The rational side of her knew that the biological clock phenomenon was just a pop culture theory. An excuse for formerly sane women who overnight started going gaga over baby booties and onesies.
But watching her friends pair off had ignited some latent spark in Red. The creamy gown, the towering cake, a home of her own to decorate as she pleased. Suddenly, without warning, she wanted it all, the whole, clichéd ball of wax.
The final button undone, Red spread the heavily boned strapless away from ribs you could play a xylophone on.
“It’s fitted through the bodice with long sleeves and a V-neck and—”
“You know what?” Junie interrupted her, modestly pulling the gown back up against her chest. “Speaking of long sleeves, I think instead of the blush, I’d like to try the long-sleeved lace one again. Would you mind tracking it down for me?”
Feeling chastened, Red went off to find the saleswoman.
She and Sam had a lot to work out before they’d be anywhere near talking marriage, assuming they ever were. Sure, making love in a bed had been a huge first step. But there were still nagging questions that couldn’t be ignored.
What had Sam meant about being a mess even before he’d joined the Army?
She could gently urge him to open up more over time, but she knew from experience that you couldn’t make someone talk before he was ready.
Chapter 22
A few days later, Sam met Gary Russo at the door to his law office. “I know this isn’t easy. If it makes you feel any better,” he said, taking his seat behind his desk, “with all the boomers getting up in age and their parents reaching their golden years, you’re in the same boat with a lot of other people.”
Sam sat spread-legged, arms resting on his thighs, fingers intertwined. “I’m no boomer. I’m still a few months shy of thirty.”
“Maybe not you, but your dad falls into the golden age category. Sounds like you’re really worried about him.”
Sam rubbed his jaw. “All I can say is thank God for Woodcrest.” It had taken the drastic step of committing him—pending review—to make Sam realize the constant tension he’d been under the past year, waiting for the next bartender to call asking him to come get his Dad, waiting to hear about the next “accident.”
“You’ve taken a commendable first step, which is to make sure your dad’s in a safe environment. He’s getting good care. Now,” he said, folding his hands atop his desk. “What can I do to help?”
Sam couldn’t say help me figure out how to wipe the name Owens off the deed of to my house ASAP without sounding as loony as his old man. Instead, he said, “My father almost set himself and his house on fire. He obviously can’t take care of his property anymore. When the civil commitment hearing comes, I’d like to get control of his assets.”
“How close are you and your dad? Have you tried simply talking to him about yielding control of his finances and getting him to sign over power of attorney?”
“You’ve never met George Owens, or you wouldn’t be asking. Let’s just say he makes hornets look cuddly.”
“It can be hard for people who’ve been in charge all their lives to give up their independence. If he won’t talk to you, is there someone else in the family who could intervene?”
Sam shook his head. “My mom, my brother and sister, even Penny, his common-law wife, were smart enough to cut bait.”
“I have to ask. Are any of them going to fight you on this?”
Sam huffed. “You kidding? They’re glad to be rid of him. I’m pretty much the only one he has left. I’m in line to get the house, anyway. I was trying to scare up important papers when I came across Dad’s will in a drawer of the china cupboard.”
Gary sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I’ll want to have a look at that, when you get a chance. And you say his physical is so far inconclusive?”
“According to his GP. He’s calling in a specialist to do a psychological evaluation.”
“Sounds like it’s all going to hinge on what the specialist says. If it’s determined that he’s a risk to himself or others, we can petition the court to appoint you to assume responsibility for his affairs.”
“Then I can do anything I want with the house, right?”
Gary nodded. “I assume you’re contemplating selling the house. Places like Woodcrest can drain assets quickly.”
“I don’t think it’s that valuable. It’s out in the middle of nowhere. There are no public utilities, and the land’s not conducive to grape growing.
“Money shouldn’t be a problem, anyway. Dad started buying and selling scrap metal before I was born. Bought copper and aluminum and stainless steel, held it when prices were low and sold when they went up. You might have heard of Willamette Scrap and Metal outside McMinnville?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“A big corporation bought him out a few years back. Tight as he is, I imagine he still has every cent. About the house. I was thinking more along the lines of razing it.”
“Oh. I see. Your taste runs more minimalist,” he said with a complicit smile. “You want to rebuild. Something with clerestory windows, curvilinear design elements.”
Sam forced up the corners of his mouth. Whatever curvilinear meant. “Meantime, say I wanted to take the property out of the name Owens, make it anonymous?”
Gary nodded sagely. “You have every reason to be concerned. Concealing assets is a common tactic of the wealthy. The more money you have, the bigger a target for lawsuits. We can put the house in an anonymous trust.”
It was no use trying to explain to Gary that he had never given a thought to family money. Sam had always considered himself a separate entity. Even as a child, he had taken care of himself.
Gary spread his hands. “Once you’ve been awarded control, what you do with the property is your business. As soon as the psych eval comes back we can file for legal guardianship, giving you the power to oversee your father’s health and well-being. We’ll also ask for you to be appointed conservator of his financial affairs. The judge will also want to hear evidence of his incompetence. From what you’ve told me, I think you have plenty of material to work with.”
Chapter 23
Red’s final session ran late, leaving her checking her e-mail on the fly before dashing off to Woodcrest.
There was the biweekly letter from Woodcrest summarizing her cases. Today, in addition to her regular patients, the director was requesting a consult on a newly admitted gentleman who presented symptoms of dementia.
She snapped her laptop shut, shoved it into her crammed work bag, no doubt creasing the important documents that were in there, and raced out the back door to her car, figuring she’d review his history once she got there.
Her first two appointments over, she finally got to the attachment.
George Owens.
Red’s fingers paused on her keyboard. She may have met Sam’s father once, briefly, at Sam’s homecoming party. But that night she was completely smitten with Sam’s erect bearing, his aura of accomplishment. Everything else was just background noise.
Her fingers flew, searching for George’s age. Seventy-seven. Maybe Sam’s grandfather? Surely Sam would have said something. Then again, estrangement of extended family wasn’t at all uncommon.
Growing up, all Red knew of Sam was what she glimpsed from across the classroom and on the playground.
He showed up every September with a shaved head, his scalp and nape pale and vulnerable in contrast to his sun-kissed body. By June, his nut-brown curls were scraping his shoulders once again. But in between, he seemed to be on his own. No one showed up at ballgames, holiday pageants, and the other events family normally came to.
There had always been a haunted look in Sam’s eyes. Yet there was also a stubbornness that dared you to feel sorry for him.
He could be defia
nt with teachers, and there had been some fistfights during high school, but never any serious trouble. And Red knew for a fact that one of those fights was Sam taking on a bully who had picked on a weaker kid for years.
When Sam returned to Clarkston a decade later, he was barely recognizable. Exactly what had happened to him was a never-ending subject of speculation in Clarkston’s tasting rooms, bars, and cafés.
Back to the chart. She skimmed through the patient’s CBC, urinalysis, electrolytes—but before she got to chronic conditions there was a knock and the door to the office opened to a man hunched over a cane, an assistant cupping his elbow.
“Leave me alone!” The man slapped at the woman’s hand. “Goddamn people won’t even let me walk by myself around here.”
Red leaped up and stood by cautiously while he limped the short distance to an armchair and dropped into it, his head falling to his chest.
She dismissed the attendant with a smile and a wave. The woman rolled her eyes, mouthed the words “good luck,” and the door closed with a soft click.
Red introduced herself. “And who are you?”
The man lifted his head. Anger-filled eyes the color of amber—or was it hazel?—burned into her. “They didn’t tell you?”
She smiled with as much patience as she could muster. “I wanted to hear it from you.”
“George Owens,” he growled, looking down again.
Red sat down across from him. “Tell me how it is that you came to be at Woodcrest.”
“I’m not staying, you hear me?” he lashed out. “My son brought me in last—I don’t know when it was. Last week or something.”
His son. Could he be referring to Sam’s father?
“What happened that your son thought it would be a good idea to bring you here?”
Irritably, George waved away the question. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“It’s just us right now, and besides, I’d like to hear it from your point of view.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
That was nothing she hadn’t dealt with before. She would simply come back to it later.
She pointed to a vase filled with artificial flowers on the bookshelf.
“Can you tell me what that is?”
He looked up. “That’s a…a thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“An it.”
“How about that?” she asked, pointing to a lamp.
“Lamp.”
“That’s right. Now I’m going to ask you to do a little acting.”
“I’m not much good at acting.”
She’d take it. At least he wasn’t yelling at her.
“I’ll bet you know how to hammer a nail.”
He scowled. “What kind of a man gets to be my age and can’t hammer a nail? Why, that’s ridiculous.”
“Then I bet you can show me the hand motion that you use to do that.”
“What kind of asinine questions are these?” He jerked his head toward the door. “When’s Judy coming back?”
“I’m trying to get to know you better, Mr. Owens. That’s all. Can you show me how you hammer?”
In spite of his exasperation, he pretended to grip a hammer and made a pounding motion.
“Nice. Now, just a couple more things. What if I asked you to list some different animals? Could you do that for me?
Following a pause, he said, “Bear. Goat. Dog. Banana. Orange. Cucumber.”
“Okay.”
Red handed him a piece of paper. “Now what I’d like you to do is fold this piece of paper in half and then place it on the floor.”
“Why do you want me to do that? What is this, some kind of test?”
“Yes, it is. I’m trying to see how well you can remember a sequence of tasks.”
With a trembling hand, George folded the paper off center, creased it, and stared at it.
“Do you remember what I asked you to do with it?”
He looked at her face, and it seemed as though he gazed straight through her. Seconds ticked by. “Put it on the floor,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s right. Please follow the instructions.”
He leaned forward and dropped it near his feet.
Red smiled. “Good enough.”
She went back to her original query. “What brings you here today?”
“My son brought me, that’s who, and left me here to rot. I don’t like jigsaw puzzles and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do ceramics. It’s time for me to go home. I want to go home.” He clutched the chair arms and struggled to get up.
Red started, until she saw that he wasn’t going to be able to rise on his own. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until Miss Judy gets back. Mr. Owens, just a couple more questions, and then we’ll be finished. Where is home?”
“McMinnville. Post Office Box 249. 97128.”
“What is your street address?” she asked, fighting to remain calm despite her accelerating heart.
“The post office doesn’t deliver out past the reservoir. We’re on septic. Get our water from a well. You ever taste well water?”
Red swallowed. “I’m not sure.” Water sounded good right now.
“Should try it if you get the chance.”
“Describe your house to me.”
“Wood frame, two stories in the front and one in the back.”
Her heart slammed into her ribs, squeezing out her breath with each beat.
“And do you own a vehicle?”
“F-150,” he said proudly.
This couldn’t be happening. It had to be some kind of horrible nightmare.
“Mr. Owens.” She licked lips drier than dust. “What is your son’s name?”
“Two sons.” He held up wrinkled fingers. “Luke. He’s in California. And the younger one. Sam.” He perked up. “Captain in the Army, over in Iraq. Earned a silver star.”
Following a warning knock, the door cracked and a head poked around it asking, “All set?”
“That’s Judy,” said George.
“Yes,” Red called with relief. She bared her teeth, praying it resembled some faint facsimile of a smile.
Thankfully, helping George out of his chair kept Judy from noticing Red’s heated face, her shaking hands.
She followed them to the door, anxious for them to leave so that she could give in to her full-blown panic attack.
“Now can I go home?” George asked Judy. “I don’t belong here.”
The attendant looked back and saw Red’s pallor.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she mouthed with a complicit smile.
Chapter 24
Sam drove back to the consortium from his attorney’s office, his head swimming with the events of the past few weeks. Voices filled his motorcycle helmet: Psychodad’s, Dr. Mowbray’s, Gary’s, and, of course, Red’s.
He heard again Dad’s doctor offering to set up an appointment for Dad with a specialist at Woodcrest.
His lawyer, telling him in so many words that his very future hinged on that specialist’s report.
Sam parked and entered the consortium through the front door, the public entrance that led to the bar. For some reason, his eye went straight to the barstool where Red had been perched just last week when she’d told Junie that she had just accepted a consulting gig every other Friday in Newberg.
He stopped in his tracks.
Today just happened to be a Friday.
And Woodcrest was in Newberg.
What were the chances? At this very moment, Red might be evaluating George Owens, figuring out that he was really none other than Sam’s infamous Psychodad.
He whirled around, thinking to hightail it back to his bike, to race to Newberg and confront Red.
Halfway down the sidewalk he turned and walked b
ack, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Think. Think! What was he going to say to her? His head spun. Too many lies.
Red was probably evaluating Psychodad this very minute. If she found out the saltbox was his, at least that was one thing he wouldn’t have to hide any longer.
But after the upbeat meeting with Gary, the idea of wresting control of the house sooner rather than later had started to grow on him. Maybe, after he’d successfully launched his plan, he could recover enough to give himself wholly to Red, the way she deserved.
Once, as a child, he had failed to protect the thing he loved best…the only creature that had ever loved him in return. He’d made it his life’s mission never to fail a loved one again. Wasn’t that why he kept Red at arm’s length—for her own safety?
How could this be happening? How could everything be blowing up in his face when he thought he had it planned so neatly?
He leaped back onto his bike, oblivious to the storm clouds bounding in from the coast.
At this very moment, Red could be discovering that he was a fraud—a skunk. A psycho, just like his dad. She’d never get that he’d only been trying to protect her from himself, just as he had protected his country.
* * * *
Sam’s bike roared into the parking lot at Woodcrest just as Red opened the back door to her old bomb.
He drove straight to where she was placing her workbag on the back seat.
“Doc,” he called over his engine and a steady rain.
She slammed her back door and glanced up, her face as hard as stone.
And he knew that she knew.
Ignoring him, she opened the driver’s door to get in.
He parked in front of her, blocking her exit.
“Let me explain.”
“There’s nothing you could say that I’d want to hear.” She put one foot into the car.
He was at her side in a flash, his hand digging into her arm. “Wait! It’s all in your hands. You have to declare Dad incompetent. He can’t go back to that house.”
Her face was mottled red and white. “Are you telling me how to do my job, now?”
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