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Chapter Thirty-Five

Liam

T here was nothing else I could have done, I repeated as I sanded the table. I was so sick of the images looping endlessly through my brain. Nancy, curled up in that music case, looking so pale and fragile. All the bad outcomes, so narrowly escaped.

It made me want to throw myself in front of her door to keep her safe. But that was not something I had a right to do, unless I was her lover.

Or her husband.

The rhythmic motions of sanding were not chilling me.

Working on the table made my misery worse, not better.

No matter how hard I tried, I kept seeing that shiny auburn hair spread out in a fan on the smooth, polished wood, those hazel eyes, the long, elegant nose, the wide, luscious mouth. The sounds she made when she came.

I’d never imagined proposing marriage to her, even when things were going well. Idle memories chased themselves through my brain. Inconsequential, silly things, like making sure she ate breakfast. Teasing that anxious little crease away from her brow. Making her smile. Making her laugh.

I sanded away, unable to stop the flood of memories.

It had been so easy to talk to her. She’d understood things, even when I couldn’t put them into words.

I remembered those sweet, companionable silences as we listened to the creak of the porch swing and the song of the wind chimes, the crickets.

The wind in the trees as clouds scudded across the evening sky.

The moon, shining down on us. Pure magic.

But that wasn’t compatibility. That was just hormones, limerence, a cheap trick my mind was playing on me.

There were some things in life that a man should not compromise on.

Nancy and I were incompatible. She’d demonstrated that time and time again.

And blowing off our vacation without a second thought was the last straw. Just like when Dad …

A chill shuddered through me.

Just like when Dad had done it to me and Mom.

I lay the sandpaper down, my hands suddenly numb. Strange, that I hadn’t made that connection sooner. It was obvious, after all. Not a huge revelation. In a lot of ways, the situations were very similar.

Similar, maybe. But not identical.

I ached to talk to Mom. I could see her so clearly in my mind. Her short, iron-gray hair, her clear gray eyes. Smiling as if we always shared some secret joke.

I sank down onto one of my carved benches and closed my eyes. God knows, Mom had never been all that great at compromise herself. I remembered with bemused affection how we’d butted heads. Both of us, hopelessly stubborn.

She had tried to compromise with Dad, but he did not make the same reciprocal effort. At last, she’d been forced to put her foot down, and keep it down.

And as for Dad, forget it. Once he made up his mind, you couldn’t budge him with an earthmover. When it came to compromise, I was genetically challenged.

I brushed sawdust on my clothes, wandered out onto the porch and sat down on the steps, deliberately avoiding the porch swing and its memories. I started to let memories of that early part of my life bubble up, uncannily vivid. Those early years with Dad.

It had taken my mother years to get over him. I’d been surprised when she’d finally decided to marry again. But Hank, her second husband, had been an older man. A peach of a guy, mellow, and agreeable.

I had loved Hank, too. I’d learned the trade of carpentry from him, as well as the music, which was a hell of a lot more than I’d gotten from my own dad. Their nine-year marriage had been a good one. I had mourned him like a father when he died.

But there had never been that crackling energy between her and Hank that I remembered between her and Dad. I’d been too young to know what it was, but I’d put a name to it now. That heat. That zing that put a brilliant edge onto things. Made them seem precious and fine.

If I found some nice woman to share my life with, someone who fit my list, it would probably be like it had been with my mother and Hank. Perfectly good. Solid as a rock. Absolutely nothing to complain about.

I rested my aching forehead against my hands.

This line of thought made my head hurt. My mom would have liked Nancy.

She would’ve appreciated her spirit and sass.

She would have liked that she was Irish stock.

Memories of my mother crowded my head. I remembered the funeral parlor, that dull ache in my guts.

Like the plug had been pulled from the world.

I remembered staring at that bouquet of tiger lilies that my father had sent.

Tiger lilies. Her favorite. That son of a bitch.

I’d been almost grateful for the anger the flowers provoked. It had given me a break from the ache. I was so furious at my old man. Cowardly bastard. Afraid of his former wife even after she was dead. But he remembered her favorite flowers.

I propped my chin on my hands and stared at the trees. They were bending, swaying gracefully in the wind. Flexible, yielding, singing their sweet, shushing song of rustling leaves … and a thought popped into my head.

Did I still have the card that came with the bouquet? I remembered stuffing the tiger lilies into the wastebasket set out for the used tissues of the bereaved. Slamming down the lid while people stared and murmured.

But someone had gathered up the sympathy cards for me. I vaguely remembered someone handing me a bag of them.

Maybe I still had them somewhere.

I got up and headed toward the storage shed out back. I had kept boxes of Mom’s stuff that I hadn’t gotten around to going through. My body hummed with restless urgency.

The stack of boxes was not that large. I hadn’t kept much. Just photo albums, letters, clippings. A few of my mother’s personal things. I rummaged through them and found the bag of sympathy cards in the second to last box.

There was a tremor in my hand. I observed it as if it belonged to someone else.

Dad’s card was there. I hadn’t thrown it away.

The envelope bore the company logo. Knightly, Mitchum & McComber, Inc. The card had clouds and a seagull printed on the front, with Deepest Sympathies in a flowery font. Embossed gold lettering.

I opened it. In my father’s square, graceless block print, it read, Liam, I’m thinking of you. Love, Dad.

Things crumpled and popped beneath my weight as I sank down onto the floor of the shed and stared at those printed words for a long time.

It was full dark by the time I pulled myself up to my feet, stiff, and chilled. I took the card with me to the house, wondering what just happened. This feeling was not unpleasant, just strange. Like a big stick had stirred me up inside, not gently.

I flipped on the kitchen light and stared at the address, which was in San Francisco. So my dad had moved out west. I put on the teakettle and turned on the flame, thinking about the phone number printed beneath the address.

It was three hours earlier in San Francisco. Pacific Standard Time. Still working hours, if he was still working. I did some quick mental arithmetic. Dad would be sixty-nine. No way would he be retired. That tough-as-nails bastard would hang on to control to the bitter end.

The teakettle began to whistle. I made myself a cup of tea with one hand, holding the envelope by the corner with two fingers of my other hand, as if it were a potentially dangerous object. Explosive, or radioactive.

I sipped my tea and pondered the message Dad had written six years ago. The one I’d been too angry and proud, even after nineteen years of silence, even after Mom’s death, to read.

A question took form in my mind. I could keep my foot down, and bargain all the color out of my life. In exchange for what? Pride? Righteous anger?

Anger and pride were looking like very cold company right now.

I put down my tea and grabbed the phone. I had to move fast, or I would psych myself out. I dialed the number.

A woman’s voice answered. “Knightly, Mitchum & McComber. Can I help you?”

“Frank Knightly, please.”

“May I ask what it’s regarding?”

“Tell him it’s his son.”

The woman was silent for a moment, astonished. “Ah … excuse me?”

“I’m his son,” I repeated.

“Oh. I didn’t realize that … um. Sorry. Please hold.”

I listened to a Muzak version of “Rocky Mountain High,” and then the opening strains of “Tie A Yellow Ribbon” were cut off abruptly.

“Who the hell is this?” said a gruff, suspicious voice.

Intense emotion shivered through me at the familiar voice. “Dad. It’s me. Liam.”

Dad made an audible swallowing sound. “Liam, eh?”

“Yeah. It’s really me.”

We waited for a moment, awkward and silent.

I suddenly regretted my impulse. It had been stupid to embarrass my dad after all these years.

Better to let sleeping dogs lie. I was racking my brains for some slick way to get the hell off the phone and release the both of us from this agony when my father spoke again.

“It’s, ah, good to hear your voice. It’s deeper than I remember.”

I stifled a snort. “Ah, yeah. That happens.”

“I’ve thought about you a lot, these twenty-some years.”

“Twenty-five,” I corrected.

Dad harrumphed. “Oh. Twenty-five, is it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “On June twenty-third.”

“Ah.” My father cleared his throat. “Long time.”

“It is,” I agreed.

There was another agonizing pause, and Dad spoke again, haltingly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call when your mother died. Don’t know why I didn’t. I guess I thought you’d slam the phone down on me.”

“I wouldn’t have,” I said, wondering if it were true.

Frank Knightly sighed. “I guess you wouldn’t have. Well, what’s done is done.”

“That’s true.” I took a deep breath, and went for it. “Dad. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about what I said before you left.”

There was a long silence. “Don’t give it a thought, son.” My father’s voice was gentler than I had ever heard it. “God knows, I deserved every word.”

“Maybe you did, but I’m sorry anyhow.”

Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, too. About all of it. So, ah … what made you decide to call?”

A strange impulse propelled the words out of my mouth. “I’m, uh, thinking about getting married,” I heard myself say.

“Is that so.” Dad’s voice was wondering. “Hard to imagine that you’re old enough for that sort of thing.”

“I’m thirty-six,” I reminded him.

“My word,” my father said.

I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I just wanted to know … that is, if it works out, if I should send you an invitation.”

“If it works out? You mean, the deal’s not closed yet?”

“No. There are still a few contract details to hammer out.”

Dad harrumphed. “Ah, yes. I’d be glad to come,” he said gruffly. “Very glad.”

“Okay,” I said. “Good to know.”

“Good luck with those contract details,” he said. “I’ll be looking for that invitation, now. Don’t you disappoint me.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised.

“And whatever happens with your lady friend …” My father paused awkwardly. “Call me again sometime. Okay? It was good to hear from you.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.” My voice felt thick. I coughed to clear it. “Good-bye, Dad.”

I hung up the phone and drank some tea to loosen the burning ache in my throat. It was stone cold, but I gulped it down anyway, and stared out my big windows at the impenetrable darkness outside. I was wide awake. Thrumming with an emotion I could not identify.

I was not going to bargain away my life in exchange for the fantasy of control. I didn’t want some faceless, agreeable, compatible whoever. I just wanted Nancy.

And if I had to compromise to get her, then compromise I would. If it killed me.

I thought of the ugly, posturing bullshit I’d said, before I left the hotel. She’d seen my worst self. Which meant I had a hell of a job ahead, convincing her to marry me now. But I was a tenacious bastard. So they all told me.

That had to be useful for something besides pissing people off.