Bunny held the phone with one hand and moved papers around with the other. She recognized some of the papers as the same fliers she had at home for high school events and announcements. “There’s a blue spiral notebook here. Is that it?”
“No. This would be smaller than that. It should have rings at the top. Brown cover maybe. You can open the drawers. I might have stuffed it in one of those.”
She pulled open one drawer and then the other without any luck. “I’m sorry. It’s not here.”
“Okay, scratch the desk. Could you try the bookshelf in my bedroom then? I tend to stash things there.”
“Sure.” Under different circumstances, she would have considered making some little joke about his bedroom and the fun they’d had there the night before. But his father was dying, and she’d just figured out that a ghost had probably been with them in the room last night. A ghost she’d never be able to compete with. No, she wouldn’t be making any jokes.
She did, though, enjoy the smell of him as she entered his room. The two bookshelves were side-by-side on the wall just to the left of the door. She scanned the shelves.
“How are you, by the way?” he asked her.
“Me? I should be asking you that question.”
“You said you were having father issues.”
“Oh, that.” She laughed a little while lifting some more papers on a shelf right in front of her eyes. “You have your long stories, and I have mine.”
She fingered the spines of his books. Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson, My First Summer in the Sierra, The Yosemite, and Travels in Alaska by John Muir.
The titles were no surprise. They were perched next to rows and rows of novels by names she knew very well—Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Philip K. Dick, and more. Daddy loved science fiction too, not surprising, given his new passion for killing imaginary aliens.
“You’re a science fiction fan,” she said.
“What?”
“Your books. Sorry, I was looking at a few of them when I should be looking for that steno pad. Which I’m not finding by the way. Anywhere else?”
“Go around the corner on the other side of the bookshelves. There’s a small sitting room with a TV. Is it on the chair or maybe on the table next to it?”
She looked. “Nope.”
“Man. Really?” Tate said. Bunny imagined him running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I was sure I’d put it on the desk or on the bookshelf.” He went quiet again, and Bunny tried to think of ways she could help better. “I guess I’ll just have to call Hildie,” he said.
Forget Hildie Page. Bunny could handle this. She wanted to handle this. “Don’t bother Hildie. I can be here tomorrow if the kids know what to do. Is that all you need, or do they require instructions?”
“No instruction needed. It will be three hours or so. Are you sure?”
“I’ll bring a book. Or maybe borrow your Ender’s Game—if that would be okay. I’ve always wanted to read it. No reason for everything to get behind schedule, right?”
“Yeah. That’s great. And definitely—borrow the book. Keep it as long as you like. I told the kids to be there at one. You’re sure about this?”
“Positive. Go now, and don’t worry about anything here.”
“I’ll, uh, call tomorrow. You know—when I have a better idea about how things are going here. Not sure if I’ll be back for work on Monday or not.”
Bunny worried about how to end the conversation. They’d shared a deeply intimate experience last night, and now just a few hours later, were discussing business as if they were merely acquaintances.
He was probably on the other end of the line kicking himself, wishing they hadn’t slept together. “Okay. Bye,” she said. There, that was the easy way out.
He didn’t respond immediately.
She closed her eyes, breathed in the masculine scent around her, and prayed he’d say something that told her he wasn’t regretting their night together.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Bye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SAMUEL’S TEXT CAME IN WHILE a doctor discussed Morton’s current condition with Tate and May. Their brother was waiting in the first floor lounge.
Tate tried to stay focused on the doctor’s recommendations. Morton had likely come into contact with a flu bug, hence the high fever. With a highly compromised immune system, his body didn’t fight it well. They’d brought the fever down a good deal, but wanted to keep him at least another day to monitor him.
“His chart shows he hasn’t received any chemotherapy treatments, is that correct?”
Tate nodded. “He rejected the treatment when the diagnosis was made. He’s, uh, basically...”
“Waiting to die,” May finished for him.
The doctor nodded. “I see.”
Tate helped the doctor understand the big picture. “We have a nurse with him part-time for right now. He has his good days and his bad. We know that at some point we will have to bring hospice in.” He hesitated for a minute. “Do you think we’re at that point now?”
“It could be.”
“Will you be able to release him so we can take him home? We live in Virginia, you know.”
“If we get to that point, I, or one of my associates will likely recommend medical transport. Highly recommend.”
“Meaning, you don’t release him if he doesn’t have it?”
“Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
Tate nodded, while May tapped her hand nervously against her leg. “Fair enough,” Tate said.
Tate and May exchanged looks, and then Tate popped his head into Morton’s room where Willow sat in a chair next to his bed.
The old man stared at a television.
Tate motioned to Willow that she should leave the room. “Hey, Mort,” he said, “the doctor filled you in, right? Your fever is coming down.”
“I don’t wanna die in this hospital.” The mere sliver of the man he knew as his father never took his eyes from the television as he rasped his words. “Take me home.”
“We’re working on that.”
“Work harder.” Morton coughed a dry, harsh cough.
“Can I get you something before we go down to the cafeteria?”
“A ticket home—you able to get me that?”
Tate bit his lip. If the man hadn’t been so adamant about going to North Carolina in the first place, they wouldn’t all be in this pickle now. He’d love to scream at Morton and tell him he wanted to be home just as badly. It served him right if he died in the hospital. He shook off the urge and concentrated, instead, on the more uncomfortable thought of seeing Samuel.
“We’ll see you later, Mort.”
Not surprisingly, Mort didn’t look at him or answer.
May refused to see Samuel. She huffed off to the cafeteria while Tate and Willow took the elevator to the first floor.
When the doors opened, Tate felt the urge to punch the Close Doors button. Probably sensing his reluctance, Willow put her hand gently around his arm and pulled.
How do you greet someone you haven’t seen in over thirty years? Someone you barely remember, but who shares your blood, your DNA? Someone who left you and never cared to come back.
From the doorway leading into the first floor lounge, it wasn’t hard to spot Samuel—he was the only one sitting there. His hair was thin, more gray than dusty brown. It was cut short and business conservative. He had the Kilbourn brown eyes. Despite their casual flair, his pants and shirt were obviously designer and probably cost more than most of Tate’s wardrobe put together.
He was focused on a computer tablet in his hand, but raised his head as soon as Tate and Willow appeared in the doorway. Samuel’s motions were slow and deliberate. He set the tablet on the chair next to him, rose, and then took tentative steps in Tate’s direction.
Tate managed one step into the lounge and, as unsmiling as Samuel, took his brother’s offered hand.
“Ta
te,” his brother said. A statement, not a question.
Tate shook his hand, but said nothing.
“Thank you for calling me. And for inviting me to come down.”
“You didn’t need an invitation.”
Samuel tipped his head, and Tate could hear the silent touché. He put his arm around Willow’s shoulder. “This is my daughter, Willow.”
Tate saw Willow smile and offer her hand willingly. “Hi,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Willow.” Samuel cleared his throat after the handshake and thrust his hand into his pants pocket. “May isn’t here?”
“She wasn’t up for it—the reunion, if you will.”
“Got it. Understand.” Samuel’s gaze fell to his feet. “How about...Dad?”
Willow muffled a laugh with her hand, and Tate couldn’t help but crack a small smile.
“Uh, Morton doesn’t know that you’re here.” Then it occurred to him that he may have misunderstood. “Or were you asking about how he’s doing?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“His fever is coming down, but they want to keep him here at least overnight. Morton wants to go home and is...” Tate’s voice trailed off. How could he put it nicely?
“Grumpier than usual,” Willow offered.
Tate nodded. “Grumpier than usual.”
“So.” Samuel bobbed his head. “Not up for a visit from the son he hasn’t seen in thirty-four years?”
“Probably not.”
Samuel nodded and when he did, Tate noticed some of Morton in the action. Odd, he thought, that mannerisms would hold strong after so long. He wondered if they were alike in other ways.
“So,” Samuel started again, “Morton, huh? His idea or yours?”
“The name?” Tate asked rhetorically. He shrugged. “Happened over time, I guess.” He tried to remember who started the habit of referring to their father by his given name. Was it him or May? Probably May.
It must have happened shortly after Samuel left though, because Tate had a very vivid memory of apologizing to his third grade teacher when his father didn’t show up for a scheduled teacher/parent conference. “Morton was probably busy with work and couldn’t get away,” Tate had said.
“You call your father Morton?” she’d asked. When Tate said yes, the teacher shook her head and told Tate that he should never apologize to her for his father’s neglect.
He didn’t know what neglect meant for certain, so he looked it up in the dictionary during library time the next day. He was surprised at the word’s meaning. Certainly he envied the kids with two parents who showed up to school events and actually seemed interested, but he had never considered himself neglected.
His father worked and paid the bills and “put food on the table” and “clothes on their backs” as the man reminded he and May quite regularly.
It wasn’t until middle school that he began to realize that good parenting meant more than providing food and shelter. He finally realized that Morton had given up. He’d given up on all of them, himself included, and even then, he was just waiting to die.
It was during those same years—middle school and high school—that Tate made the conscious decision to be a different man. He wouldn’t let his father’s misery define him. He’d be better that. He would find the fun and joy in life. And when he had kids, he’d be a damn good father.
May’s voice behind him startled Tate from his jog down memory lane.
“You know I hate you, you bloody rat bastard,” she said, her voice quavering.
Tate turned to see May, hands at her sides, face red, eyes wet.
Willow took a step backward, and Tate could tell she was concerned for her aunt. Samuel and May stood motionless, locked in a visual stand-off. Neither spoke. Their eyes did all of the talking.
“Say it,” May whispered finally.
Samuel watched her intently and finally responded. “They’re only words, May, but if it helps...I’m sorry?”
“Are you bloody asking me or telling me?”
“I’m sorry.”
Because his sister’s emotions rollercoasted like Space Mountain, Tate wasn’t surprised when May wrapped herself tightly around Samuel and began bawling like a baby.
“I hate you.” Her words were barely audible.
Samuel hugged his sister back, stroking her hair. “Not more than I hate myself.”
All this time, Tate had worried that his motives for contacting Samuel were selfish. And maybe they were. But here, in this cold hospital lounge, he felt relieved to see that he’d done the right thing. Selfish or not, he’d done the right thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BUNNY UNLOCKED THE FRONT DOOR of the Nature Center at eight forty-five and told her father to take a seat in the learning cove where the naturalists gave their presentations. Luckily, Demon had been unable to shut down his access to the bank account even though she was a joint owner.
Bunny and her dad had been able to purchase an iPad to keep him occupied while they put their plan in order to get him safely and happily back into his apartment at Whispering Pines.
“Daddy, just sit there quietly. When my boss comes in, I’ll ask her for a long lunch break.” Bunny’s nerves were in a knot. She’d only been working at the Nature Center for a couple of weeks. She didn’t want to jeopardize the new job that she loved, but she also needed to help Daddy extricate himself from the clutches of a daughter who’d taken his trust too far.
Over the weekend, the only time she didn’t have Daddy with her was when she’d gone to Tate’s looking for the steno pad. Even then, she had left him with Charlie at the electronics superstore where they sampled video gaming units and games for more than two hours.
While she waited for Abigail to arrive, she listened to messages and then went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She was still wound pretty tight, so the coffee would be for her co-workers. She poured herself a mug of cold water from the cooler, instead.
She walked around the Center turning on lights, then returned to her desk just as Lydia entered, followed by Ross—the two naturalists under Tate’s supervision.
They smiled and waved at Bunny.
“Hi guys,” she said. “Tate asked me to let you know he won’t be in today. He’s had a family emergency.”
Concern crossed both of their faces. “Is everything okay?” Lydia asked.
“It’s his father,” Bunny explained. “He got sick during a trip to North Carolina and had to be hospitalized.” Tate had warned Bunny that no one at the Center knew of his father’s cancer, and he wanted to keep it that way for the time being, anyway.
She kept talking, offering as much as she could in the way of information, hoping they wouldn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer. “He’s expecting the hospital to release him soon, and he’ll call as soon as he knows when he’ll be back.”
Luckily, the phone rang, rescuing her. “Oh, he said to call him on his cell phone if you need him for anything urgent.” She picked up the ringing phone, leaving Lydia and Ross to wander back to their offices, discussing the news.
She handled the phone call and was just hanging up when Abigail arrived, Olga on her heels. “Abigail,” Bunny said, trying not to sound as worried as she felt, “can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
A floral tote dangled from Abigail’s left hand, and her right thumb was tucked into the straps of a very large brown purse flung over her other shoulder. She seemed a bit burdened by the tote. “Is this urgent, Bunny?” she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice.
Bunny felt that Abigail had really warmed up to her over the last couple of weeks, and she hoped that the irritation was just a by-product of morning grumpies and a heavy book bag pulling on her arm.
“It’s pretty urgent, yes,” answered Bunny.
Olga sidled up to Abigail.
Bunny didn’t mind if Olga heard about her problem. She considered Olga a friend of sorts by now.
Abigail dropped the floral bag to the floor
and leaned on the tall counter of the reception desk. “What is it?” She looked serious for a minute, then actually cracked a smile. “You don’t want a raise already, do you?”
Bunny returned the smile. “No, but I do have a pretty big favor to ask.”
“Aha! Gotcha!” her father’s voice boomed loudly from the Learning Cove, causing Bunny to wince. She was glad he had games to play on his iPad, but did he have to be so loud?
“That’s the favor,” she said. “Rather, that’s my dad. He needs me to take him to the courthouse today to apply for an emergency restraining order. I thought if I took a long lunch...”
“Restraining order for what?” Abigail seemed genuinely concerned.
Good, Bunny thought, maybe she’d be fine with it.
“Who cares for what? None of our business!” blurted Olga. “Abigail, I answer phones. You let Bunny do thees for her papa. It sounds serious.”
Abigail gave Olga a sideways glance. “Do you promise not to yell at people?”
“Who yell? I don’t yell?” Olga yelled. It was true, Olga talked quite loudly and some took her enthusiasm for shouting.
Abigail rolled her eyes. “How long will you be gone?” she asked Bunny.
“It should only take a few minutes to file the paperwork, so I’m thinking with waiting for the approval and travel time, two hours at the most. But,” she winced again, deciding to go ahead and approach the full scope of the problem head-on, “this is only a temporary order so I’ll have to take him back for a court date later this week or early next, and that could take a big chunk of the day. My sister will probably have some big hired guns in there fighting him hard. She’s married to the big developer, Randall Strickland.”
Olga let out a belly laugh, and Abigail’s mouth tightened into a thinner-than-usual line. “Wait. You mean Deena Hobbs-Strickland is your sister?”
Bunny worried that she’d just ruined it for herself and Daddy. Why did Deena have to have everyone in her back pocket? She nodded, her face tight.
“You take as much time as you need, Bunny.” Abigail slammed a fist on the counter. “If I had a lawyer to send with you, I would. Deena Hobbs-Strickland is no friend to the Nature Center.
Kiss Me, Tate (Love in Rustic Woods) Page 13
