Page 2 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 1
I pull into our drive and park next to Ian’s new gray Porsche SUV—he traded in his Porsche 911 for a larger vehicle to accommodate two infant car seats and a double stroller—and carry the groceries up the drive.
As I’m passing the recently renovated two-story carriage house that is home to our private investigation business, the door opens and Kimi, our twenty-three-year-old office manager, steps out. She’s wearing a long floral skirt with a bulky white sweater and black-and-white high-top sneakers. Her spiky purple hair is cut short, and she’s wearing a pair of large gold hoop earrings. It appears that flower power is still alive and well.
Kimi waves eagerly as she bounces on her feet. “Hey, Mr. J!” When she smiles, dimples appear in her round cheeks. “How’s it going? How are the babies?”
Ian and I gave ourselves paternity leave for eight weeks after the babies were born, which means we’re not actively taking any cases for another six weeks. Kimi is holding down the fort for us while we’re on leave. She answers the phone, schedules appointments, and orders office supplies—she does all the things that keep our business functioning day-to-day.
“They’re doing great, Kimi,” I say, stopping to juggle all the bags and packages I’m holding. “Thanks for asking.” I pause because I get the feeling she wants to say more.
“And Ian? How’s he taking to fatherhood?”
“He’s loving it. He’s a natural with the babies.” It’s true. Ian has taken to his new role as a father like he was born to it, whereas I feel like I’m constantly fumbling. I nod toward our back door. “I should take these inside.”
“Oh, right!” Kimi darts forward. “Let me help you.” She grabs the supersized package of diapers and follows me as I continue around back to the rear entrance to the house. When we reach the back door, she says, “Hey, Mr. J, I was wondering….”
I set down my bags so I can unlock the back door. “Yes?”
“I’ve got a date tonight. Would you mind if I left work early so I can get my hair colored?” She runs her fingers through the short purple strands. Her blonde roots are clearly visible. “Jerry said he’d monitor the phones for me.”
Jerry Harshman is our other employee. He’s a former homeless veteran whom Ian befriended, and he now works for us as a general handyman and jack-of-all-trades. He lives in the apartment above the office.
“Sure, you can leave early.”
“Thanks, Mr. J.” She reaches out to open the back door for me.
I’ve asked her a million times to call me Tyler, but she just can’t shake calling meMr. J.It doesn’t make sense to me, as she has no trouble calling Ian byhisfirst name. Surely I’m notthatintimidating.
Kimi holds the door for me as I carry the items into the kitchen. She spots Ian standing at the kitchen sink washing out the coffee pot. “Hey, Ian!” she says with a wave.
Ian waves at her with a soapy hand. “Hi, Kimi. Oh, wow! I love your skirt.”
“Thanks, Ian!” she says with a salute. “You, too, Mr. J. Well, I’m taking off soon, so I guess I’ll see you guys on Monday. Have a great weekend.” The door closes behind me as Kimi takes off.
I set the bags on the kitchen table and start unloading. “I don’t understand why she won’t call me Tyler. She calls you by your first name.”
“That’s because you’re wicked scary.” Ian winks at me as he dries his hands and comes to join me at the table, peering at my haul. “Did they have everything?”
“Yes, everything on the list, exactly as you wrote.” I made it clear to Ian that when he wants me to do the shopping, he has to be specific. Very specific. Like down to the brand name, size, flavor, and color of the package—or better yet, send me a picture. This way, we’re both happy. He gets exactly what he wants, and I have the satisfaction of knowing I carried out my task correctly.
Ian peeks into the shopping bags. “Good job, babe.” Then he gives me a quick kiss on the mouth. “You’re such a good husband.”
“I try.” Yes, I’m smiling, because when he’s happy, I’m happy. You know the sayingHappy Wife, Happy Life?Well, it applies to husbands, too. When Ian’s happy, I’m happy. And when he’s not—well, let’s just say I don’t like it when he’s unhappy.
I tell him about the little old lady behind me in the checkout lane. “She said I don’t look gay. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She probably meant you’re way too serious,” he says, fingering the front of my white button-down, which is tucked into a pair of black trousers. “You can take the man out of his homicide detective job, but you can’t take the homicide detective out of the man.” He grips the front of my shirt and pulls me close for another kiss, this one far more lingering. “I wish I’d been there,” he says. “If she saw us together, she’d know. I’m gay enough for the both of us.”
That makes me smile, too, because he’s right. At the moment, he’s wearing ripped jeans and a white form-fitting T-shirt with a giant sparkly pink unicorn, with a rainbow-colored mane, emblazoned across the front. His light brown, curly hair is still damp from a shower, his beard trimmed short.
At thirty-one, Ian’s a whole sixteen years younger than I am. But the age gap doesn’t explain the difference in our personalities. He’s a ray of sunshine, while I’m a middle-aged, practical man whom Ian sometimes callsMr. Grumpypants.
The baby monitor sitting on the island counter crackles, and then we hear a breathy sob that quickly ramps up to a full-throated cry.
“Please go soothe your daughter,” Ian says as he bumps my hip with his. “The bottles are almost ready. I’ll bring them right up.”
“You can tell that’s Lizzie?”How can he tell?
Ian looks shocked. “You can’t?”
