"Dad? You have a package. The UPS man just delivered it." Sydney carried the flat box into the kitchen and looked it over curiously.  No return address was listed.  "And my paperwork for college came yesterday.  My advisor helped me fill everything out.  I just need you to sign it."

"Your advisor?" Jack put away the last pieces of silverware from the dishwasher, making sure the spots were wiped from the knives, before beginning on the glasses. "Oh yes, Mrs. Hawkins.  I met her last year."

"Yeah, she took over after you got Miss Meadows fired." Sydney leaned against the doorframe. "I thought that dishwasher soap was supposed to keep the dishes from getting spots?"

"I believe the ad claims a 99% effectiveness." Jack held up one of the glasses to the window, allowing the afternoon light to shine through it. "They may need to go back and re-visit their data." He picked up another glass, carefully wiping it before deeming it ready for the cupboard.  "As to your Miss Meadows, I did not have her fired.  According to your Principal, she quit." 

"Right after your meeting with her.  She made a pass at you, didn't she?  Everyone at school said she had the hots for you."

"Sydney, what have I told you about using slang?" Jack reproved.

"I'm only telling you what everyone said. Dag, Dad."

"Dag is not a word and I can assure you that Miss Meadows was not interested in me." Jack finished putting away the last glass and placed the dishtowel back on its peg under the sink.

"Right, Dad," Sydney scoffed.  "She was single and you're a rich widower.  There's no ex-wife to get in the way and you only have one liability; a teenager daughter who could easily be shipped off to a private boarding school."

"Easily?" Jack snorted, leaning casually against the counter, a small smile crinkled at the corners if his mouth.

"Well, she wasn't to know that, now was she?"

"Sydney, whatever Miss Meadows agenda, I would prefer you not gossiping about me with your friends.  We've discussed this before."

"I haven't been gossiping.  Francie told me what all the kids were saying, that's all.  It's not like you work for the CIA or anything. The way you go on, you'd think selling airplane parts was vital to our national security."

"Industrial espionage is not to be taken lightly.  It isn't a lot to ask that you be more discreet.  You may be only sharing with Francie, but Francie will tell Lisa, then Lisa tells her friend Susie, and so on and so forth." He passed a weary hand through his hair.  "Maybe leaving you with the Calfo's instead of hiring a new nanny wasn't such a good idea."

"That's not fair. Mrs. Calfo despises gossip. The neighbors are always asking her stuff and she tells them it's none of their business. Francie was only telling me what the other kids are saying; she wasn't participating in the gossip. Besides, you never talk about your work, so I'm sure I haven't passed on any important airplane parts information. Your secrets are safe."

"I also would prefer it if you didn't tell people when I am away on a business trip."

"Whatever. Maybe I should just have my tongue cut out?  Here, I need you to sign these so I can get them in before the deadline."

Jack frowned.  He started to admonish her again, but realized quickly that she was deliberately provoking him. Why was it he could tell within thirty seconds of an interrogation if the subject was being truthful and sense a trap before stepping into it, yet find it unusually difficult to avoid the verbal traps of his teenage daughter? 

He shook his head in frustration.  Sydney shoved the papers in front of him, her fingers rapping impatiently against the table. "Sydney, banging your fingers on the table is rude.  Please stop."

"I just was wondering if you planned on signing the papers sometime today."

He pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket and signed. Too late, he realized their conversation and the finger tapping was an elaborate ruse to distract him.  He looked at the letterhead on the admission paper and groaned silently.  Grown men had tried to out think him, men who were highly skilled in logic and game theory. They usually failed. How shocked would they be to know he had just been hoodwinked by a seventeen year old? 

Sydney's choice of the university had been a bone of contention between them from the moment she mentioned going to college.   Laura was a literature professor at UCLA before her death and Sydney saw the school as the romantic embodiment of her mother.  Attending the university would allow her to walk the same steps; possibly sit in the same classrooms as her mother. 

Originally he worried she might choose Georgetown, his alma mater and the place where he and Laura courted.  He shuddered at the thought of ever going back there, even to visit his daughter.  Every special place would be a reminder of the lie Laura had perpetrated.  There were nights when he would lose sleep thinking about it, but he need not have been concerned.  Georgetown was symbolic of both her parents. UCLA had been Laura's sole domain. It was the connection with her mother Sydney sought, not her father.

Now his daughter was in full possession of legally signed contracts for a college he hoped he would never have to see again. He had no choice now but to let her attend UCLA. Sydney knew once he signed, he wouldn't renege.  She had done a masterful job of misdirecting his attention. His daughter had the makings of a first class agent, he thought with pride.

Seeing Sydney's smirk of satisfaction as she folded the papers into a large manila envelope, he decided it was better not to acknowledge her victory. "As for Miss Meadows," he continued, referring back to their earlier conversation. "I merely informed her you would not be attending Juilliard.  I have no idea why she chose to leave." Or why Sloane planted her at Sydney's high school in the first place, he mused to himself. The woman had vanished without a trace before he had a chance to make further inquiries.

"Right." Sydney rolled her eyes. "It was just a coincidence that she quit right after you had your meeting with the Principal. I'm sure the kids at school will buy that one." She frowned, her father's words sinking in. "You told her to quit bothering me about Juilliard?" 

"You said you weren't interested, remember?"

"Yes, but…" She stopped confused. "I thought you wanted me to attend a private school.  Juilliard would have been the perfect solution for you."

"Are you planning a career as a concert pianist?"

"No!" she answered emphatically.

"Then I see no logical reason in sending you to a school that would train you for a vocation you are not planning to pursue.  I considered it a waste of your time and my resources."

"Umm. Thank you. I think."  She flipped over the package she had carried in earlier, wondering who sent it.  Her father never received packages in the mail. "It doesn't say who it's from. Do you want me to open it?"

"No!  I'll do it." Carefully, he picked up the box and looked it over.  It light for its size, so he quickly ruled out the possibility of a pipe bomb.  He shook it gently, listening for any unusual sounds. 

"Geez, Dad.  Remind me to never send you a package. Who knew selling airplane parts could be so dangerous?"

"I'm just being careful, Sydney. The package is unmarked and I'm not expecting anything. There are people in my business who wouldn't mind ridding themselves of the competition." 

"Sure there are, Dad," Sydney jeered. 

"Stop rolling your eyes.  If you have an issue with my concern, then state your case.  Our office has received too many threats in the past couple of months for me not to take this seriously.  Since your school apparently teaches you nothing about recent history, you should be aware that several people have died in the past because they opened unmarked packages like this."

"That was a fanatic who had political issues. No one is targeting airplane salesmen."

"There have been other instances, where rivals have eliminated their competition through similar means.  Selling airplane parts pays our bills, including your future tuition at UCLA. I would prefer not to be their next victim."

"I guess the next thing you are going to say is how ungrateful and unappreciative I am and that there are plenty of starving children in India who would gladly take my place!" 

Jack frowned at her. "The thought has never crossed my mind. The two situations are not synonymous. I am not responsible for the children in India, starving or otherwise.  I am, however, responsible for you and an unmarked package should not be treated lightly.  If this were a bomb and …"

"Dad," Sydney interrupted.  "Would you quit being so literal and open the package already!"

Jack slid a fingernail along the edge of the tape, barely breaking the tape apart.  When it appeared the package was harmless, he pulled up the flaps and lifted out the contents.  There were several black and white photographs inside the box, all of a tiny baby with curly brown hair, each carefully inscribed with  "Baby Boy Bristow – three months". 

"Look Dad, your old baby pictures.  Someone must have found them in grandma's old stuff and returned them to you."

"I guess I missed them when I gave away all her things." Jack gathered the photographs before Sydney could examine them more closely.  Lack of training or not, his daughter was remarkably observant for a child her age. 

"Hey, aren't you going to let me see them?"

"Maybe later.  I have some work to do."

"Oh, of course.  Work.  Well, thank you for sharing a few moments from your busy schedule with me." 

"Someday when you are older, you will understand that sometimes you have to make difficult choices.  Sometimes sacrifices have to be made."

"Well, I'll go gather the wood, you bring the matches."

Jack shook his head.  "Don't be sarcastic, Sydney. I'm sure you must have homework needing your attention."  Picking up the box, he walked to his study. He shuffled through the pictures, placing them side-by-side on the desk. The last picture had a piece of paper taped to the back.  Frowning, he pulled off the tape and opened the note. It was short and to the point; the handwriting matching the inscription on the photos.  "She loves you."

Picking up one of the photographs, he examined it more closely. There was no denying the resemblance. He had a son. Somewhere. Baby Boy Bristow had inherited his hair and ears. The child was his, but who was the mother?

He hadn't had a sex partner in several years.  Sydney had put a damper on that. She was ten when he decided she needed a mother. Besides, he had grown tired of picking up lonely women at the local bars.  They had assuaged his physical desires, but he knew he needed something more.  Something he once thought he had. 

Finding available women proved surprisingly easy.  Finding one who didn't bore him within a few hours proved less so. He tried not to compare them with Laura. Whatever her other sins, no one could ever accuse her of being boring. Promising candidates usually fizzled somewhere between dinner and the dessert, if not sooner. It was always a relief when the dinners were interrupted with anxious phone calls from the sitter.  He should have stopped Sydney's manipulations, but his conscious wouldn't let him. She had saved him the trouble of making excuses and her emergencies were always more interesting and creative than his dates.

Since his foray into dating was unsuccessful and one night stands were no longer satisfying, he chose instead to relieve himself the old fashioned way.  In seven years, the closest he'd come to being with a woman was the night in the hospital after Sydney's concert and that had been a dream; a phantom hallucination brought on by pain and strong medicine.

He went over to the stereo system and placed the needle on the old 45.  The familiar strains filled the room.  "…hold me close, never let me go.  Hold me close, melt my heart like April snow…" It had only been a dream. Hadn't it?

Fin