“Thank you. For this trip,” he says, gruff again. “You know. I’m not effusive. But inside I am. Inside, I’m effusive, honey.”
“Good, good. Me, too, Dad.”
“Next trip’s on me. Maybe tarpon fishing in Florida. Do you need any money?” he says with a smile, slipping a $100 bill into my hand.
“In fact . . .” I hug him and say, “Could you make it $200?”
He shakes his head and waves good-bye. And as he walks away, this time I’m not disappointed at all, only sad to watch him go.
Elisabeth Robinson is a screenwriter and novelist who lives in New York.