Page 66 of Playing With Fire

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It didn’t take long for Ricky to realize that Chrissie’s father was even more anxious than him about the meeting. Tom’s heavy frame was still visible in the broad shoulders and corded arms as he thrust out his hand to shake.

Tom spent the five-minute walk to the independent living section explaining how much they liked the retirement village, and Ricky tried to imagine his own parents washing their hands of all that mowing and cleaning gutters and of course, that temperamental furnace.

He saw the family home sitting empty, stripped of the cheerful clutter of family life. A real estate agent hammering a For Sale sign on the lawn.

Selfish bastard. It’s not about you.

“It’s like being on vacation all the time,” Tom finished with, throwing open the door of an apartment on the top level of the three-story building overlooking the tennis courts.

Molly must have been lurking in the kitchen because she appeared instantly. Her hands were twisted around a tea towel.

She surprised Ricky with a peck on the cheek, which turned into a full-fledged hug. He wrapped his arms around the thin frame, his own eyes filling as he felt her body vibrate with sobs.

Tom patted his wife awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Come on now, doll,” he said gruffly. “Enough of that. I hope you haven’t been crying on that cake you made, cause that would be a damned shame.”

She drew back, dabbed at her eyes with a real ironed handkerchief, and gave a tremulous smile.

“I’m sorry Ricky. I swore I wouldn’t do that, but...well, I did.” She turned to Tom, who was hovering. “Show Ricky around while I switch on the coffee and get things ready.”

Ricky obediently followed Tom into the pleasant, airy living area, furnished in a combination of old family pieces and cheerful contemporary sofas. He was shown the view to the tennis courts, admired the forced bulbs flowering on the patio.

He glanced back inside at the comfortable and homey space. There was something missing. His brain whirred. Photos, of course.

A large studio portrait of Molly and Tom’s 1980s wedding hung on the wall, and there were a couple of framed snaps on the dresser of a young Chrissie taken at the cottage. Her golden hair floated in a corona of curls, and her gapped-tooth smile was wide with joy.

What was that lake called? Worst road Ricky had ever driven on, and his own father had certainly had something to say about the dings in the bottom of his precious Chevy.

Tom appeared at his side. “We didn’t want to become one of those sad couples who have so many photos of their deceased daughter that you can’t breathe for all the grief in the room,” he said quietly.

Ricky swallowed, nodded. They took their places around the dining table, and he took the offered slice of cake with a smile. The coffee was perfect, hot, fresh, and strong.

The next few minutes passed in awkward conversation as everyone ate and drank and discussed the importance of using real butter in cakes and how the view over the mountains was wonderful.

Silence fell, lengthened. Ricky could tell that the older couple were wondering why he had come to see them. An old boyfriend back in town, feeling guilty about the way things turned out, doing his duty by visiting, they probably figured. And they’d be right, mostly.

Except for that small sketch drawn in a ragged, smoke-tainted notebook that properly belonged to Chrissie’s next of kin, her parents. He pushed away a fresh pang of guilt.

Baby Lioba. That was his sole focus.

“When did you last see Chrissie?” Ricky blurted. He closed his eyes. “Sorry, that was rude...”

Molly reached forward and touched his knee with her small hand.

“Just ask us what you want, Ricky.” She glanced at her husband, who was sitting stiffly in his armchair, staring out the window with the detached air of a man watching for incoming weather and wondering how long until he could take off the storm windows.

“We have been to hell and back. That doesn’t make us special, because a lot of folks have loads to bear that are heavier than others.”

Ricky glanced at her, trying not to imagine what could be worse than losing a child.

He should have come earlier. He shouldn’t have come at all.

Molly’s voice was calm. Her fingers covered Tom’s callused palm. His thick, blunt fingers curled around hers.

“But I mean it when I say hell and back, because here we are, still living. We vowed that we would live the best, the kindest and most loving life we could with what time we have left.”

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