Chapter 4

“Hey, kitten, how are you?” Bernard Lewinsky didn’t hesitate to answer his daughter’s phone call.

“Lonely ... I need you, Daddy ... please!” Monica told her father.

“Of course, baby. I’ll be right there. Are you home? You sound a little tipsy,” Bernard was ever the conscientious father right then.

The truth was that in many ways, Bernard felt as if Marcia and he had failed Monica or let her down somewhat in the past. He felt no small amount of guilt about that, though Marcia largely shrugged it off. That sort of difference was a prime example of why they were divorced, he supposed. He wasn’t about to fail her anymore. He might be seventy-seven years of age, but he was still her father. He was still Daddy. His daughter might be forty-six, but she would always be his little girl.

“Yes, I’m home, Daddy ... and I’m ... a bit buzzed,” Monica confessed, “I’m just ... lonely. So lonely.”

Bernard had a glass or two of red wine in his system, but nothing compared to what Monica drank. He simply ordered an Uber and headed to his daughter’s place posthaste, deciding to stay over if she wished it. If not, he could always order another Uber. He had the wealth for it and money was no object where his daughter’s happiness was concerned. He didn’t know how many years he had left of fatherhood before the Grim Reaper claimed his soul.

Bernard took a few personal items with him in a small bag, not sure if he would need them, but he didn’t take any change of clothes. He was in too much of a rush and he didn’t want to make any assumptions, anyway. He wasn’t the most religious guy ever, hadn’t been to temple in ages, other than Passover and other high holy days of the Jewish calendar, but still ... he uttered a brief prayer for his Monica while in the Uber. The driver, a Pakistani fellow, seemed to understand well enough, even bade Bernard, “salaam alaikum.”

“Walaikum salaam,” Bernard answered, being familiar enough with the overlap between the Arabic greeting used in Islam and its Hebrew counterpart, both meaning “peace be upon you.”

Monica wasted no time getting her father indoors, in fact, even while trying not to be too obvious as to her intentions. She knew that her father had a girlfriend, one of a string of them, but she didn’t honestly care. What was a girlfriend compared to a daughter, anyway? She needed her Daddy ... that was all that she knew. Monica might not be as quick on the draw as she had been, but she was clever enough to pour her father some more wine to help him relax.

If Bernard suspected any intentions other than father-daughter-bonding, he didn’t act like it, accepting the wine and letting Monica snuggle up close to him as always. He couldn’t help but notice that Monica’s behavior was a little odd, but she had been through a lot, so that was to be expected. He wasn’t inside her head, didn’t know what demons might be torturing her even now. He was glad of the second glass of wine that she poured him, even if it was third or fourth for the night. He started to feel a little ... blurry and ... off.

That was when she began her first move, removing his shoes and putting a pillow under his head. That was Monica’s signal that she wanted her Daddy to sleep over at her place for the night, of course. Before Bernard could really think to push back, his daughter had his shirt off, which still seemed semi-normal, but then his pants were taken off him. He felt more than a little awkward in just his boxers around his own daughter, of course.