“What’s on the menu at Chateaux Manos?” Samantha joked, making the S in Manos silent, like it was French.

“We’re going out,” Dad said.

“What, is it the chef’s night off?” Samantha said sarcastically. She was totally comfortable with my Dad after only a few hours.

“It is,” he said. “I could stir something up in the kitchen, but I was thinking of going out.”

“I hope you have someplace fancy in mind,” Samantha said.

“I was thinking ‘berto’s,” Dad said.

“As in Roberto’s?” Samantha said.

“Of course as in Roberto’s,” he laughed. “What other ‘berto’s could I mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “Alberto’s or maybe Rigoberto’s, or Tio Alberto’s or Filiburto’s?”

“Wow,” I chuckled, “you’re really turning into a local San Diegan, agápi mou.”

She nodded proudly.

“That’s all well and good,” Dad said, “but we all know Roberto’s is still the best.”

We climbed into my Camaro and I drove the three of us to the Roberto’s in Encinitas.

My dad ordered for everyone while Samantha and I grabbed the salsa bottles and napkins and found a table outside.

“Okay,” Samantha said, “your dad is like totally awesome.” She was grinning from ear to ear. “Why have you been hiding him from me all this time?”

After spending several hours with my dad, seeing the studio, and touring his house, it had become clear it wasn’t an act. He’d literally transformed himself since my last visit. “This is the new and improved Nikolos Manos. Remember I told you about his drinking?”

“Yeah?”

“He is a changed man. I haven’t seen him like this since years ago.”

“Well, he’s awesome now, that’s for sure.”

“True that,” I smiled.

“How awesome is it that he’s like a billionaire, and he wants to have cheap Mexican food for dinner?”

“He’s not a billionaire, but he is epic awesome,” I grinned.

My dad carried two trays with carne asada burritos outside a few minutes later. “I got chips and extra guac for everyone,” he smiled as he set the trays down on the colorful mosaic table top.

We chowed down on our grub.

“So,” Dad glanced at me and said, “your grandad tells me you’ve been having a little trouble with your new paintings?”

With my mouth still full of delicious carne asada, I mumbled, “Fucking kill me now.” It came out like I thought it was funny, and my dad chuckled. But inside, everything tightened up. Now that my dad had thrown away the booze and turned into a tea totaling ass kicking painter, I couldn’t tell him about my downhill slide. It would kill him.

Sam flashed me a quick look. She knew the score, but I knew she wouldn’t talk.

“What’s been giving you grief?” my dad asked.

In the past, I would’ve dodged the question. My dad had had so many problems of his own, we never had time to talk about mine. But he had opened the door. By the look in his eyes, he wanted to know. Where to begin? Fuck it. I was going balls deep on the ass fucking that my painting had been giving me lately. “Did you hear that Stanford Wentworth came by the studio?”

“The Stanford Wentworth?” Dad marveled. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten famous so quick.”

“More like infamous. Wentworth hated my new shit.”

“Bullshit,” my dad spat. “I saw your work at the solo show. It was beautiful.”

“Wait till you see my new stuff,” I grinned cockily. I knew I’d made substantial progress since doing those old paintings. “Technically, my new shit’s way better. Anyway, Wentworth hated them.”

“Then he’s an idiot,” my dad chuckled around the food in his mouth.

Talking about Wentworth should’ve sent me searching for a fifth of bourbon. It would have yesterday. But the stress I had around the topic of Wentworth had up and vanished.

As lame as it sounded, I think it was because of the simple fact I was sitting across from my dad like not a day had gone by since things were still good with him and Mom, when we were still a happy family. The happiest ever. I’d felt those good feelings coming back throughout the day today. Well, half back, which was fucking awesome because half of the greatest family unit on the planet seemed pretty incredible to me. Plus, I had Samantha.

What more could a guy ask for?

(mom)

“Two things,” Dad said. “One, we’re hopping on a plane to wherever the fuck Wentworth is at the moment so I can break his jaw.”

I grinned, “I hear he’s in St. Petersburg looking at some Russian painter’s new work. Cold as shit that far north of the equator. Wait until Wentworth heads down to Italy. I hear that’s where he spends Spring. Then I’ll join you.”

“That sounds like a fun trip,” Samantha smiled after wiping salsa from her lips. “Do we go to the ultramarine mines in Afghanistan afterward?”

“Totally!” I joked.

“Perfect,” she said before biting delicately on more burrito.

“What was the other thing?” I asked my dad.

“The other thing is, I need to see your new work so I can figure out what made Wentworth say that. As much as I’ve always disliked the guy, he knows what he’s talking about. I want to figure out why he said what he did. But I can’t make any comments until I see your new paintings in person. Otherwise, I’ll be blowing smoke up your ass, and you know how much I hate to get my lips close to your puckered butthole.” He leaned over toward Samantha and whispered conspiratorially, “This kid was a fart factory when I used to change his diapers.”

Samantha blurted laughter.

“Puckered butthole?” I asked doubtfully.

“I hear how the kids talk. No reason why I have to sound like an antique.”

“No kids talk like that,” I laughed.

“So I’m a fucking trend setter,” Dad smiled.

He was that. You didn’t make millions by being an also-ran copycat or an idiot.

“I think I see what Wentworth was talking about,” my Dad said thoughtfully as we stood in front of my painting of Sophia in the studio at my grandfather’s house.

Samantha stood next to me. My grandfather was right behind us.

“Technically,” Dad continued, “it’s incredible. But it’s stale.” He said it with no judgment. It was an observation, like he was thinking things through out loud. I knew my dad well enough to know he would say more when he had a clear concept in mind.

My grandfather chuckled, “You should’ve heard the way Wentworth was telling Christos to change things on the now-defunct painting of Isabella. If I hadn’t walked out of the room, I would’ve thrown Wentworth out of the house.”

I rubbed my grandad affectionately on the shoulder, “Thanks, Pappoús.”

“I really wish you hadn’t trashed that painting,” my grandad said. “It was excellent.”

Boom. Silence.

My grandad had accidentally let the cat out of the bag.

My dad knew exactly what caused an artist to trash a painting. He’d had plenty of personal experience.

“I’m sorry,” my grandad said. “I shouldn’t have—” he stopped short. “I’m going to go make some lemonade. Anyone want a glass?”

“Uhh…” Samantha stammered, “I’ll help? Don’t we need to pick some fresh lemons first? I think I saw a lemon tree down the block.”

“It’s spring,” I said sarcastically. “The lemons don’t come in for another couple months.”

“We’ll wait?” Samantha said. “Let’s go, Spiridon, before we miss the lemons ripening?”

The two of them walked out of the room.

My dad raised his eyebrows at me. “When did you start trashing paintings?”

“It was just one,” I said with a combination of guilt and defensiveness. “The one Wentworth didn’t like. I had to agree with him.”

My dad pulled a couple of chairs in front of my painting of Sophia and sat us both down.

“Was it like this one?” he motioned to the painting of Sophia.

“Better.”

“So why’d you trash it? And what did your grandad mean by trash? You weren’t drinking, were you?”