Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [17]
As the only child, Trish was not only the apple of her father’s eye, but also the sole heiress to the entire FlushKing Toilet Bowl and Urinal fortune.
“Daddy!” Trish cried the moment she saw him, running to the front door of the estate toward her beaming father’s outstretched arms. Her boyfriend was left behind to collect the luggage from the trunk of the rental car.
“My baby princess!” he gushed, scooping the girl into his arms and giving her a great big bear hug. He was a large man, in every way. Even his white eyebrows seemed twice as thick as an ordinary man’s. And he didn’t speak, he boomed.
“Oh Daddy! Happy birthday, happy, happy birthday.”
Porcelain, the white Maltese, scampered to the door and began yapping.
Trish’s boyfriend arrived and set the luggage on the flagstone steps.
Mr. Mission released his daughter and extended his beefy hand for the boyfriend to shake. “Hello, Stan,” he said.
“Steve,” Steve corrected, shaking Mr. Mission’s hand. Mr. Mission squeezed hard and Steve winced.
Trish playfully slapped her father on the arm. “Oh Daddy, stop teasing him. You know his name.” Then she bent down and scooped the little lap dog into her arms. “I missed you, too,” she said, laughing as it licked her face.
It was after dinner when Trish’s boyfriend presented her with the engagement ring and asked for her hand in marriage. He had placed the simple one-carat ring on Trish’s finger, and she said, yes.
Trish then leapt up off the mahogany leather sofa and dashed to her father, who was seated in a matching wing chair. “Look, Daddy,” she cried, “isn’t it pretty?”
Her father placed his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and peered at the ring. He leaned closer and his nostrils flared.
“You call this an engagement ring?!” he bellowed. “It’s a chip, nothing but a chip.” Trish frowned and looked at the ring.
Mr. Mission glared at Steve, who was sitting on the couch in a fresh state of shock. “Where the hell did you say you work?”
“Price Waterhouse,” Steve replied.
“Well, that explains everything,” he hollered. “You’ll never amount to anything as long as you work for someone else.”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t be hateful,” Trish whined. “Steve has a good job. He makes almost half a million dollars a year.”
“Half a million dollars a what?” he demanded. “A year?” He got up and stormed toward the doorway. “Gunther!” he yelled.
The servant appeared almost instantly.
“Get Jim Lewis on the phone and tell him to open the store immediately. We’re coming over now. And get the car started.” Then he stomped angrily over to his daughter and said, “Give me that thing,” pointing to her finger.
Reluctantly, she slipped the ring off her finger and set it in her father’s outstretched hand. He made a fist around it and abruptly shoved it into his pocket before walking to the minibar and pouring himself a tumbler of scotch.
Steve looked at Trish, who gave him a shrug and mouthed the words, That’s Daddy.
Then, at just after midnight, the three of them, along with Gunther, went to Tiffany & Co., where her father demanded to see the best and largest diamond in the store. When the seven-and-a-half carat stone was delivered to him on a black velvet cushion, he took the original engagement ring out of his pocket and plunked it next to the diamond.
“We want to trade up,” he barked.
Jim Lewis, the store’s senior manager, inspected the engagement ring. He recognized it immediately for what it was—a good quality stone worth approximately $4,000. Then he looked at Mr. Mission. “Well, sir,” he began, “I’m afraid the difference in cost will be quite substantial.”
“Surprise, surprise. Let’s get this over with. I want to go back home and get some sleep.” He pulled his checkbook out from his breast pocket.
“Absolutely, Mr. Mission,” Mr. Lewis said. He then retrieved a sales form and a calculator from beneath the counter. He subtracted the price of the original engagement ring from that of the rare, perfect quality seven-and-a-half carat stone. “Here you are, Mr. Mission,” he said, sliding the completed