Author's note: If you're looking for a one page stroke story, this isn't for you.
"My name is Kimberly Carlisle, and I believe I'm your daughter."
Those words were to change my life forever. I am Mark Regan; I just turned forty. I run a fairly successful software consulting operation out of my home office in Pacifica, south of San Francisco, on the coast side of the peninsula.
I've been divorced for ten, going on eleven years.
There has been an occasional woman in and out of my life during that time, but nothing steady, nor am I sure I want there to be. I'm never hard-pressed to find a date, whenever I want one, and count a number of women among my circle of good friends, including several fuck-buddies.
I'm 6'1", about 180 pounds, with black hair and blue eyes, as befits my Black Irish heritage, and these days I'm wearing a full beard. I try to eat healthy, but I have a weakness for thick steaks and Irish whiskey. I keep myself in pretty good shape, work out in my home gym, and try to run on the beach several days a week, with my big mongrel dog, Cooter.
I was up to my ears in a big project, and it wasn't going well. This particular client is a first class jerk who gives me nothing but grief. I was in a shitty mood when the doorbell rang, and Cooter started into his happy-dance. Some watchdog; if I ever had a burglar, his biggest hazard would be drowning in dog slobber when he got his face licked.
I looked through the window and saw a young woman, dressed in business clothes, carrying an attaché case. Crap! My first thought was that it was a Jehovah's Witness, the last thing I needed that day. Wait a minute, I thought; they always travel in pairs. Process server? She looked too young. She was also very pretty. Stunning, as a matter of fact. I let out a big sigh and opened the door.
"Can I help you?"
"Are you Mark Regan?" She looked really nervous.
"Yes, I am."
"Did you go to Columbia University?"
"I'm sorry, but I already mailed my check to the alumni association."
I started to close the door, and noticed that her chin was starting to quiver, and there were tears in her eyes. I'm hopeless when it comes to a crying woman. Instant paralysis; I never know what to do.
"Is something wrong? Would you like to come in and have a glass of water?"
"Th-thank you, yes I would."
"Cooter, SIT! STAY!"
I know my dog. He's a crotch sniffer, and the last thing this girl needed at the moment was a dog snout between her legs. I looked at her closely. Not only was she beautiful, but all of a sudden, I had a major case of deja vu. She looked awfully familiar. I motioned to a chair, she sat, and I fetched her a glass of water.
"Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?"
Then she dropped the bomb:
"My name is Kimberly Carlisle, and I believe I'm your daughter."
"I'm sorry, but I don't have a daughter, especially not one your age."
"My mother is Brenda Carlisle. Did you know her at Columbia?"
Jesus! I don't know how I missed it. She looks just like her mother, and I didn't associate her last name when she told me. She has the same auburn hair, highlighted with natural red and blond, that falls over her shoulders in soft ringlets, and a face that resembles Megan Fox, with soft, full lips.
She looks like she's about 5'7", with long legs, a slender waist, flared hips, and a full, round butt. Her breasts weren't overly large; I'd estimate a C cup, that sat high on her chest. Brenda had brown eyes. Kimberly's are cobalt blue, just like mine. I certainly did know Brenda, in both the literal and Biblical sense.
"Yes, I knew her at Columbia."
"Were you, um, intimate with her? I'm not trying to pry, but this is desperately important to me."
"Yes. We lived together for the last semester of my sophomore year. She was a senior at the time."
"Were you two in love with each other?"
"Yes, we were. We broke it off when she graduated. She was headed to grad school at Carnegie Mellon, and we both agreed we couldn't handle a long distance relationship. We were going to stay in touch, but I never heard from her again."
She seemed to be relaxing a bit. Cooter came over and laid his shaggy head in her lap. She scratched him in his favorite place behind his ears. He flopped down on the floor, belly up, looking at her with adoring eyes, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
"So, how is your mother?"
"She, uh.... she died last month. Ovarian cancer." Her voice caught, and she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.
"I'm so sorry, Kimberly. It's not fair; she was so young."
"She was sick for so long; she really struggled at the end."
"You look so much like her. But what makes you think I'm your father? It seems to me that if she was carrying my child, she would have let me know."
"She told me you were my father just before she died. I don't know why she never told you. She was pretty independent; she didn't want to get married or have a permanent relationship."
"I can't believe you never asked about your father."
"I did, but she told me it was an anonymous donor from a sperm bank. My birth certificate says 'father unknown.' "
She pulled her birth certificate out of the brief case she was carrying. She is nineteen, and judging from her date of birth, subtracting nine months, put me right in the bull's-eye.
"You'll have to forgive me, but this has come as a total shock to me. I'm not denying I'm your father, but...."
"Would you be willing to take a blood test with me? That way, we can both be sure."
"Sure, I'll do that. It's about dinnertime; will you stay? That way we can get to know each other a little better."
I grilled a couple of steaks, did some bakers in the microwave, and Jennifer made a salad. I opened a nice bottle of Merlot. Cooter took up a spot between us, thumping the floor with his tail, looking expectantly, in case someone wanted to throw him a scrap of food. He can mimic the look of a starving child in Ethiopia.
"I didn't think to ask, are you married, Mark? Oh, is okay if I call you Mark?"
"I'm divorced, and Mark is fine."
She looked at a framed photograph on the sideboard, of me, taken twelve years ago, with a little boy.
