Beauty in Flight, #1

by Robin Patchen

  She missed the sweet old man he’d once been. But she understood. Broken hearts were painful.

  She’d thought he was getting better, but the grouch was back. “We have to go.” Harper stood by Red’s recliner, arms crossed.

  “Don’t feel like it.”

  She took a deep breath to silence her initial reaction. “As you’ve made perfectly clear, Red, but you’re going to the doctor.”

  He ignored her, his gaze on the TV.

  Today was his check-up, and he wasn’t missing it. “Come on.” She leaned toward the lever that would lower his footrest. “I’ll help you—”

  He swatted her arm away. “Don’t need your help.” He glared at her, then focused on the TV again.

  Usually, when he got like this, she let him have his way. But not today.

  “Listen, old man.”

  The anger dropped from his expression, replaced by surprise.

  “You’re going to the doctor on your own, or I’ll call 911 and have them come after you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  He harrumphed, glared, and finally lowered the footrest of his recliner. “Fine. But you can’t make me talk to him.”

  Stubborn old coot. She grabbed his jacket—the October chill had settled deep—and helped him to the car.

  An hour later, a nurse escorted Red back to the doctor’s office. Harper had already updated the nurse on how he’d been feeling—and behaving—so Red’s refusal to talk to them shouldn’t make a difference. And they’d fill Harper in. Red had made her his health care agent when she’d started working for him. He’d ensured she’d have full access to all his medical information so she could learn what the doctors discovered whether Red was in the mood to tell her or not.

  Amazing what a difference a few months had made. Back in Vegas, she hadn’t been trusted to do anything but feed the residents and clean up after them. Here, she’d been given the right to make medical decisions. She’d proved herself to Red and, even though she barely spoke to him anymore, to Derrick. She hadn’t gone back to school, hadn’t achieved any real level of success, but maybe if her parents heard what she had achieved, they’d accept her again. Maybe if she told them where she was and what she was doing, they’d be proud of her. Or, if not proud, less ashamed. She considered dialing her mother that moment, but now wasn’t the time. No, she needed to think about it some more. Being estranged from her parents was awful. A second rejection might destroy her.

  Her cell vibrated, and she pulled it out and glanced at the screen. She had two missed calls and three texts from Derrick. She ignored them, as usual. He’d been trying to reconcile with her ever since he’d left her on the front stoop that stormy Saturday morning. At first, she’d been firm but kind. Now, she didn’t bother to respond. They spoke sometimes about his grandfather’s health. But Derrick hadn’t been to visit him once since that terrible morning, despite that fact that she’d told Derrick about the mood swings and how she believed they were a direct result of Derrick not visiting.

  Was he still angry at Red for not giving him the money? Was this some sort of manipulation technique? Did he think that if he withheld his love long enough, Red would give in? Or was he too busy trying to dig himself out of trouble—or maybe gambling himself into more debt—to bother with Red? She had no idea what was going on in Derrick’s life and wouldn’t care if his absence hadn’t been such a blow to Red.

  It was thirty minutes before a nurse called Harper back and into an empty exam room. “He seems as healthy as he can be at his age.”

  “But what about his moods?”

  The woman shrugged. “He didn’t complain of depression or mood shifts. He said he’s fine.”

  Harper sighed. “He’s just different than he used to be. More forgetful. What could cause that?”

  “Old age affects everyone differently. The forgetfulness—that could be signs of dementia, but we saw nothing to suggest that today. He was a bit crankier than usual.”

  He was definitely that.

  By the time she returned to the waiting room, Red was there, seated in a chair, arms crossed. He looked exhausted.

  All this effort and no diagnosis. Poor man. She hoped this wasn’t his age catching up with him. Prayed he wasn’t deteriorating. She couldn’t lose him. Red was the closest thing to family she’d had in years. She wasn’t sure she’d survive without him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  That afternoon, after Harper got Red settled in his recliner, she went to the kitchen to warm up something for dinner. Soup tonight. It rarely disagreed with him, and even a totally incompetent cook—which she was—could heat a can of soup.

  While it warmed on the stove, she poured Red a glass of Gatorade, took it out to him, and set it on his end table beside the photograph of his late wife. He’d already dozed off in the recliner. She hated to wake him to eat, but she would. He needed to take his medication, and he’d be extra cranky if he didn’t eat. She set his glass on the end table and returned to the kitchen.

  Much as she dreaded it, she needed to call Derrick.

  She stirred the soup and dialed his number.

  “Harper,” he said, nearly breathless. “Thank God you called me back.”

  “It’s about your grandfather.”

  A short pause, then, “Is he all right?”

  “He’s depressed.”

  “Why?” Derrick said. “What’s he got to be depressed about?”

  She silenced the sarcastic response. “He misses you.”

  “How about you?” Derrick’s voice softened. “Do you miss me? Because I miss you. I need you.”

  Irritation rose like an itchy rash. “This isn’t about you and me, Derrick. It’s about Red. He hasn’t laid eyes on you since you took off that day. Since you tried to—”

  “I know what happened, Harper. I was desperate, okay? Don’t you think I feel bad enough?”

  Nope. She didn’t, but she didn’t say that. “You’re not making it better by staying away. It’s been months. You’re the only family he has left. He needs to see you.”

  There was a long pause. She heard street noises in the background and wondered where he was. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I’m just… I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “Then apologize. He’ll forgive you.”

  “But will you? Will you ever forgive me?”

  She sighed, stirred the soup. “It’s not a matter of forgiveness. It’s about trust. I care for you, and I want what’s best for you. But after what I saw with your grandfather, I don’t trust you.”

  “But that’s all taken care of now. I’ve made arrangements, and the debt’ll be paid off soon.”

  She was in the middle of pulling a bowl down from the cabinet when she froze. Two hundred thousand dollars, and just like that, it was paid? “How?”

  “The details don’t matter. The point is, it’s going to be managed.”

  “Did you gamble your way out of it?”

  His short chuckle was dark. “Hardly.”

  “Then how—?”

  “It’s not your problem, and pretty soon, it won’t be my problem, either. I’ve got it handled. And I quit gambling. For good, cold turkey. I’m done with it.”

  “Really?” Could that be true? Could Derrick really have done something so drastic, so quickly? “Are you going to meetings?”

  “Don’t need to. After I saw the way Gramps looked at me, and after you dumped me, I swore I’d never gamble again. And I haven’t. Not since we went to the beach.”

  She was tempted, so tempted, to believe him. Because as certain as she’d been when she broke up with him that it was the right decision, she missed him. She missed the way he’d made her laugh, the way they’d dreamed of the future. She missed his attentiveness, the way he’d lavished her with tenderness. She missed the Derrick she’d met in Las Vegas. Maybe the real Derrick was the one she’d gotten to know at first. Maybe, without the gambling, he could be that man ag
ain.

  “Give me another chance.” His voice was quiet, pleading. “I need you.”

  There it was. His need. As if she could save him. As if his future were her responsibility. “I’m not ready for that yet. Maybe when your grandfather is himself again and you’ve been away from gambling longer, maybe then we can talk about it. Right now, let’s just keep things as they are.”

  “As they are?” The tenderness had drained from his voice, and what replaced it confirmed her decision. “As in, we never see each other?”

  “That’s your choice, not mine. You know where to find me.”

  “Right. And I can visit you if I visit Gramps. But you don’t want to date me. Or talk to me. You don’t return my calls or my texts. You don’t want anything to do with me.”

  She smelled something funny and realized the soup was bubbling in the pan. Crap. Only Harper could screw up soup. She yanked the pan off the burner and stirred. Bits of black came off the bottom.

  “And now you’re not even talking to me,” Derrick said.

  She dumped the soup and the scalding hot pan into the sink. Now what would they do for dinner?

  “I guess I’ll just hang up,” he said.

  Rage hotter than the soup rolled over her. “You know what, Derrick? Do whatever makes you happy. That’s all you do anyway. Never mind your grandfather. Never mind that his heart is broken. You keep having your little hissy fit because he wouldn’t give you his money and I dumped you. One of these days, you’re going to be planning his funeral, and then maybe you’ll realize what you missed.”

  The pause that followed was so long, she thought he’d hung up. She was about do the same when she heard, “You’re right.”

  “So you’ll come to see him?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll try to get up there this weekend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Derrick didn’t visit the following weekend. And he didn’t visit the next, or the next. In fact, weeks went by, and they didn’t hear from him.

  Meanwhile, Red’s moods didn’t improve. They didn’t get worse, either, so she decided to celebrate that.

  The leaves changed, then dropped from the trees, but she and Red barely left the house to enjoy the cooler weather.

  It was the first week of November, and Red was having a terrible day. He’d had a headache and been sick to his stomach all night. He’d skipped breakfast but had eaten a decent lunch. After he ate, he slept in his recliner all afternoon. Odd. She wondered if he was fighting a virus.

  They were in the kitchen, Harper cleaning up from their dinner, when he slammed his glass on the table. “Bring me more Gatorade!”

  She set down the dishrag, propped her hands on her hips, and glared at him. “I’m sorry. What did you say to me?”

  “More”—he lifted his empty glass and shook it in her direction—“this stuff.”

  His words were slurred as if he were drunk.

  And then he vomited all over his plate.

  She rushed to his side, unbuttoned his soiled shirt, and slipped it off of him, leaving him shivering in the T-shirt beneath. She cleaned his hands and his mouth and helped him stand. “Come on. Let’s get you into your recliner.”

  He could hardly get himself up. When he did, he swayed against his walker—a new addition he’d railed against when the doctor had suggested it. She steadied him and kept him from falling.

  She managed to get him into his chair. He muttered something that sounded like thank-you.

  She took his hands. “Squeeze my fingers.”

  He looked at her as if she were crazy but did as he was told. His grip was strong.

  “Lift your hands above your head.”

  “What the devil—?”

  “Just do it, please?”

  He held his arms out horizontally, then lifted them up high. “Touchdown.”

  She chuckled politely. Hmm. His muscles were working fine. She lifted three fingers in front of his face. “How many?”

  “Three.” The word was strong and certain.

  She snatched a pen off his end table. “Track it with your eyes.” She moved in slowly in front of his face, and he followed it perfectly.

  “What’s my name?”

  “Harper Cloud.”

  Right answer, but slightly slurred.

  “Why am I here?”

  “You’re my nurse, though right now, I think you’ve gone a bit nuts.”

  “What’s your favorite kind of nut?”

  He narrowed his eyes, seemed to be formulating a wise crack, and then sighed. “Cashews.”

  Yup. The man ate them like candy. “What’s your name?”

  “Harold Carlock Burns. But everybody calls me Red.”

  She took his blood pressure. It was normal, if anything, a little low.

  Perching in the chair beside him, she tried to think what could cause slurred speech. Aside from that, there were no signs of stroke.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said.

  “You just threw up.”

  His eyes widened. “I did?”

  He’d forgotten?

  “I’m still thirsty.”

  She went into the kitchen, poured him a glass of Gatorade, and took it out to him.

  He guzzled it.

  “Slow down. You’re going to be sick again.”

  But he ignored her and focused on the TV, the glass cradled in his hand.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was drunk. She pulled a blanket over him and sat beside him until he fell asleep. It took him less than three minutes.

  After she cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, she called the doctor’s office and got a nurse on the phone. Harper described the symptoms, and the nurse confirmed that it was probably a virus. “If he continues to throw up or starts refusing to drink, you’ll need to bring him in. Otherwise, let’s just wait it out a couple of days.”

  Wait it out. That would be a good idea, except Harper couldn’t silence the niggling thought that this was something serious.

  Could his health fail this fast?

  She’d seen it happen, of course. In the nursing home where she’d worked, she’d seen people go from relatively healthy to very sick to the grave in a matter of weeks, sometimes days. But there was always a reason. The flu or a virus could lead to pneumonia. A fall could result in a broken bone, which could be the first domino that ultimately led to death.

  But in Red’s case, what had been the catalyst? This virus couldn’t be blamed. He’d only been sick a few days. But his health, his moods, his depression…

  The only thing that had changed was Derrick’s behavior. Could all this be the result of a broken heart?

  Did Derrick care at all?

  Yeah, Derrick cared. About the money Red hadn’t given him. About his inheritance.

  The thought shamed her. How could she think such a thing? Derrick loved his grandfather. He was angry Red hadn’t given him money, but that didn’t change the underlying love the two men had for each other. Derrick was just desperate, and desperate people did desperate things.

  Which was why, the week after Derrick had tried to swindle Red out of money, Red had asked his lawyer and friend, Roger, to come by. They’d drawn up some sort of papers that would give Roger power of attorney in case something happened to him. The paperwork also protected Red’s money, in case Derrick should try to swindle him again. Essentially, it gave Roger the right to appeal any large distributions of cash. She hadn’t been in their meeting, of course, and didn’t know the details, only that if Derrick came back with any tall tales that involved large sums of money, she was supposed to call Roger.

  Red’s money was safe. But Derrick hadn’t come back.

  So much for all his promises.

  And now, Red was sick. She should call Derrick and tell him, but she knew where that would lead. Absolutely nowhere. Besides, it was Thursday. Derrick wouldn’t make the drive from Baltimore until the weekend unless there were an emergency. If things didn’t change, she’d call
him tomorrow.

  From the living room, Red shouted, “Bring me a drink!”

  She snatched his cup and poured the last of the yellow-green liquid into it. It only filled halfway, so she stepped into the garage where she kept the case of Gatorade she’d bought a few weeks before.

  Red hollered again. “Thirsty!”

  What in the world? This demanding tone was not like him. A virus couldn’t make him mean, could it?

  She returned to the kitchen and twisted the top of the Gatorade. It opened easily. Far too easily.

  She lifted the bottle. It looked fine. It probably was fine. Did Gatorade go bad? Did it ferment?

  No. Surely not.

  But maybe that would explain the vomiting. Had the last bottle been easy to open? She couldn’t remember.

  Well, she wasn’t taking any chances with Red’s health. She returned to the garage, snatched another bottle from the case, and looked at the seal.

  It was broken. The bottle had been opened. She twisted off the cap and sniffed it. It smelled like Gatorade. She looked at the yellow liquid. It looked like Gatorade. She took a sip. It tasted like Gatorade.

  What in the world?

  She hefted the other three bottles that remained in the case into the kitchen. All of them had been opened. Had they spoiled?

  Sheesh. The store manager was going to get a piece of her mind when she went back. If that’s what caused Red’s illness, they were going to get a lot worse than that.

  “I’m thirsty!” Red yelled.

  She forced a deep, calming breath, then went into the living room. “We’re out of Gatorade.”

  “There’s a whole case out there.”

  “I think it went bad. I think that’s why you’re sick.”

  “Gatorade doesn’t go bad.” He winced, held his head. “My head is pounding.”

  She returned to the kitchen, grabbed two Tylenols and a glass of sweet tea, and took them to him.”

  “I want my Gatorade.”

  “We’re out.”

  He snatched the pills, drank the tea, and scowled. “Don’t like this stuff.”