stern set of Dad’s mouth eased. “You’ve always been too soft.”
“It’s not just the human interest aspect. I love the politics. The airlift was significant, huge, the beginning of the Cold War.”
“I know, but read about Normandy.” His tone softened. “Please.”
It destroyed Audrey to read about lives lost. They were more than numbers to her. They were all young men like Billy. She missed her brother and his goofy sense of humor. She wished like hell that he’d never joined the army. There wasn’t a man on earth less suited to it than Bill.
Dad had his own way of dealing with his grief. Hearing about war, about the logistics of it, as though he could control it in some odd way by understanding it, seemed to be his way of dealing with the loss of his son.
So, she read to him about battles and casualties.
After retrieving Jerry from his kennel out back, Audrey left the house. Jerry could no longer live indoors with Dad. He’d tripped him one time too many. Not on purpose, but simply because Dad couldn’t see the dog sleeping on the living room floor.
To save everyone’s nerves, she’d started keeping him outside. She didn’t know what she would do once the weather turned cold in the fall.
Jerry sat in the passenger seat, and Audrey rubbed his ears before dropping him off with Noah for the day.
She was late getting to the greenhouses and watering her plants, and even later still getting on the road to Denver
The reason for her trip to the city was twofold. She’d set up interviews with three occupational therapists to take on Dad as a client in September after she’d won the floral competition and that monetary award. It would make a couple of months of in-house occupational therapy affordable. The year’s contract would mean she could finally contribute to the household.
A therapist could teach Dad how to take care of himself, how to cook despite the darkness and the blurriness. How to do his laundry. How to get out of the house. Maybe a stranger could have luck where Audrey hadn’t in persuading Dad to use a white cane. Or not. Audrey could only try. The alternative was to give up, and that was out of the question.
Dad wouldn’t even go outside to walk down the street he’d lived on for nearly forty years.
Eventually, hoping for improvement in his eyesight, they would have an operation to pay for, if only Dad would give in and try it. It would take a miracle to convince him. She was taking a break for a while. Eventually, she would have to broach the subject again.
Audrey had a lot riding on getting that award. Too much. She couldn’t afford to consider that she might not win.
She’d sunk all of her savings into buying the greenhouses, stocking her shop and paying rent on the store. She had yet to make much of a profit. She needed to cast her net wider than just Accord to make enough money to be comfortable.
A win in the competition would sure make that easier.
The second purpose of the trip was to take a look at the area in which she would set up her booth in the competition. She had the dimensions, but it was hard to judge without actually seeing what she had and how to use it to the best effect. She had an appointment with the woman organizing the show.
* * *
JEFF HEARD AUDREY drive away, and leaned over the far side of his armchair to pick up the breakfast he’d hidden there. Audrey fed him healthy pansy food. Egg-white omelets with spinach in them. Yuk. He wanted real food. Bacon and whole eggs.
Careful to avoid the coffee table, he walked toward the hallway with small steps, like a toddler just learning to walk and afraid of falling down. At least a toddler would have excitement mixed in with the fear, the joy of getting up off the floor and really moving.
Jeff was going backward, not gaining but losing—everything—with nothing to look forward to but more darkness and less mobility.
Crap, shit, goddamn. For a man who didn’t like profanity, he sure was using a lot of it lately. He’d never let his children swear when they were growing up, but now he cursed all the time. He had a pansy-assed way of doing it, though. He couldn’t even say them out loud.
He swore a silent blue streak now because it was the only thing that relieved this damn frustration. Momentarily.
Feeling his way along the wall, noticing where the seams of the wallpaper he’d put up well over thirty years ago pulled away from the plaster, he wondered who was going to fix it. Who was going to take care of the things that could go wrong in an old house? Who was going to maintain what he’d spent a lifetime treasuring?
Audrey?
Between the shop, the greenhouses, sewing, cooking...and taking care of him, when would she have time? The girl was already stretched to the limit.
His fingers traced the flocked roses on the walls. Irene had chosen the paper. Too old-fashioned now. Had been even back then, but his wife had been that kind of girl. A romantic.
Like Audrey.
After Irene had died, he’d preferred his son’s humor, his devil-may-care, full-speed-ahead brand of life.
Oh, the laughs they’d had.
Billy.
Jeff shook his head violently. Tears weren’t allowed. They weakened a man.
Billy had understood that. He’d joined the marines. Billy had been a man to admire.
In the kitchen, Jeff dumped the omelet into the garbage and eased his way around the cupboards until he found a frying pan. He was going to make scrambled eggs, and he was going to use the yolks.
He managed to locate the container of margarine in the fridge. Margarine! What the heck was wrong with good old butter? His parents had eaten butter all of their lives and had lived into their eighties.
He cocked his head sideways to use what little peripheral vision he had. Made doing everything hard. He found the eggs, managed to break four of them into a bowl and beat them. He felt them slosh over the edge onto his hand. Careful.
After a fruitless search for the salt, he gave up. What had Audrey done with it? He didn’t recognize his own cupboards, his own groceries anymore.
He placed the pan onto the large front burner. The control knob was the one on the bottom. Right?
He turned it to low.
Opening the margarine, patting his way around the counter because he was a bloody blind man, he scooped a pat of it out with a knife and scraped it on the side of the pan. He heard it sizzle. Good, he’d gotten it inside instead of on the burner.
Resting the bowl on the edge of the pan, he poured the eggs in. They bubbled and spat, and immediately the room filled with the scent of burning eggs and acrid smoke.
What the—?
He grasped the handle of the pan, smoke smothering his nose like a hot blanket, and tossed it into the sink. Only years of living and working in this room made his aim true.
By feel, he turned the burner knob until he thought it was off. He must have turned it on to high instead of to low.
Bugger, his mind screamed. Shit.
He wasn’t a man anymore. If he couldn’t get around, couldn’t even cook his own meals, he was barely half a man.
How many ways was he a failure these days? Too many to count.
* * *
GRAY DRUMMED HIS fingers on the steering wheel of his Dad’s old Volvo and cursed the vehicle from here to eternity.
It had broken down halfway between Accord and Denver. For twenty minutes, he’d been waiting for the tow truck he’d called. Time was passing, and it didn’t look as if he’d make it into Denver today, leaving another day without this blackmail issue settled one way or the other.