“You always make me feel better,” she said. “That’s why I call. I love you, Daddy.” “I love you too.” “How many bunches?” How many years since she’d asked that? Twelve? Fourteen? It didn’t matter, I remembered the answer. “A million and one for under your pillow,” I said. Then I said goodbye and hung up and thought that if Carson Jones hurt my daughter, I’d kill him. The thought made me smile a little, wondering how many fathers had had the same thought and made the same promise. But of all those fathers, I might be the only one who could kill a heedless, daughter-hurting suitor with a few
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