CHAPTER TWELVE

      “I DON’T SEE WHY YOU GIRLS needed me to drive you,” Faith’s father said as they pulled into the parking lot.

      “Because we need you to protect us from disgusting men, Mr. H.,” Colleen said. “Though if you’d marry me, I wouldn’t be reduced to Singles Shooting Night.”

      “Please, Dad. We’ll both feel better if you’re here. And Coll, no more proposing to my father, okay?”

      The plan was to get Dad out in the world of senior citizen singletons and show him that there were women who weren’t quite as, er, carnivorous as Lorena. Two days ago, Honor had caught the woman in Dad’s bedroom, going through Mom’s collection of antique perfume bottles. When Honor confronted her, Lorena said she’d gotten lost on her way back from the bathroom, which didn’t explain why she was making a list. This had resulted in a phone call from Honor, saying that if Faith wasn’t up for the job, she’d do it herself.

      But Faith was trying. She wanted nothing more than for Dad to find a nice woman, though it was still shocking that after nineteen and a half years, someone like Lorena had wormed past his shield. Tonight, she’d opted for the more personal route, completely unable to imagine her beloved dad with StillHotGranny or NotDeadYet, the most recent listings on eCommitment/SeniorLove.

      And so, Singles Shooting Night (Ages 21 to 101! the ad had merrily announced) here in Corning, which got Dad out of town and might make him a little more relaxed...he’d always tended to blush and mutter around interested women (except Lorena—again, probably because he was so clueless). And sure, Faith had it in the back of her mind that maybe, just maybe, she’d meet a sweet and wonderful man. One who looked like Jake Gyllenhaal, maybe. Or Ryan Gosling. She’d take either. Or both. Why not? A girl could dream.

      As for the whole weapons aspect of the evening, well. There wasn’t much in terms of singles events around here, if you didn’t count setting a fire to a hay bale so the Manningsport Volunteer Fire Department would come out, which Suzette Minor had done last week. According to Ned, Suzette had then been asked out by Gerard Chartier, so maybe there was something to be said for arson. But Singles Shooting Night had a certain metaphoric truth, Faith thought. You’d aim, fire and hit or miss. We met over a Glock, and she nailed the target right in the face, and I just knew.

      “Game faces on, people,” Colleen said as they got out of the car. Dad grumbled but followed her inside, removing his cap and running a hand through his silver hair.

      “Daddy, don’t forget you have to talk if a lady approaches you,” Faith said. “Be nice.”

      “We should’ve brought Lorena,” Dad said. “I think she’s interested in getting married again.”

      “Oh, she is, Mr. Holland,” Colleen said. “She’s got her eye on you, don’t you know.”

      “I wouldn’t say that,” he said, smiling fondly.

      “Does she put out?” Colleen asked.

      “Coll! Come on!”

      “I— We...ah, we don’t...well, she’s fun and all, but...uh, here you go, girls.” He held the door to Zippy’s Gun & Hunting and then went inside. Plenty of people crowded into the shop, Faith thought. Lots of white hair.

      “Hello there,” a man said to Colleen’s boobage, which was on excellent display, as ever. He was around seventy, and Colleen smiled slyly. She’d often voiced the opinion that she had the makings of an excellent kept woman or trophy wife.

      Faith had to give the organizers credit: at least there’d be something to do in addition to the usual chatter/interrogations that went on at singles events. Kill each other, for example. She tried not to sigh as Coll wandered off.

      Her parents had grown up together, childhood friends, dating since tenth grade, when Dad had caught Mom’s shoe at a church dance—the boys had lined up on one side of the room, the girls on the other, and the girls had been told by the reverend to throw one shoe, then find the boy who caught it and dance with him. Mom had admitted to hurling her Ked at John Holland “like Don Larsen throwing to Yogi.”

      Then again, maybe they weren’t the best example.

      Colleen returned. “I already have three phone numbers,” she said. “So old school. Two of those guys don’t even have a Facebook page.”

      “Well, you’re tapping into the artificial hip crowd, Coll, what do you expect?”

      “You see anyone for you?” Colleen asked, peering around. A man wearing overalls—but no shirt—leered at them, but Coll just laughed and said, “In your dreams, pal. Eesh. Avert the eyes, Faith. I don’t think he’s wearing underwear.”

      By and large, the attendees were female and over fifty. She and Colleen definitely stood out. There were...let’s see...seven men, not counting Dad. Speaking of, her father approached. “Sweetie, what should I do?” he asked. “Two women have already asked for my phone number.”

      “Oh, great!” Faith said, patting his arm. “Very flattering. Maybe you should meet one of them for coffee. I’m sure they’re very nice.”

      “I don’t think so. I’m not really interested in dating.”

      “Dad, Lorena is circling you like a great white. I think she thinks you’re dating.”

      Dad gave her a confused look. “No. She’s just fun. A nice person. Very vivacious.”

      Faith paused. “Dad, we’re pretty sure she’s after your money.”

      “I have no money. I have four children instead.”

      “She was cataloguing Mom’s perfume bottles.”

      “Oh, those things. Your mommy sure did love them. I thought they were dust collectors, myself, but...” His blue eyes softened at the memory, and Faith’s heart tightened. She had to find him someone else. He deserved it.

      A woman edged closer. Nicely dressed, age-appropriate. Faith gave her a tiny nod and turned back to her father.

      “Dad, if you think Lorena’s fun, maybe you’ll like talking to other women who don’t discuss thongs with your teenage granddaughter.”

      “Did she do that?” Dad asked, suitably shocked.

      “Ask Abby.”

      “Give someone else a shot, Mr. H.,” Colleen said. “See what you got. Oh, that guy is giving me the eye. Back in a flash.” Colleen dashed off to another septuagenarian, this one with a walker, and tossed her shiny hair.

      “Hello there! I’m Beatrice,” said the woman who’d been eyeing dear old Dad. Attractive, lively, smiling. A contender, in other words. She spoke to Faith, rather than John. “Aren’t you beautiful! I love red hair.”

      Nicely played, Faith admitted. Go straight for the child. “I’m Faith, and this is my dad, John. He’s a widower.”

      “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Beatrice cooed, her eyes sparkling with delight. “I’m divorced, three kids, four grands.”

      Dad didn’t answer, so Faith gave him a hearty nudge to the ribs. “Oh, uh, I’m...uh hello. John. John Smith.”

      “Dad,” Faith muttered.

      “I have several children myself,” he said. He was sweating already. Faith stepped discreetly away, pretending not to see Dad’s pleading look.

      Colleen