One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  Now he ate healthy food and visited the gym three times a week.

  In memory of Mom—or to appeal to that woman in the restaurant?

  She scowled at him as he approached, but he didn’t seem in the least put off by her less-than-cordial welcome.

  “I thought this might be a nice addition to your rose garden.” He set the nursery container beside her, and she glanced at the tag. Double Delight.

  The tea rose she’d been trying to find for two years.

  “Where did you get this?” She fingered one of the velvety petals, leaned close to inhale the spicy scent of the two-toned blossom.

  “A nursery in Wentzville. They ordered it for me, and I picked it up while I was out there at a job site this morning.”

  Was it a coincidence he’d chosen this particular rose—or did he know it was Mom’s favorite?

  He spoke as if he’d read her mind. “Your mom was partial to that one, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know—but I’m surprised you do.”

  “I was never into gardening like she was, but I admired her handiwork. And every now and then on a summer evening, we’d walk through her gardens.” A wistful smile tugged at his lips. “She always had me smell this one when we got to the roses.”

  “Those little strolls can’t have happened very often. You never got home before dark.” The bitterness of her tone hung heavy in the air between them, lingering after the words faded away.

  Sighing, he lowered himself to the ground beside her until they were eye to eye, regret etched on his face. “If I had it to do again, I’d make some changes.”

  To her horror, pressure built in her throat. She was not going to cry. Not. Going. To. Cry. Tears didn’t solve a thing—and they wouldn’t change the past.

  “It’s a little late for that.” Somehow she managed to choke out the words.

  “I know. And I’m sorry.”

  The pressure increased, and she turned away. Maybe if she went back to yanking out weeds, he’d get the hint and leave.

  Instead, he dropped onto his knees and joined her. “There are some things we should talk about.”

  “Talk doesn’t change anything.”

  “It can—if opinions have been formed without full information.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  She tugged on a tenacious dandelion, but the leaves pulled off, leaving the root firmly embedded in the earth, ready to send up another noxious sprout.

  “You might have to use the trowel on that one.”

  “I know how to weed a garden.” She picked up the trowel and attacked the root. “I also know what I saw on Monday. You were on a date with that woman—and I formed that opinion with full information. You were holding her hand.”

  “It didn’t start out as a date, but it did end that way—and I plan to see her again.”

  At least he wasn’t trying to pretend things between them hadn’t been cozy.

  Debbie stabbed at the earth with the trowel. “Mom would have enjoyed meeting you for lunch like that once in a while. But you never had time for her. For either of us. Even on important occasions.”

  “That was a mistake. I see that now. At the time, though, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “Neglecting your wife and daughter was the right thing?” She glared at him, her voice vibrating with hurt and anger. “It didn’t seem very right the night I found Mom crying in your bedroom when I was twelve, on your anniversary. You’d called and said there was some crisis at the office, as usual, and you couldn’t get away in time to take her to dinner. She’d bought a new dress, gotten her hair done, had a manicure. She was all ready to go. The tears were running down her face when I peeked in the bedroom door.”

  He rested a hand against the ground, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “I didn’t know that. She never said a word.”

  “Mom didn’t complain about anything.” Debbie tackled the stubborn dandelion root again. “She got herself under control and told me it didn’t matter, that she understood why you couldn’t get away, that she was just being silly and selfish. But I didn’t think she was the one being selfish. I still don’t.”

  “You’re right. I should have realized how much a night like that would mean to your mom. But I was always more worried about keeping the business afloat.”

  “Get real, Dad.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “You run a very successful company. The issue isn’t whether you can keep it afloat but how much more money you can make this year than last.”

  “The business hasn’t always been as solid as it is now, Debbie. It was lean in the early years. Building a company from scratch can eat up your life. However, things were going well by the time you were twelve.” His fingers tightened around the stem of a weed, lines of distress scoring the corners of his mouth. “I should have let someone else handle that crisis on our anniversary.”

  He yanked out the weed, tossed it onto the growing pile between them. When he continued, his voice was more subdued, his expression pained. “The truth is, I was always afraid things would collapse around me and I wouldn’t be able to provide for you and your mom. I never got over that fear, no matter how successful the business became. That’s what drove me to put in those long hours.”

  She slanted a look at him. He was staring at the dark earth, fingers clutched in the dirt. Not once in her entire life had she seen her self-confident father exhibit one iota of fear. Was this just some lame attempt to rationalize his skewed priorities?

  As if sensing her perusal, he turned toward her, a profound sadness in the depths of his eyes. “There are a lot of things about my past you don’t know. Things I shared only with your mother. She thought I should tell you about them after you got older, but I didn’t want to dredge up all that garbage again. Maybe you need to hear them, though.”

  If this was a ploy intended to gain sympathy, her dad was giving an Oscar-winning performance.

  “So tell me.” The challenge came out stiff, bordering on confrontational, and she had a feeling he’d back off. Why offer explanations to someone who obviously wasn’t receptive or willing to listen with an open mind?

  But he surprised her.

  After dusting off his hands, he sat on the grass at the edge of the garden, resting his forearms on his knees. “I told you my father was a businessman and that he died when I was very young. I lied about both.”

  She sat back on her heels with a frown. Her dad might have a lot of faults, but he’d always been scrupulously honest. “Why?”

  “Because I was ashamed of him.” He focused on the new spring grass at his feet, fingered the tender green stalks reaching for the sun. “He was the classic ne’er-do-well. A man with grandiose, get-rich-quick schemes that always went belly-up. We lived hand to mouth, sometimes with just enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing, sometimes with nothing more to eat than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a week at a stretch, never sure when we’d next be evicted. I remember spending one Christmas Eve in a homeless shelter with my mom while Dad was off chasing some new pot of gold in Oklahoma.”

  “Why did your mother stay with him?”

  “She loved him. And he said he loved us. But I never understood how a man who professed to love his family could let his wife and son live the way we did. Oh, there were always great promises about the mansion he’d buy us and the servants we’d have once he hit it big, but in the meantime Mom worked two part-time jobs at minimum wage trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. We bought our clothes at the thrift store and wore coats to bed in the winter. I remember wondering through more nights than I care to remember if I’d ever be warm again.”

  He paused, the mellow tones of the wind chimes on the patio filling the silence with a soothing resonance as she studied his profile.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of that?”

  “I never wanted you to worry about ending up that way. I didn’t even want you to know people lived like I did growing up. I wanted you
and your mom to have a secure life, to know you could count on me to provide for you, no matter what. I thought that was the best way I could demonstrate my love—and if that meant missing out on family events, that was a sacrifice I had to make.”

  He wiped a hand down his face, leaving a dirt stain on one cheek. “Carol knew my background, understood what drove me, and she tried to convince me that being a workaholic was an overreaction. That you needed my time more than you needed an expensive summer camp or ballet lessons or designer clothes. But I just couldn’t downshift. I was so afraid if I slowed my pace, things would fall apart.” He exhaled. “Your mom also urged me to share my history with you once you got older. But before I knew it, you went off to college . . . and life moved on.”

  Debbie jabbed her trowel into the ground. “I wish you’d told me.”

  “Would hearing about it as a teenager have made a difference?”

  “I don’t know.” She was still trying to assimilate his revelation, to reconcile her image of a workaholic father who only cared about his job with one who cared so much about his family he was willing to sacrifice his personal life to provide for them. “What happened to your father?”

  He picked up a clump of dirt, sifted it through his fingers. “When I was twenty, he got involved in some sort of easy money pyramid scheme. I’m not certain he realized it was crooked in the beginning. Mom never thought he did, but she had blinders on when it came to him. In any case, once he realized the mess he was in, once he knew he was going to be implicated in an illegal business that had swindled hundreds of disabled people out of their savings, he went down to the Eads Bridge one night and jumped off. Mom died of a heart attack two years later. She was only fifty-seven.”

  Shock rippled through Debbie. How could she have lived in the same house with this man for eighteen years and never picked up a clue about his traumatic youth, even if he was gone a lot?

  “I’m not saying my background excuses the bad choices I made with my own family.” Her father angled toward her, the grooves around his mouth deepening, his eyes sad. “But maybe it will help you understand that my intentions were good. I wanted to shelter you from the sordid side of life, to give you a childhood where you never had to worry about subsisting on peanut butter or shivering through a winter night. In hindsight, I know you needed more of me and less of the material things I provided, and I’d follow a more moderate course if I had it to do over. But since I can’t alter the past, I’m hoping you’ll give me a chance to make amends in the future.”

  The noonday sun highlighted the creases in his face that marked the passage of years . . . and reminded her time was running out to repair their strained relationship.

  What he’d told her today did give her a new perspective. She could understand why he’d been so driven, so work-focused.

  But long-standing resentment didn’t evaporate overnight.

  The best she could do was offer him the chance he’d asked for. To let him play a bigger role in her life . . . and see where things went from there. Shawn was right. She didn’t want to look back someday with regret.

  She picked up her trowel and began hacking again at the stubborn, imbedded root. “We’re having a birthday dinner for Bobby a week from Sunday. You’re welcome to join us if you’re free.”

  He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  Then he settled in beside her again and went back to pulling weeds.

  She snuck a peek at him. “Don’t you have to get back to work?”

  “I told the crew I had some important business to take care of. They can get along without me for another hour. Would you like me to help you plant that?” He gestured toward the rosebush.

  “Are you sure you have time?”

  “Yes.”

  She shoved her trowel as deep as possible, wiggled it around, and finally managed to pull out the dandelion root. “I have a dead bush I was going to replace over there.” She gestured toward her rose garden. “The Double Delight will be perfect.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  After tossing the deep-rooted weed on the heap, she stood. “I’ll get the shovel from the garage.”

  “I’ll meet you at the garden.” He picked up the bush and started to move away.

  Her heart began to hammer as she wrestled with the sudden urge to make an offer she wasn’t at all certain was wise. Yes or no?

  Just do it, Debbie.

  “If you . . . if you want to bring your lady friend to Bobby’s party, it’s okay.”

  At her breathless overture, he stopped. Slowly turned. “Are you sure?”

  No. At this point, she wasn’t sure about anything. But somehow this felt right.

  “If she’s important to you, I’d like to get to know her. And please tell her I won’t be so rude this time.”

  “She understood your reaction. And I think she’d like the birthday party. She doesn’t have any family of her own.”

  Debbie picked a piece of dirt off her jeans. “She has cancer, doesn’t she?”

  His smile faded. “Had. I hope. The prognosis is good.” He transferred the rose from one hand to the other. “Look . . . I want you to know that Maureen is a new friend. There’s been no one since your mom died. I loved her with all my heart—like I love you.”

  He’d often said those words to her, told her he was proud of her, but somewhere along the way, his expressions of affection had become just words. They’d stopped registering. She’d measured love in terms of time and attention, and by her measure, he’d failed. Yet he’d demonstrated his love in the way he thought most appropriate—in concrete terms, by providing security and a comfortable life.

  Had they both had tunnel vision all these years? Was there fault on both sides for the cracks in their relationship? Instead of keeping all her hurt inside, letting it build a wall of resentment between them, should she have told him what she needed years ago? Reinforced what her mother had apparently tried to communicate? Would that have made a difference?

  When she didn’t respond, he continued toward the garden—disappointed, no doubt, that she hadn’t returned his sentiment.

  But she had a lot of thinking to do first. A lot of emotions to sort through. She’d have to dig deep to dredge up the words he wanted to hear.

  Her gaze fell on the pile of weeds, already wilting in the spring sun. She’d accomplished a lot in the garden today. Prepared the ground for the seeds she would soon plant and nurture until they took root and sent fragile shoots reaching toward the warmth.

  Perhaps she’d done the same with her dad.

  Time would tell.

  “Thanks a lot for your help, Dr. Chandler.” Jarrod rose and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m sorry to keep you so late, but I was beginning to feel like a hamster on a wheel—running fast and getting nowhere.”

  “No problem. I don’t have any special plans for Thursday nights as a rule. And you were right to stop by. I wouldn’t want you to lose momentum on your thesis when you’re making such great progress.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Some days . . .” He grinned and shook his head. “But I’m back on track now. Thanks again.” Hefting the backpack into a more comfortable position, he lifted a hand in farewell and disappeared out the door.

  After gathering up the papers on her desk and sliding them into her briefcase, Maureen glanced at her watch. How could it already be six? The day had flown—and she owed David a report on Keith’s visit from last night. The lengthy faculty meeting, plus crises with two of her graduate students, had given her a legitimate reason to bump the call down on her priority list, but now she’d run out of excuses.

  Yet her stomach churned at the thought of talking to him.

  Because David McMillan made her feel the same way she’d felt that long-ago summer for those few magical days under the Italian sun.

  Breathless. Alive. Happy.

  And look how that had turned out.

  She shifted her gaze t
o the redbud tree outside her window, the magenta flowers brilliant against the deep blue of the early-evening sky. The feeling this time was different in some ways, though. She was different. Older. Wiser. Cautious. More jaded, less gullible. And much less susceptible to brain fog just because she’d piqued the interest of an engaging, mature man. David seemed to be who he said he was, but Hal had too—and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

  The key was to move slowly, not get carried away. To approach this open-eyed rather than starry-eyed. If she stuck to those guidelines, she wouldn’t get hurt again.

  Doing her best to suppress the flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach, she picked up his business card and tapped in his cell number.

  He answered on the second ring, his tone clipped and distracted. “David McMillan.”

  “David, it’s Maureen. Is this a bad time?”

  “Never.” Warmth chased the preoccupation from his voice. “It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “I apologize for the delay in getting back to you after my meeting with Keith. My day was crazy.”

  “Mine too. I spent most of it on a job site trying to deal with a hawk’s nest one of my crews discovered in a wooded area they were clearing. It seems the hawks objected to their presence and began a dive-bombing attack. Then we discovered the nest has eggs in it, putting it under the protection of federal law. Now we have to get a permit from Uncle Sam to relocate the nest. Since this is a multimillion-dollar project, and every delay dings the bottom line, we’re hustling to get through the government red tape.”

  “A Herculean task, I bet.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “In light of your crisis, my day doesn’t sound half bad. The worst part was a long, boring staff meeting—but even that had a few moments of levity when the professor emeritus nodded off and fell out of his chair. Fortunately, he only hurt his dignity.”

  David’s deep chuckle came over the line. “I’ll trade your professor’s faux pas for my hawks any day. Now tell me how it went last night with Keith.”