Page 143 of Just Like Starting Over
Candace breaks down completely then and Mrs. Taylor sends Madison to get her mom a sedative. I practically carry Candace up the stairs to her suite and Madison agrees to stay with her.
I retreat to Dad’s office. There’s a spilled glass of rye on the rug and I pick that up, setting it aside. I call Sylvia to tell her what’s happened and she asks what she can do.
“Nothing, really,” I say and it’s true. I feel numb. Relieved. Sad.
“Someone will have to call people,” she says, reminding me of what I should do.
“I’ll do that. Might as well be useful.”
“Come home when you can,” she says and I close my eyes at the word.
Home. The prospect of being with her again, sooner rather than later, prompts me to start calling. I get Jake’s voice mailand leave a message. I leave a message on Austin’s voice mail, too. I talk to Abbie and try to say the right things when she cries. I call Luke and he’s the one who is kind to me.
“I know you were close,” he says in his gravelly voice.
“No, not anymore.” I might as well tell him. “He threatened to do the same to Sierra as he did to you if Sylvia didn’t leave town and me.”
Luke swears under his breath.
“I told him what I thought of that,” I admit, realizing that was just hours before. “He was pretty angry with me tonight.”
“He was pretty angry with everybody all the time,” Luke says. “Don’t blame yourself, Mike. Just because you were the last opponent doesn’t mean your battle was the decisive one.”
I like that. It’s a healthier way to think about it, to my view, and I’m glad that Luke and I are allies now. I thank him for that and continue down my list.
I call my Aunt Grace in Alberta and it’s earlier there. She’s still up and has a good cry while we’re on the phone. I call Dierdre at home so she’ll know and she is subdued but glad to know. I leave a message for Richard Bradshaw at his office and another for the golf club manager.
I sit there, worn out, and that’s when I hear the phone ring somewhere in the house. They still have a land line. I have a feeling and it proves to be right.
Moments later, Mrs. Taylor brings in a carafe of coffee on a tray with several mugs. She looks like she’s been crying. “That was the hospital,” she announces, avoiding my gaze. “Calling for Mrs. Cavendish.” She sniffs. “Your father is gone.”
Then she looks at me, waiting expectantly. I have no tears to shed, not here and not now.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say.
Her lips tighten and she leaves briskly, disapproval following her like a cloud.
He’s dead.
It really is over.
Jake arrives a few moments later. It’s just six. I hear the tires of his car on the drive out front and meet him at the door. He looks haggard and I don’t even want to know how many speeding tickets he evaded. “I tried to call you back,” he says.
“I’ve been on the phone ever since.” I take a breath. “They just called. He’s dead.”
Jake bows his head for a long moment. “Were you here when it happened?”
I shake my head, suddenly feeling exhausted, and my big brother puts his hand on my shoulder.
“In a movie,” he says as we walk toward the house. “He would have opened his eyes, repented of all harsh words, and made amends before he breathed his last. The clouds would have parted and a beam of sunlight would have shone down upon the scene while bluebirds swirled around, chirping serenely.” I smile despite myself. “I’m guessing that’s not how it went.”
“No.”
“No. Of course not.” Jake tugs me into a brief – surprising but welcome – hug on the threshold then heads toward Dad’s office. He sits down at Dad’s desk and starts opening drawers. “Oh my God,” he mutters. “Look at this mess. Didn’t he ever file anything?”
“Not so far as I know.” Women did that kind of thing for Dad, but his office is sacred ground.
Was.
