of Love on The Best Kind of Trouble
This one is for my father.
The most important thing I wrote in 2016 was my father’s obituary.
His death came suddenly and unexpectedly, and months later, his absence hits me every day in some new way. I write about family and create family a lot because I truly value it. And I value it because my dad was the best. At every major moment in my entire life, he was there. He told everyone about his daughter and whatever thing I’d done that he was proud of. He was an excellent grandfather. My kids are so fortunate to have had him as their poppa.
He was old-school. The oldest son of immigrants. Even into his seventies he called people Sir and Ma’am. He opened doors for people and gave up his seat. When I was eleven, he gave medical aid to a heatstroke victim in the parking lot of the LA County Fair. He was taciturn and could be gruff, but he was an absolute fool for babies and animals. He was my number one fan and my touchstone. When he paid attention to you, you knew he heard everything you said, though he would steal your food if you turned your back, and you never left your iced tea unmonitored if he was around.
Sure, he had flaws, like all humans. But the fact that he wasn’t my biological father wasn’t one of them. He came into my life when I was just four and he was every bit my dad.
I’ll miss him every single day, but damn, I’m so grateful I had him.
Contents
THERE IS NO actual Bootleggers’ Building. I took the history of the area and took a little literary license to create it for Whiskey Sharp to live in. Pioneer Square, the part of downtown Seattle I set the book in, is real though, as is the Underground Tour.
Two years ago
THE OLD-FASHIONED RED, white and blue barber pole lazily spun inside a glass case just outside the front door to Whiskey Sharp. Jaunty, she thought. A good sign. Classic and simple.
The bell over the door jingled as she opened it and stepped inside, greeted by the scent of sandalwood and mint. Scissors snipped and clippers hummed and it felt very much like a place she’d like to stop and stay awhile.
A broad-shouldered gent with a vest and a crisp white button-down shirt came over. “Welcome to Whiskey Sharp. You in for a cut?”
“I’m actually looking for Alexsei Petrov.”
Broad Shoulders gave her a slow head-to-toe look. “He’s just finishing up. He’s booked today, so if you want him to do your cut, we can get you in tomorrow.”
“I don’t need a cut, thanks. I just need a few minutes of his time. Irena Orlova sent me.”
Broad Shoulders relaxed at the mention of Mrs. Orlova’s name. “Okay. Just hang out here for a bit. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Maybe thanked