringing on her time, he loved her. Supported her. For that, she’d always be grateful.
She stepped back and squeezed his forearms. "How was Charleston?"
"Good. We’re working on a new turnout gear design for their fire department. It might be huge. Huge."
"Sounds exciting."
"It is." He pointed to the sitting area beside the kitchen. "Let’s sit. A drink?"
She shook her head. "Not for me."
He led her to the sitting area, where she took her normal spot in one of the wingback chairs.
Dad moved to the bar cart where he poured himself his usual scotch. "I’m glad you stopped by. I have some documents I need you to look at."
"Sure. If you have them, I’ll take them home."
"I’ll e-mail them to you. Listen, I want to talk to you about that property in Morgan."
"The one I found the report for?"
"Yes. I talked to Paul. He accidentally left the file on the plane. He reminded me we’ve had several toxicology reports done. For comparative purposes. Paul claims the one you read varies wildly from the other two we had done."
Interesting. Obviously, reports could be incorrect. She didn’t question that. But given the levels of contamination, the findings would have to be enormously off. "Better or worse?"
"The one you read is worse. Significantly. We’re having it retested."
"So, the other ones show lower levels of PFOA?"
"Yes." He pulled his phone. "I’ll send them to you. I’d like your opinion. The other reports show levels within EPA range."
Could this be him playing cat and mouse with her? Testingher. He did that. A lot. Family, friends, employees. He’d admitted to her that he'd come up with questions he already knew the answers to in order to see if folks were lying.
Cilla found it annoying and manipulative and was always on the defensive, wondering if he’d do it to his own daughter.
"I’ll be curious to read them," she said. "Something is definitely off if those reports show acceptable levels."
