* *
BOBBIE DUNKED AN English Breakfast tea bag into the hot water in her favorite pink mug and picked up her ringing phone. The caller ID read Molloy, D. J. She prepared herself to lie through her teeth.
“Hi, Dad!” she said cheerfully, carrying her tea to the kitchen table and sitting down. Monet leaped onto the table and rubbed against her face. He smelled of fabric softener. He’d been sleeping on top of the dryer again. She pulled him onto her lap. “How are you doing? How’s the arthritis?”
“Under control.” His voice was deep and gentle. It had soothed many a patient in his long career as a general practitioner. He was retired now, and Bobbie’s health had become his focus. “I’m taking my glucosamine chondroitin and getting my exercise. How are you? Still thinking the move to Astoria was a good idea?”
When she’d left Los Angeles to come here, she’d had a hard time convincing him she’d be fine on her own. He’d watched over her treatment, moved in with her to manage her recovery, and hovered over her with suggestions about diet and exercise until she knew she had to get away. Not just for herself, but for the single women in Whittier, California, who were interested in him but had taken a backseat to his daughter’s illness and recovery. Bobbie wanted him to reconnect with his own life so that she could go to Florence with a clear conscience.
The commission from Sandy Evans’s office had come at the perfect moment. Bobbie could have completed it in Whittier, but the lease was up on her apartment and she didn’t want to sign another one, or move in with her father. When she’d explained her predicament to Sandy, her friend had offered her the monthly rental of this tiny two-bedroom in Astoria that she’d inherited from her aunt. The selling point had been the two-car garage that Bobbie used as a studio for messy papermaking.
“I love it here,” she said. That was true. The hilly old neighborhoods with their turn-of-the-twentieth-century homes were wonderful for walking, collecting leaves and flower petals, and enjoying beautiful vistas. Even in tightly built areas there was the occasional empty lot where she could see the broad Columbia River and the Washington hills on the other side. “I walk all the time and the air smells of wood smoke and pine.”
“Mmm. That sounds heavenly.”
Encouraged by his approval, she went on, stroking the cat as she talked. “Sometimes, on the river walk, which is this wonderful paved strip that runs a couple of miles right along the water, you get a whiff of fish and diesel because of the fishing boats, but I’ve come to love that, too. It’s a very lively, working waterfront.”
“Are you getting acquainted with anyone? You’re not just spending all your time working in your studio and walking alone, are you?”
“I am meeting people,” she fibbed. “Of course, I have to spend a lot of time on the commission, but Sandy has introduced me to her friends.” Bobbie hesitated a moment. That was a big lie. Sandy was a single mother with two little girls and a full-time job. She was always working for one worthy project or another, and barely had time to go to the bathroom, much less party with friends. But Bobbie’s father must have lost the lie-detector skills he’d had when she was in high school, so she forged on. “And just today, I met my neighbors. Well, I’ve seen them come and go, but there hasn’t really been time to talk until this morning, when Nate and the boys came over.”
“And his wife?”
“Nate’s a single dad. Well, an uncle, actually, and I’m not sure what happened, but his two nephews live with him.”
“Really.”
She heard it in her dad’s voice. Speculation on the possibilities.
“I’m not getting married, Dad,” she stated quickly, firmly. “I explained it all to you. A couple of times, as I recall. I’m going to Florence in January.”
“Did I say anything?” He sounded innocent and a little injured.
“You didn’t have to. I can read it in your voice.”
“Hmm. New skills acquired through chemotherapy, no doubt. Because in the past, you’ve always heard my voice, but I’ve never noticed that you listened to it.”
“Ha, ha. Very cute. I’ll be thirty in February. It’s time I did what I was born to do.”
“We’re born to love and be loved,” he said gently.
She agreed. “We are, but I love Michelangelo, Tintoretto, Monet, Renoir, Giacometti.... And when I see their work, it’s as though they love me back.”
She heard her dad draw a breath, and knew he wanted to take issue with that, but he changed the subject instead.
“I’m coming to see you,” he announced abruptly.
Oh, God, no. It had been hard enough to pull away from him once—for him and for her. It would be awful to have to do it again.
“I thought you were going to come and visit when I get to Florence.” Her voice sounded high and a little strained. At least that way she’d have made it to Italy.
“Well, I want to visit you there, too. But I thought we should spend Thanksgiving together. I know it’d be too hard for you to come here, so I’ll come up there. I got a new van, did I tell you that? Actually, it’s new to me but a couple of years old. I can throw all my stuff in the back, a sleeping bag, and be gone at a moment’s notice.”
“No, you didn’t tell me. And...wow.” Her attempt at excitement fell a little short.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.” She answered quickly, decisively. She couldn’t hurt his feelings. The cat looked up at her, as though sensing her ambivalence. “It’ll be fun. When will you be here?”
“How about the Monday or Tuesday before Thanksgiving?”
“Perfect.” She just had to make sure her commission was completed so she could show him around. She could do this.
“Great.” She could hear the smile in his voice and was glad she’d made him happy. Then he added with a sudden burst of speed, “I’ll stay through Christmas, then we can say goodbye.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to prevent anything he wouldn’t want to hear from coming out. Through Christmas? He’d done that deliberately. He’d been a very astute father and he’d always read her like a book. He knew she wanted to be on her own to prepare herself for Florence. Leaving family and friends behind was difficult, but she was desperate to do this, so she’d started with the move to Astoria. And now he was doing his best to foil her plans.
He didn’t want her to go. He’d been clear about that more than once. He considered her still too delicate to be on her own in a foreign country with what some considered less sophisticated medical options. Or—she had to face this—he was afraid she’d die there and he’d never see her again.
But she felt sure she had time. She didn’t have forever, but she wanted to spend all the time she did have stretching the artist in her to the furthest reaches of her talent. And she couldn’t do that with her father’s arms around her. Or a husband’s.
She ramped up the cheer in her voice. “That’ll be fun, Dad. I’ll love showing you around. This is the most beautiful place, everywhere you look.”
He expelled a breath. Relief, she guessed. “Good. Good, Bobbie. I’ll see you in about a month.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Okay. I love you, baby.”
“Love you, too, Dad. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
She turned off the phone and growled and stamped her foot. Monet jumped down and meowed in protest. Bobbie stroked him with the sole of her shoe. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t let herself do that anymore. It was a waste of energy and she had too much to do.
She