Page 18 of Thick and Thin

The sweet smell of the French toast mingled with the savory scent of the sausage, and I felt guilty that my father was comforting me rather than eating. “Go ahead and fill up your plate. I’ll get rid of them.”

“See if they can stop by on Monday instead.”

Despite my roiling emotions, I gave my father a smile, shaking my head. I’d have to make sure I wasn’t around when they planned to come by.

After making my way through the living room, I opened the door—but the two Jehovah’s Witness ladies were not there. Instead, it was Mr. Sherwood. What the hell was he doing here?

“Mr. Sherwood?”

Before I could ask, he said, “I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I was thinking about our conversation all night long. You didn’t believe me.”

“I—”

“So I would just like a little of your time to prove to you that the Whittiers have wrongly indebted you.”

“Mr. Sherwood—”

“Alan,” he corrected. Why didn’t he get that I would never call him by his first name?

“I don’t understand—”

“That’s why I’m here.”

I hadn’t heard my father come out of the kitchen until he spoke. “What’s this about the Whittiers now?”

“Rowan, so good to see you.” Mr. Sherwood used my father’s entrance as an excuse to come through the door, his hand outstretched.

Why had I never told my father about all my misgivings around this man? That lack of disclosure was working against me.

“Did I hear you say something about the Whittiers?”

“Yes. If I may…” he said, indicating with his hand that he wanted to sit down.

But I had to put a stop to all of this. Now. “Mr. Sherwood, my father has just undergone a medical procedure that will help with his illness—but it’s made him overtired and… Anyway, I can’t have you getting him all stressed out about something he can’t do anything about.”

As if to emphasize my words, my father backed up, nearly falling on the couch—but I suspected just hearing about his worst enemy hadn’t helped. “But I need to talk to you, Anna. I didn’t have a chance to tell you everything. I got the feeling yesterday you didn’t believe me and I need to set the record straight.”

My father said, “You two go ahead and talk. Don’t mind me.”

“I will mind you, dad. I’ll give you a summary later.” Then I turned back to Mr. Sherwood. “Just give me a bit. Come on, dad.” Holding out my hand, I helped him up off the couch. “You need to eat or else you’ll never get your strength back. Where’s your walker?”

“Over there,” he said, indicating the spot beside his recliner where it often sat, waiting to be used. When I started leading him to the kitchen, he said, “Could you just bring my plate out here?”

Nodding, I helped him over to his recliner and another pang of guilt struck me, a reminder of how much the treatment had zapped him of his strength. Then I grabbed his coffee cup that he hadn’t brought to the kitchen so I could fill it up at the same time.

Now that I was out of the living room, Mr. Sherwood used it as an excuse to chat with my father, so I tried to hurry. On my father’s plate were two slices of French toast but he hadn’t gotten much farther along. I put butter and syrup on the toast and set three sausage links on his plate. If he didn’t eat them, so be it, but I he wouldn’t have a chance if I didn’t give him the opportunity. Then, making a couple of trips, I brought out his plate, napkins, silverware, and fresh coffee.

Of course, Mr. Sherwood was already filling my father’s head with nonsense. He was in the middle of saying, “I think they’re expecting your daughter to do far more work than she needs to.”

It was obvious looking at my dad that he really was exhausted. Still, he wanted to hear all Mr. Sherwood had to dish out—but it would be better if he heard it from me. “Mr. Sherwood, can we speak outside?”

The way he frowned made me suspect he’d been hoping I’d offer him a cup of coffee. But that wasn’t about to happen. “I suppose that would be fine.”

“I’ll be right back.” I ran to my bedroom, taking a chance that he’d start filling my father’s head with his words again, but I wanted a sweater, because the mornings were beginning to feel chilly—and I didn’t want to give Sherwood another reason to come back inside. Although it was fortunate that my father had switched the television back on, indicating he wouldn’t converse further with Mr. Sherwood, it also told me he was even more tired than I’d thought—and he might not even eat. “Can I get you anything else, dad?”

“I’m fine.” At least he was picking up a sausage link as Mr. Sherwood and I walked out of the house.

It was cool out, but I probably would have been okay without the sweater. Still, it covered me up a little more, a move I’d often felt compelled to do around this man. “So what is it you needed to tell me?

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