Page 14 of A Taste of Chardonnay

Michael held his hands up. “It’s my pleasure. But remember this when you’re judging the Halloween costume contest next weekend.” He gave a wink and a wave before heading behind the counter.

I waited for Ron to make some offhanded comment about Michael or the Halloween costume contest, and when he didn’t, I wondered if the man I once knew existed anymore.

“We have one of those costume contests down at the veteran’s home.”

I took a sip of my coffee, grateful for the bold taste.

“Reminds me of you. You always liked that Halloween stuff.”

My arm froze, the coffee cup suspended in the air as I stared at my old man. “I did,” I finally said. “I still do.” I never knew that he noticed or cared. I’d take myself trick-or-treating, meeting up with Franc and Laurent and their family where Mr. and Mrs. Grasso would let me join in. Then we were teenagers, and we roamed the streets, armed with cans of shaving cream and cartons of eggs. It was my favorite time of year.

“You were…” He snapped his fingers a couple of times. “Freddy Krueger one year. Yeah. The one with the fucked up face. You did your own makeup. See? I remember shit.”

“That doesn’t erase the fact that you thought Tony’s still existed. Whether or not you want to, you need to see a doctor.” I reached into my back pocket and retrieved the information I had picked up from Laurent’s office and placed it on the table.

“Here’s a number.” I pushed the paper across the table and tapped the name of a doctor who specialized in early onset Alzheimer’s. He was the father of one of the owners of a chain of restaurants Laurent dealt with. When I had mentioned to Laurent what Nero had said, he took it upon himself to get the number. Just in case. I didn’t even want to pick the number up, but he insisted. I was starting to wonder if the bastard was psychic and had foreseen this morning’s shit show.

“What the hell is this?” Ron asked, not even attempting to look at the paper.

“A number of a very reputable doctor who deals with this kind of shit.”

“If he’s that reputable, I doubt he’ll take my insurance.”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“My insurance is shit.”

I snatched the paper back. “This is so fucking typical. I didn’t even have to get you this number.”

“Then why did you?” His eyes met mine, and I froze for a moment before I got my composure. “I didn’t. Nero was worried about you. He spoke with Laurent, who knows a guy. I’m just the fucking messenger. So if you don’t want it, it’s no skin off my back. I’m used to you not following through.”

His jaw tightened, wrinkles around his eyes that had deepened so much over the years deepened even more. He held his hand out. “Give me the number.”

I hesitated. All the reasons I should even help him in the first place raced through my mind, making me question every moment until this point. He’d treated me like shit my entire life, and now here I was, giving him a helping hand.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins, the voice in my head told me to get the hell out of there and never look back, but that eleven-year-old boy who went fishing with his dad so very long ago pushed to the surface and begged me to help his dad. With a deep inhale, I slapped the paper in his hand.

“Make the damn call,” I said.

He nodded before folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket. He glanced at the muffin in front of him. “It’s not scrapple.”

“I think we’ve established that.”

He took a small piece and placed in his mouth. His eyebrows pulled tight as he chewed. “Hell, it’s not bad. It’s actually pretty damn good.” He motioned toward my plate. “You eating?”

What I wanted to do was get the fuck out of there and back to my life, but what if I left, and he caused another scene? Could he even drive home? I had no idea.

All I knew was that just like my past, I was once again taking care of a man who had never taken care of me.

Story of my fucking life.

***

I stayed. Waited for Ron to finish his coffee and muffin before I offered him a ride home. When he refused, I didn’t give him a choice. There was no way I was letting him drive after he had no idea where the hell he was. Franc met me at the coffee shop and followed in my truck with Jack.

We pulled into the driveway of the place I never thought I’d ever return to and threw the car in park.

“You didn’t have to drive me,” he said. No thank you; just an argument.

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