I follow her to a colonial with white wood siding that looks to be original and black shutters. There’s a flagpole with a wagon wheel at the base and red brick pavers leading up to the front door.
Harper doesn’t knock or pull out a key. She doesn’t have to. The door swings open, and a man with short gray hair and blue eyes opens the door.
“Sweet pea!” Mr. Doyle says as he pulls his daughter in for a hug.
His eyes light up at the sight of Harper. It’s obvious she is the love of his life, and I understand the feeling.
“Daddy, I’d like for you to meet Tanner.” She turns to me with a beaming smile. “This is my dad, Kevin Doyle.”
He’s about five foot nine and wearing a flannel shirt tucked into blue jeans. He’s pretty fit for an old guy, probably from being active in his garage all day long. The lines on his face are deep, and his skin looks like leather.
I extend a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Doyle.”
He eyes me up with his brows pinched and his stance strong. I’ve got a couple of inches on the guy, but he looks like he can box Tyson and win the match. He’s a man’s man, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. From what I’ve been told and what I deduce from the raise of his chin, he doesn’t care about what’s in my bank account or the job my family has lined up for me. All he cares about is that his little girl just brought a man home.
He takes my hand. I shake it firmly, not hard. I’m sure his calloused hand is taking in how smooth mine is. I feel oddly insecure about it. I don’t waver though. I give a sharp nod, letting him know I’m up for anything he wants to throw my way because Harper is worth it.
After a few seconds, he lets out a loud laugh. I’m taken aback as he reaches around my back and pulls me in for a manly hug, including a few hard pats on the back.
“I’ve been dying to meet you, son. Please, come in.” He steps through the storm door and holds it open.
Harper’s smile is the best I’ve seen as we enter the home she was raised in. The front door opens to a small porch where there’s a formal front door that opens into a living room. It’s cozy with a fireplace ensconced with bookcases.
A stairwell to the right leads upstairs with school photos of Harper on the wall going up. The one closest to the bottom looks like her kindergarten picture. She has pigtails, and her eyes are open as wide as can be. Looking up the wall, I can only see as far as third grade from where I’m standing. I’m gonna have to get a look at all of them before I leave.
“My eighth grade picture is particularly geeky.” She rolls her eyes at herself.
“You were geeky?”
“Braces, glasses, and a terrible case of forehead acne. I blame the bangs I had. They were very trendy but terrible for my pores.”
I lean into her with a whisper. “Teacher, I didn’t know you wore glasses. That could come in handy.”
“I had Lasik surgery.” She elbows me in the gut and then whispers, “I might have a fake pair from the teacher talent show that I could put on later.”
Luckily, her dad is now in the dining room, or he’d see me adjusting myself at the thought of Harper wearing glasses and one of her sexy pantsuits.
I wonder if the schoolgirl uniform is in her old bedroom.
There are more photos throughout the living room. Family vacations—they are a Disney family—holiday pictures, and family portraits are framed on every surface.
Her dad is easy to recognize in the pictures. Twenty years ago, he had the same barrel chest and fighting-Irish grin. The only difference is he had a mane of thick black hair.
Harper has her dad’s eyes, but the rest of her is her mother. Her mom was curvier but with the same blonde hair she wore long with the curls hanging loosely down her back. She smiles the same smile, too. Full rosy-pink lips set on a heart-shaped face.
There are even some old black-and-whites of couples posed seriously for the camera. A man in an officer’s uniform sits next to another of a sailor. A folded American flag sits on the mantel. The Doyles have a strong sense of family history. Their family crest is even on the wall by the front door—that and the name Sabella, which I assume is her mother’s maiden name.
I mosey over to the bookcases that are filled, not a bookend in sight. The classics are all here. Austen, Fitzgerald, Joyce, Twain, Dickens, Hemingway, Orwell, Woolf, Tolstoy, Brontë. They’re not first editions, but they’re worn and loved.
“Those are my mom’s,” Harper explains and then points to the lower shelves of political thrillers and biographies about the Mafia. “Those are Dad’s. He doesn’t get prime library real estate.”
I see a copy of Pride & Prejudice and slide it out. “My mom loved this book. She used to read it at our lake house in Tahoe. I want Austin to read it. I think he could use some advice.”
“Austen for Austin?”
“He met a girl. I think he’s in love.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me she’s a pain in the ass. That’s a damn near declaration of love for my brother.”
“You have the craziest things to say about your brothers.” She takes the book from my hands. Her fingers glide over the cover. “This is my mom’s favorite, too. Dad still reads to her. She doesn’t remember her name sometimes or where she lives. She gets angry a lot. She’s been known to throw things. But, when he reads, she relaxes. Sometimes, she’ll recite a line or utter the name of a character. She doesn’t remember much, but she knows the pages like being reacquainted with an old friend.”
There’s melancholy in her tone. I brush a loose curl behind her ear and run my thumb over her lower lip that’s sticking out.
“Can I meet her?”
She grins and then leans up to kiss me.
I think that’s a yes.
With my hand in hers, she leads me through the rest of the downstairs. The dining room is large with a table fit for twelve. They must have a big family. Ours is this big but only gets used for the parties Missy throws. I have a feeling the Doyles’ gatherings don’t serve caviar.
To the side of the dining room is a study. Mr. Doyle is in there, putting a record on. The sounds of Johnny Mathis croon through the speakers.
“Is Mommy in the sitting room?” Harper asks her father, who’s snapping his fingers to the music.
“She’s in the den, settling in for her nap. I’m going to put on the pot. Do you want tea, Tanner?”
I reply quickly, “Yes, sir. Please.”
Harper curves a brow. “Since when do you drink tea?”
“Since my girlfriend’s father asked me if I wanted some.”
Mr. Doyle seems pleased with my answer. He walks past us into the kitchen as Harper and I go to a set of French doors in the dining room. We open them and step down into the den. There’s another fireplace in the back of the room, the second in the home, which means that’s probably how this house was heated a hundred years ago.
A woman is sitting in a recliner in the corner. A crocheted blanket is lying over her. Her eyes are open, but she looks lost in thought.
Harper takes a seat on the sofa next to her mother’s recliner. Where the photos in the living room showed a mother and daughter who looked very much alike, the woman sitting beside Harper partially resembles her daughter. The effect of Alzheimer’s not only impacts the mind, but the body as well. She is probably about fifty-five, but she looks much older; frailer.
Harper takes her hand, and her mother flinches at the touch but doesn’t pull back.
“Mommy, it’s Harper. I came to say hello and introduce you to someone very special to me. This is Tanner.”
I take a seat beside Harper. “Hello, Mrs. Doyle. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time.”
Mrs. Doyle is staring. Looking forward. Her eyes blink slowly. “What do you want?”
Harper clears her throat. “I want to introduce you to Tanner.”
There’s a deep scowl on Mrs. Doyle’s face as she shakes her head in disagreement. “Did you b
ring the milk?”
“We came from the city. We’re having lunch with you and Daddy.”
“You know Nana needed milk for the cake. Benny’s birthday is tomorrow. She asked you to get it.” Mrs. Doyle’s words are harsh despite the fact that she’s talking about making a birthday cake.
Harper takes a stuttered breath. Her fingers clench around mine. “She thinks I’m her sister. She died before I was born.”
I rub Harper’s back. “She knows you’re someone she loves very much.”
She leans toward her mom. “I’m Harper. Your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter,” Mrs. Doyle spits as she pulls her hand away and back onto the afghan.
Harper sniffles. There’s a tear at the corner of her eye as she looks up and wills it back. I take her hand and lift it to my mouth, soothing away any pain I can.
I’ve mourned the loss of my own mother but with the notion that she loved me until the day she died. I never experienced the hurt of losing that love or having it look at me like I was a stranger. The feeling must be heartbreaking.
Harper is holding the copy of Pride & Prejudice in her other hand. I reach over and gently slide it from her palm. “May I?”
She nods, too emotional to answer me.
I lean back, taking Harper with me, and settle into the cushions of the floral couch. With one arm around her shoulders, I pull her in and nestle her into my side. I bend my leg and lay the book on my calf before opening it. I know it well, the first line being that a single man who finds himself in good fortune must want a wife. It makes me smile.
I ruffle through the pages for one of my favorite parts. Elizabeth is visiting her aunt and uncle in Pemberley. She is looking out the window at the grounds and the hill on which they descended. She is describing goodness of the landscape, yet I suspect she is really thinking about the prospect of marrying Mr. Darcy. I find it in chapter forty-three.
I read out loud to my girl and her mother. Mrs. Doyle seems to settle into her recliner, her shoulders slouching down and her head leaning to the side. Harper rests her head on my shoulder, listening as I finish the chapter. I decide to keep reading.
Mr. Doyle walks in with the mugs of tea and takes a seat in an armchair. He places a mug for me on the coffee table, but I let it cool as I turn the page.
The four of us sit like this for a while, me reading to a family that understands what it means to be together in sickness and in health. A family who embodies everything I’ve missed out on over the last eight years.
I’m comfortable, more at home than I thought I’d be after meeting my girlfriend’s parents, and it feels nice. I start to wonder when I should stop reading when a faint voice speaks up.
“Darcy,” Mrs. Doyle says with her eyes closed.
We all look up at her. Harper lets out a laugh-like cry, and Mr. Doyle grins into his mug.
I kiss the top of Harper’s head and continue reading, enjoying the best Saturday I’ve had in a really long time.
* * *
Mrs. Doyle fell asleep somewhere around chapter fifty-two. We took that as our cue to get up and leave her to rest.
We enter the kitchen, and I take a seat at the breakfast table. The wallpaper is ivory with yellow daffodils. It’s charming and homey. Even their refrigerator is a gathering place of photos, invitations, and birth announcements. Mr. Doyle has a calendar on the wall that is filled with doctor appointments and physical therapy sessions.
This house reminds me of the home I grew up in. Not in looks, as we had a ranch in Northern California. It’s the feeling. When I was ten, we moved into the city. It still had a homelike vibe because my mother made it that way. When Missy moved in, that feeling began to slip away. It was probably when she replaced the home photos with her old pageant portraits.
I could have kissed Bryce when he purchased the Tahoe house from Dad. That was our last place that was all mom. Bryce doesn’t know it, but I’ve gone there a few times over the years, sat on the back deck, and read.
Mr. Doyle hands me a beer, and I love the relaxed way he popped the top off, throwing the cap in the trash a few feet away. The thought of my father doing anything anywhere near that makes me laugh. He’s way too stuck up these days to drink beer, let alone out of a bottle.
Harper leans against the cabinets, putting her hands behind her before jumping up to sit on the countertop. She reaches over to a bowl of fruit and pops a grape into her mouth as they talk about the shop.
“Did you get the new engine analyzer this week?”
“Came in Thursday. I had someone come in and give a tutorial on the equipment. I don’t know how we used to do this with our good old-fashioned eyes and ears. That’s the difference between a good mechanic and a great mechanic.”
The level of comfort between Harper and her father as they discuss the business is something I’ve only dreamed of. Whenever I’m with my dad, I’m constantly on edge. I’ve always gotten the feeling that my brothers and I are more of a nuisance than a blessing. Especially me since I was the youngest and the only one he had to raise on his own after Mom passed.
“So, Tanner, I hear you’re a student.” He leans in, holding a hand to the side of his mouth, jokingly trying to hide what he’s saying from Harper. “And, yes, I was glad to hear you at least weren’t her student.”
“Daddy,” Harper says, throwing a grape at him.
We both laugh.
“I’m in my last semester at Columbia.”
“What are your plans after graduation?” he asks.
I look to Harper and shrug. “Still trying to work out the details, sir.”
He grimaces. “Mr. Doyle … sir. You’re very formal for a guy who looks like he could fight me. You can’t, in case you were wondering, but you look like you could. Call me Kevin. Mr. Doyle was my father.”
I concede, “Sure. Kevin. I was just trying to be respectful.”
“I understand. My father-in-law still makes me call him Mr. Sabella. Better than calling him Dad. I like the guy, but I had a father of my own. God bless him.” He sits down in the chair across from me. “Harper said your family owns a business, and you’ll be moving back to San Francisco.”
I nod my head before wavering back and forth. “That’s the plan.”
There’s a twinkle in his eye. “I started my business right before Harper was born. We were having a baby, and I had to get my shit together. My wife, she was the force behind it, and I thank my stars every day she chose me. She, Harper, and that business are my life. I’ve been able to buy homes and pay for my baby to go to college with that business. If she had any desire to run it, I’d give it to her.”
I laugh. “Harper as a mechanic?”
She throws a grape at my head. “Don’t laugh. I know more about cars than you do.”
There are many things that have surprised me. This is most definitely ranking as number one.
“When you say you know about cars, you mean, you know how to change a tire and do an oil change.” Another grape gets lobbed at my head. “Baby, don’t look at me like that. You’re the girl who freaked out when I brought you on my motorcycle. You don’t like when things get messy.”
Kevin laughs. “You got her on a motorcycle? What kind?”
I lift the thrown grapes off the floor and toss them in the trash. “Ducati, and she loved it.”
He looks to Harper. “Why didn’t you tell him you know about cars?”
She shrugs. The way she’s sitting up there in jeans and sneakers, eating grapes and giving us shit, makes her look like a teenager. “And, for the record, organization is key in mechanical engineering. Cars are intricate, and the new computer systems take a lot of research. As for cleanliness, a floor cluttered with empty oil cans, worn tires, and dirty rags is a big red flag.”
Kevin laughs. “This one grew up under a car. My Rita worked the books, so we had no one to watch Harper. She played with her dolls while sitting in the hole of a spare tire and did her homework sitting on the bar of a ve
hicle lift. As soon as she had her working papers, she was replacing struts and working on suspension systems.”
If my eyes match my open mouth, they’re slack and stunned.
“She’s like an encyclopedia for cars. Come on, Harper. Show Tanner what you know.”
She shakes her head. “This is ridiculous. I know a few things about cars.”
I try to think back to conversations I’ve had with Austin before asking, “Okay then, what’s the difference between indirect fuel injection and direct fuel injection?”
“Simple answer: more power.” She shrugs. “The indirect fuel injection would pre-mix the gasoline outside the intake manifold. The direct injection system isn’t pre-mixed, and the gas is injected directly into the cylinder—hence, more power.”
Holy shit, my girl knows a lot about cars.
She hops off the counter. “I have to pee. What are we having for lunch? These grapes aren’t cutting it.”
Kevin gets up and turns to the fridge, taking out some meat that looks like it’s been marinating. “Barbeque chicken, roasted potatoes, and I thought you’d help with the salad.”
Harper moans in hunger as she leaves the room.
“Can I get you another beer?” I ask Kevin as I watch him down the last sip.
“I’m good. Come help me, son. I want to talk to you while she’s out of the room.”
I walk up to him, ready for the chat I figured we’d have. You know the one—where he tells me he’ll kill me if I hurt her or he says how many guns he has.
What I’m not prepared for is when he says, “Thank you for reading to my Rita.”
I bow my head. “Harper mentioned she loved to be read to.”
“You did it for Harper. I saw your face when she got emotional. You want to ease her pain. That—for a father to see a man look at his baby girl like that, well, there isn’t more you could want.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Let me ask you a question. You don’t seem like you want to go back to San Francisco.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Does that complication have anything to do with Harper?”
Tanner: A Sexton Brothers Novel Page 18
