Page 6 of The Pink House

“You should do that,” her dad began, then paused at the sound of a feminine voice in the background. “Sandie says hello.”

“Tell her hi back.”

“Hannah says hello.”

The chatter in the background continued. Though her father attempted to tell his wife that he’d be off the phone in a few minutes, Sandie kept talking about a clubhouse event she wanted to attend. It was obvious she wanted him off the phone.

“Hey, Dad,” Hannah interrupted when Sandie continued to press. “I need to go. We’ll talk again soon, okay?”

She’d given him an out, and he grasped it like a drowning man might latch on to a life preserver.

“Yes, yes, another time. Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you, Dad.”

The call left Hannah jittery and restless. Even if she’d wanted to stay inside, right now she needed to move and shed the worry about her father.

He’d been alone for a long time, and she hoped, really hoped, that his life with Sandie was a happy one. They didn’t seem like a good match to her, but then, she hadn’t been around while they were dating or even after they’d married.

Her interaction with Sandie had been confined to the occasional holiday and the one trip they’d made to Greensboro for Brian’s funeral.

While her dad had wanted to stay longer, having Sandie fuss and fidget had driven Hannah crazy. The two had returned home the day after the funeral.

After being alone for so many years, he deserves to be happy.

The worry brought clouds to the sunny day. When Hannah found herself brooding, she shoved the thoughts aside. She would not worry about her dad and Sandie’s relationship or about all the work around the house that needed to be done.

Lacing up her boots, Hannah headed out the front door and turned toward the woods.

Taking long, brisk strides, with the sun hot against her face, Hannah quickly crossed the small meadow between her home and the tall trees. She paused briefly to inhale the sweet aroma of wild bergamot and rose mallow.

A smile lifted her lips as she recalled telling Brian that, for their generation, stopping to smell the roses was a myth. No one she knew, not a single person, had time in their busy day to smell flowers.

Now, Hannah found herself wishing she and Brian had taken time to walk hand in hand on sweet-smelling summer evenings, maybe pausing to admire the rapid beats of a hummingbird’s wings as it hovered above their butterfly bush. Even if they’d only sat on one of the benches positioned around a nearby pond and talked.

If she could go back, there would be a lot of things she’d change. But, as she’d learned all too well this past year, time marched in only one direction.

The woods looming before her had always been one of her favorite places to explore. Though her father had warned her as a child to not venture in too far, she’d always walked until she found the perfect log or tree root to sit on and read.

With the scents and sounds of the forest surrounding her, Hannah would pull out a book, and the world around her would disappear. Brian had appreciated, but not shared, her love of reading.

He’d preferred a pickup game of basketball at the gym or working on his golf game. There had been time for little else. Certainly not for long walks while holding hands. Work had been his passion and his priority. His phone had always been close, even during his off-hours.

Basketball. Golf. Surely there had been more. During the past twelve months, the memories had faded until they felt almost like a dream.

“I won’t forget you, Bri,” she murmured. “Not ever.”

As she continued deeper into the woods, she wondered if it was like that for her dad. Did he still remember the way her mother had laughed? What had always made her smile? Or had those images dimmed so much over the nearly three decades she’d been gone that only the strongest memories remained?

Hannah had been only two when Charlotte Danbury had passed away. Her mother had developed a UTI. By the time she’d gone to the doctor, she was already septic. Within twenty-four hours, she was dead.

As she’d gotten older, Hannah had asked to see pictures of her mother. The tips of her father’s ears had turned red when he’d admitted he’d gone a little crazy when his beloved Charlotte had died.

One night, after too many beers, he’d placed all her pictures in a shoe box and put them in a safe place. He’d hoped that having them out of sight would stop the unrelenting pain. It hadn’t, of course.

The next morning, he couldn’t recall where he’d hidden them. Over the years, they’d both searched for the box, but had never located it.

For years, Hannah had tried to get her dad to describe her mother for her. All she knew was her mother’s hair had been light like hers.

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