Finding Amy Read Free Page B

woman with the sharpest, coldest steel blue eyes I have ever seen.  They held none of Amy’s warmth.  They showed no emotion toward Amy or myself.  I was sure that I recognized a challenge in them as she assessed me.
    Eventually, she shifted her eyes to Amy.  Quite stiffly, she began.  “Good evening, Amy.  I’m pleased that you’ve come home.”
    “Yes, dear.  We’ve missed you.”  Her father was stiff, but I detected some warmth in his words.
    Amy’s smile was forced.  “Yes, Mother, Father, it’s good to see you too.”
    Not a hug or kiss, Christ, what a homecoming.  I wouldn’t want to come home to this either.
    Her mother returned her gaze to me.  Amy seemed mute.  I extended my hand to her father.  “Hello sir.  My name is Danny Lawrence.  I’m happy to meet you.”
    The man returned my handshake, but just nodded as his wife spoke.  “Mr. Lawrence, how do you do?”  But it was the kind of ‘how do you do’ that required no answer.  I could see why Amy was so afraid to stand up to them.  It would have been like a mouse standing up to lions.
    Their home was elegant.  It looked like one of those houses featured in magazines - everything in its place and everything perfect.  I was shown to a guest bedroom by an elderly woman servant and told that as soon as I freshened up to come down to the dining room.  Amy had been spirited to her room by her mother.
    Fifteen minutes later, I walked into a cavernous room with the warmth of a funeral parlor to find the Harringtons.  Her father sat at the head of a massive table; his wife was to his right and Amy to his left.
    “Please be seated Mr. Lawrence.”  Her mother nodded to the table setting next to Amy.
    As I took my chair, I smiled. “Please, call me Dan.”
    At that point, a servant placed a bowl of a thin brown liquid in front of me.  Their servants were like automated robots.  We had a housekeeper and her husband was a terrific cook, but they were like family.  These servers were almost invisible.  The Harringtons seldom acknowledged them.  Hell, they hardly acknowledged me.
    The dinner was perfect: soup, spinach salad, asparagus, skinless chicken, and fruit sorbet.  A little bland for me, but perfect nevertheless.  It was a quiet dinner.  Her mother updated Amy on the happenings of the people in their social circle.  Her father never said a word.  As we finished our sorbet, an uneasy silence set in.  We were all apparently uncomfortable anyway so I thought, well buddy, it may as well start now.   I reached over, took Amy’s hand and placed it under mine in full between our plates.  I saw her mother’s eyes widen ever so slightly as I began.
    “Mr. Harrington, I came home with Amy to ask you and your wife a very important question.  I am asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
    “I see.”  Her mother stood up.  “Well, perhaps we should adjourn to the den to discuss this further.”  Ignoring me, she turned to her daughter, “Amy?”
    Amy and her father followed her mother from the dining room.  I kept hold of Amy’s hand and followed.  The den was a warm room with books covering three of the walls while the fourth was a highly polished, heavy wood of some kind.  There was a desk and several sofas.  Several oriental rugs augmented the wall-to-wall carpeting.  There was a bar cut into the shelving on one wall.
    Her father walked to the bar while Mrs. Harrington sat on a sofa.  Amy pulled me to the one across from her mother.
    “Roger, I’ll take a sherry and Amy will have a Perrier.”  She focused her steel eyes on me.  “And you, Mr. Lawrence?”
    I had the strongest urge to say make it a beer.  “I’ll have a Perrier also, thank you.”
    Once the drinks had been poured and distributed, Mr. Harrington went to stand by the window.  Again I was the object of the steel eyes.
    “Now.  Let’s discuss your proposal.”  Her eyes moved to Amy.  “What do you have to say about all