Suddenly, the phone rang. It was Wyatt Winslow.
She quickly gestured to Mortimer Quincy, then answered the call. "Dad, my throat's fine. Some dust just blew into my mouth. Yeah, we're on our way. You don't have to pick us up; we'll be home soon."
She hung up and urged, "Let's hurry home. Dad's rushing me."
It was already half-past nine when they arrived home. Holly Winslow looked at the steaming hot dishes on the table and froze for a moment. "Dad, you haven't eaten yet?"
"I got home a little late."
Wyatt Winslow ladled a bowl of soup and handed it to her. "Have some soup."
There were two sets of bowls and chopsticks on the table; he was clearly waiting to eat with her. Holly Winslow's heart ached with warmth. She reached out and hugged him, cooing, "Dad, you're the best. And as it happens, I'm still hungry."
Wyatt Winslow's expression softened. "Go on, drink up."
One drank her soup while the other ate his meal, their two figures seeming to soften under the warm light.
...
