Page 14 of Hearts to Mend

It’s a beautiful sight, watching my son’s joy, and his laughter is the best sound. I take a moment to revel in it, soak it in. I have a lot of regrets in my life, but having my son is not one of them. He’s singlehandedly taught me how to find joy, even on the bleakest day.

“Daddy,” Matty squeals when I pick him up and spin him around. The wand with the feathers spins with us, and the cats go bonkers trying to catch them. “Can we have cats?”

Oh Jesus. I set him down, trying to pick my words carefully as I say, “Well, we’ll talk about it. But I don’t think—”

“You’re always welcome to come over here and play with Bodhi and Utah, kiddo.” Chloe is there for me with the assist.

Over Matty’s head, I mouth, “Thank you.” To Matty, I say, “Tell everyone thank you for dinner and goodnight, big guy. It’s your bedtime.”

He gushes his thanks and gives Drew and Chloe hugs, then turns his attention to the cats, trying to capture and kiss each of them while they squirm away. Finally, I clasp his hand in mine to move him out the door.

“Did you have fun tonight, buddy?” I ask once we’re outside, meandering between the oleander and crape myrtles that separate Drew and Chloe’s rental from Mom’s house.

“Yes,” Matty answers matter-of-factly. Then adds, “I love cats. We need cats.”

I bite my lips together to keep from smiling. “Do we now?”

Matty nods resolutely, like it’s settled, a known fact, and I know this won’t be the last I hear of it.

CHAPTER 7

DEE

* * *

“My darling daughter!” Dad croons, already sounding drunk at eleven in the morning.

At least he’s consistent. Between the hours of 10 a.m. and 2 a.m. I always know where to find him: right here, perched atop the third stool from the left at his favorite bar, The Rusty Bucket. Someday, when he dies, surely the good folks at the ole Bucket will retire his stool or add a memorial plaque or something.

I wrap my arms around his middle and hug him as he pats my hands and asks, “Tell me, sweet girl, are the rumors true?”

I avoid the question as I saddle up to the bar on the stool beside him. Only when Polly, the bar’s owner, sets an iced tea in front of me, do I speak. “What rumors?”

A couple of Dad’s grisly old barfly buddies chuckle. Dad does, too, his beer-soaked breath coming out in a hacking laugh. “Don’t give me that. You know what I mean.”

Of course I do. I’m sure the ole rumor mill is churning out the guff in record amounts over this latest town news.

Did you hear, our Deidre Fletcher went on a date with Ricardo Rodriguez?

Oh my word, isn’t that something. Do you think they’ll finally marry?

“Word is you’re dating little Ricky Ricardo again.”

I grin at Dad’s old nickname for Rico. It’s been years since I heard him use it—and Rico is hardly “little” anymore. It makes me nostalgic for the days when Dad was younger and more sober, and I was young, dumb, and in love.

“That’s absurd. Who’s spreading these lies?”

“Inez.”

Of course.

I roll my eyes and steal a hot wing from Dad’s basket after Polly sets it in front of him, along with a fresh beer.

“She said you came over for dinner the other night, and it was very intimate.” He waggles his fluffy, gray eyebrows as he passes me the ramekin of blue cheese dressing for my stolen wing.

“Dinner doesn’t equal dating, Dad. I have dinner with you all the time!” I hold up my hot wing as proof—though, technically, this is lunch.

“And you’re the love of my life, Deidre Marie.” He kisses my cheek with a sloppy smack, then dunks his chicken wing in blue cheese and takes a bite.

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