Chapter 30

The day of the party came without anything new happening in the case – a thing which I'd fully expected. I wished I was wrong. But I wasn't going to worry about the case today, for I had better things to do.

I was up early, at 7 or thereabouts, and sat at the counter with Darlia on my left – well, since she was there first, I sat on her right – and watched Cecelia doing something arcane at the stove. To me all cooking is arcane. I can follow the directions on a can or a box, and I know how to give an order to the lady at Blake's, but that's the extent of my cooking skills.

Cecelia hadn't turned around, but she must have seen me out of the corner of her eye for she said, "Since you do not desire breakfast, I shan't offer an omelet."

"Since you ain't offerin', I won't tell you what I'd like in mine."

Cecelia didn't say anything – she was clearly ready to let me taste my own foot – but Darlia spoke up. "You can tell me, Dad."

I looked over at her. She's nearly as tall as I am these days, about as tall as Cecelia who's just an inch shorter than I am, and probably a bit heavier than Cecelia given the fact that she's been lifting weights since she was six and is naturally stocky. She doesn't look as conspicuously well-muscled as Cecelia, because she's not as skinny, but I could clearly see a bunched bicep in her arm, since she was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and had her chin on her hands while she propped her elbows on the counter. Her hair, a dark blonde with natural lighter streaks through it, hung down her back, and I knew that if she stood up it would be past her waist now – she's only had the occasional trim, never an actual haircut. Under that tremendous mass of hair, which she combs straight back when she's not putting it in braids of various sorts, her face is square, a golden brown like the rest of her, with the flat nose and black eyes she got from Cecelia and the rest of it completely unique. I don't know where the genes for it came from, but Darlia's the most exotically beautiful child I've ever seen.

"Like what you see, Dad?" she asked with a grin. She's been listening to me and Cecelia all her life.

"I love what I see, Weightlifter. I'm surprised I haven't had to start beatin' the boys off you with a club already."

"I'm only 13, Dad ... listen to me, saying 'Dad' every time I open my mouth."

"I am."

"Yeah, but usually I don't remind you of it all the time. Anyways, what would you want in an omelet if you was to want one?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cecelia turn, no doubt to correct Darlia's English, so I jumped in. "Well, I'd start with a mess of hash browns, and then some bacon, plenty of extra sharp cheddar shredded and melted in there, onions, maybe just a tad bit of garlic, an' some taco sauce on top when it's done."

Darlia grinned – whether at the ingredients or my quick jump to forestall Cecelia I didn't know. Maybe it was both. "You know, that sounds pretty good. Too bad I already ate mine." Cecelia was back at the stove, so I couldn't see her expression, but I had a suspicion she was smiling. She and I both knew that if it had been more than half an hour ago, Darlia could eat another omelet if she wanted to.

"Yeah, it does. But since I don't eat breakfast I don't suppose your mom'll whop me up one."

"Suppose all you please, Darvin," Cecelia said from the kitchen as she opened the refrigerator, which stands next to the stove. She insisted on it when she remodeled the kitchen shortly after we got married – she cooks a lot and loves it, and wants her refrigerated ingredients right handy. "I heard you, and I shall impose breakfast upon you despite your protestations."

I looked at Darlia. "Guess I'll just have to take my punishment."

"Yeah – if you don't, Mom'll go upside your head with the king skillet."

"Naw – it's on the stove with food in it. Whatever else she is, you mom ain't no food abuser. Shoot, food abuse is a capital crime in all civilized countries."

"Maybe you don't dig breakfast, Dad, but you do love food, don't you?"

"Yep, sure do. Of course you can't stand the stuff."

Darlia punched me in the arm, and though I knew it wasn't with all her strength I could definitely feel it. "Ouch!" I said. "Sheesh, you got a fist on you. How much you benchin' these days anyways?"

Darlia jumped in quickly, no doubt to keep Cecelia from jumping on my English this time. "Oh, shoot, I guess 100 or so regular. The last time I tested I got 150 up for three reps. I could probably get 200 up once, but I'm not ready to try anything that heavy yet, not even on the machine with a spotter."

"You don't need a spotter on the machine."

Darlia grinned. "Usually you ain't that dense, Daddy."

"Usually I ain't settin' here first thing in the morning havin' some woman jab at me with her tongue, neither."

Darlia's face got serious. "Am I a woman?"

A serious question deserves a serious answer, though I was tempted to dodge with a joke. "It depends on how you judge it," I said. "By your age, you're still a kid. The law says you're still a minor. Physically you're bigger than a lot of boys, but – pardon me if I'm a bit indelicate, 'Lia, you asked – you're still goin' through the changes in your body from girl to woman. Mentally ... Darlia, you're the wisest, smartest, most mature, most stable, most peaceable, most pleasant girl to be around I've ever known, an' while you're my only child, I have been around a fair number of kids. In a lot of ways under that head, you're more of a woman than some females who've lived 70 years already."

"So you're sayin' that I'm me, and I'm gettin' there but not quite."

I reached over and put my arm around her shoulders, giving her a good squeeze – I don't have to hold back with Darlia, not that chunk of muscle. "That's a good summary."

She nodded, and just then Cecelia slid a plate in front me, with an omelet on it – and I didn't have to ask to know that it fit my prescription. In all our joking, Cecelia and I know how to get at the truth behind the jokes, and we both at different times will seem to read minds because we've learned to hear and see things that those who don't know us so well would miss. There was a fork with the omelet, and a knife, and I commenced to cut it up.

Darlia put her hand on mine, gently. "Thanks, Dad. I hadn't planned to ask that, but you gave me a good answer."

I forked up a bite of omelet and ate it – excellent as always. Cecelia can't cook badly. "I gave you an honest answer."

"That's all I want, Dad – and that's all you've ever give me."

"And that's all either of you shall say for now," Cecelia said from the kitchen. "I have restrained myself till now, but I must insist on quiet until I can recover from the flood of unprotested bad grammar."