"Do you think that's what might have happened down there?" she asked, smiling as if the question was silly.
"Consider the question a different topic," I answered evasively.
"Like, try to touch me or something?" she asked, a look of revulsion on her face. I nodded. "God, no!" she answered, much to my relief.
"What would you do, if that happened?"
"Run. Scream. Hit him with anything around and tell Dad, who'd probably kill him," she answered, with more logic than I'd have expressed at her age.
"What about a woman?"
"The same thing." She smiled and added, so you better not try doing it!"
While I was appeased, I found her casual reaction to my questions demonstrated that she considered the possibility remote or nonexistent. Any adult knows full well that's not the case, and I told her so, though I doubt I was successful convincing her. While I was relieved, her fear of the cellar was real and the reason remained unresolved.
Paul returned with Timmy skipping beside him and our remaining time flew by. We were on the road to the airport after a quick seafood dinner. More now familiar hugs, kisses and promises were exchanged, and I was on my way back to Virginia. I no longer thought of my apartment as home.
Monday morning I learned my supervisor's sympathy with my quick exit wasn't shared by the department head. I stood before his desk with bowed head while he prattled off his little speech. I would have told him what I thought and walked out of the place but that wasn't how Mrs. Blanding raised her headstrong daughter.