Blackberry Beach

by Irene Hannon

  Not the most welcoming body language.

  Zach tightened his grip on the laptop case.

  Stay calm. Say your piece. Extend the olive branch. Give it your best shot. That’s all you can do.

  “No, she didn’t. I make my own decisions.”

  “But she did tell you about the surgery.”

  “Yes.”

  His father’s features tightened in displeasure. “I asked her not to.”

  “She said she didn’t promise to keep it to herself.”

  “No, she didn’t.” A muscle clenched in his jaw. “She was always stubborn.”

  Must run in the family.

  But Zach left that unsaid.

  The sweat on his forehead began to trickle down the side of his face, and he swiped it away with unsteady fingers. “I forgot how hot it can get here in the summertime.”

  His father motioned toward the duffle. “You just arrive?”

  “Yes. I took a cab straight from the airport.”

  “You have a place to stay?”

  “Not yet.” There were any number of hotels nearby, and he could very well end up in one of them if this reunion went downhill. But getting an invitation to stay in his childhood home would be encouraging.

  “It’s too hot to stand out here talking. Come in out of the sun while you make arrangements.”

  So much for encouraging.

  His spirits nosedived.

  His father pulled the door back, and Zach picked up his duffle. Stepped into the welcome coolness.

  “On days like this, I’m grateful for air-conditioning—not that I have much use for it in Oregon.” He did his best to maintain a conversational tone. “It was sixty-five there this morning.” Perhaps a discussion about an innocuous subject like weather would smooth out the awkwardness before he tackled more serious topics.

  Like heart surgery.

  His dad closed the door. “The temperature doesn’t matter to me. I’m not outside much. You want to freshen up, use the facilities?”

  “No.”

  Silence.

  Zach motioned toward the kitchen. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water—if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “There’s no shortage of water.” His father strode toward the back of the house.

  Zach left his luggage in the foyer and followed him, pausing on the threshold of the room.

  Though it had been a long while since he’d been home, the kitchen hadn’t changed one iota. Same high-end stainless-steel appliances. Same granite countertops. Same sleek, modern furniture.

  All reflecting the remodel his father had undertaken after Mom died, when being in the homey kitchen she’d loved had been too painful a reminder of his loss.

  That was an insight Zach would never have gained if he hadn’t wandered down here late one night the Christmas he’d come home after her death and found his dad sitting at the table, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  His father had actually spoken about his dark desolation on that quiet midnight, and not long after he’d commissioned the remodel.

  That breakdown—and their discussion—had never been mentioned again.

  Zach slowly filled his lungs.

  He hadn’t thought about that incident in years.

  But after what Stephanie had told him about Dad’s younger days, that night may have given him a rare glimpse of the little boy who’d once worn his heart on his sleeve.

  “I have orange juice or Diet Coke if you prefer one of those over water.” His father opened the fridge.

  “Diet Coke would hit the spot.”

  His dad extracted two cans and set them on the island. “You have any food on the plane?”

  “A couple of packs of pretzels.”

  His father shook his head. “Airplane food was never all that palatable, but it’s gone straight downhill.”

  “Another reason I’m glad I don’t have to travel anymore.”

  “I suppose that’s one advantage to your new job.”

  The only one, as far as his dad was concerned.

  His reluctant host didn’t have to voice that for the message to come through loud and clear. His inflection said it all.

  Zach opened his Coke, letting the CO2 hiss out, and implemented part B of his if-he-got-inside-the-house plan. “I was hoping you’d let me buy you dinner.” Unless his dad had broken pattern and started eating earlier than seven thirty, his evening meal should still be ahead.

  The twin furrows on his father’s brow deepened as he released the tab on his own drink. “I hadn’t planned to eat much tonight.”

  “Are there dietary restrictions prior to the surgery?”

  “Fast after midnight.”

  “That’s almost five hours away.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  Understandable.

  If he was facing major surgery tomorrow, Zach doubted he’d have much appetite either.

  “Instead of a big meal, why don’t we get a quick bite at Fetterman’s? I used to love their pastrami sandwiches.” And his favorite deli was still around, according to Google. If that didn’t fly, there were several other options, depending on his dad’s mood.

  “I have business to take care of this evening.”

  Was that true—or an excuse to avoid prolonging the conversation with his son?

  Whichever the case, the message was unmistakable. The elder Garrett wasn’t receptive to sharing dinner.

  Don’t push, Zach. Let him come around on his own terms and timetable—if he chooses to come around at all.

  “Okay.”

  More silence as they sipped their sodas.

  “If you’re hungry, I keep a variety of frozen dinners on hand.”

  His father’s offer was grudging—but it was an offer.

  While a microwave dinner wasn’t the type of meal he’d had in mind for tonight, it was more appealing than eating alone in a hotel restaurant. The longer he could extend his stay here, the more opportunity he’d have to chip away at the wall between them.

  “I can do frozen—if you’ll join me. I don’t like to eat alone.”

  “Who do you eat with in Oregon?” His dad gave him a disapproving scowl. “Have you shacked up with someone?”

  That hurt.

  His father, of all people, should know he’d never violate the moral principles that had been instilled in him. Maybe he only paid lip service to his faith these days, but the virtues it taught were deeply ingrained.

  “Not my style. Never has been, never will be.” He met his father’s gaze straight on.

  “Hmph.” His dad was the first to look away. “Nice to know some things haven’t changed.”

  “More than some.”

  His father let that pass. “If you want to check out the dinners in the freezer, help yourself.”

  “I’d like to talk about the surgery first.”

  “Nothing to talk about. Arteries in the heart are blocked. The doc’s going to fix them. End of story.”

  “What about after the surgery? Are you going to a rehab place?”

  “I’m not planning to. They can send a home health aide here. After the first week or so, I expect I’ll start working from home.”

  “I thought the recovery took six to twelve weeks.” That’s what all the websites he’d scoured had said.

  His dad gave a dismissive flip of his hand. “I’ll be bored out of my mind in two days. Working will keep me occupied until I can go back to the office.” He gave him a steely look. “There was no need for you to traipse across the country for this. Who’s running your store?”

  It wasn’t a store. It was a business.

  But that was an argument for another day . . . or not. He’d come here to build bridges, not rehash old fights.

  “I have two excellent part-time employees who are working extra hours to cover the gap while I’m gone.”

  “Your staff consists of two part-timers?”

  “Any more would be unnecessary overhead—and I’m there every day.
It’s a lean, efficient operation.”

  “I bet you work longer hours now than you did in your corporate job.”

  “During the start-up, yes. Not anymore. And even when I’m working, it doesn’t feel like work. I love what I do.”

  “It can’t be all that profitable.”

  “It pays the bills.”

  “And you’re satisfied with that?” The corners of his father’s mouth turned down.

  “I had a nest egg saved from my corporate career that provides a comfortable cushion and all the security I need. Anything on top of that is gravy. I’d rather have flexibility and the leisure to enjoy what’s important in life than an extra zero on my bank balance.”

  “You won’t scoff at that zero if your business ever goes under or the cushion you have gets eaten up by an emergency.”

  Zach swigged his soda. Now might not be the best time to bring up what Stephanie had told him about his father and the judge—but would there ever be a good time?

  Besides, his father’s comment was the perfect lead-in to the discussion he wanted to have that could lay the groundwork for the olive branch he was trying to extend.

  He set the can back on the island and braced. “Aunt Stephanie and I had a long talk before I came back here.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed. “About what?”

  “About your first job.”

  Muttering a word Zach had never heard him use, his father turned away and stalked over to the sink. Twisted the knob. Rinsed his can.

  Zach waited.

  “She had no right to tell you that.” His voice quivered with rage. “She knows how I feel about rehashing old history.”

  “In her defense, I think she hoped it would help me understand why you were so upset about what Josh and I did—and why you were always guarded with your emotions. It worked. I knew your dad’s bankruptcy had an impact on your view of security, but the judge story was enlightening. Had I known when Josh died what I know now, I may have broached my career change differently with you.”

  His father swiveled toward him and crossed his arms. “Are you saying you’d have considered staying in Chicago?”

  “No—but I would have tried harder to explain to you why I was doing what I was doing instead of getting mad at your reaction.”

  “The outcome would have been the same. You’d still have gone off to become a barista.”

  “I’m more than that, Dad.” He maintained a calm tone—with an effort. “I run a business. One that turns a healthy profit and brings joy to me and my customers. People come from miles around because of the welcoming atmosphere I’ve created.”

  “You’ll never get rich.”

  “I don’t care. Money doesn’t buy happiness.”

  “Don’t spout pious adages to me.”

  “It happens to be true. You’re rich. Are you happy?”

  “Of course I’m happy. I’m exactly where I always wanted to be. What more could I want?”

  “A relationship with your son?”

  A subtle flinch at his quiet query gave Zach his answer, even though his father sidestepped the question.

  “The breach between us wasn’t my choice.”

  “Wasn’t it? You could have picked up the phone anytime and called me. I left the door open to that before I went back to Chicago after Josh’s funeral.”

  “You wanted me to apologize. I’m not sorry for the way I feel about what you and your brother did. I thought it was foolish and reckless, and my opinion hasn’t changed.”

  “I can accept that. But does your disapproval of my career choice have to mean we can’t have a relationship? I don’t agree with how much you’ve sacrificed for your job, but I can accept—and respect—your choice.”

  His father blew out a breath. “Tonight isn’t the time for a discussion like this.”

  “I know it’s not ideal—and I wish we’d had it sooner—but I don’t like unfinished business. Losing touch with you has been my one regret. I’d like to do what I can do to resolve our differences, get back on track. Life is too short to build walls that cut you off from the people you love.”

  There.

  He’d said the L-word.

  It hung between them as the ice maker dumped a new load of frozen cubes into the holding compartment.

  When his father responded, there was less animosity in his inflection. “It’s not like I’m planning to check out tomorrow, you know.”

  “I’m not expecting you to either. But after we lost Josh, I learned not to take anything for granted. Can’t we establish a truce? If you won’t accept my choice, could you try to accept me? I’m your son. The only one you have left. Do we really want to spend the rest of our lives at odds?”

  His father took Zach’s empty soda can and walked over to the sink. Rinsed it. Gripped the edge of the counter and looked out the window, where day was morphing to dusk, muddying the view into the distance.

  In the silence, Zach focused on inhaling and exhaling.

  Prayed.

  If his dad rebuffed his overture . . . refused to cooperate with this last-ditch effort to reconnect . . . it was doubtful the rift between them would ever be mended.

  Should that worst case come to pass, he’d find a hotel. Tomorrow, he’d go to the hospital during the surgery. Hang around Atlanta until his father was released from intensive care. Then he’d go back to his life in Oregon.

  While the gulf between them would always bother him, he could take a modicum of comfort in knowing he’d done his best to bridge it.

  His father remained at the window, his back to the room as he spoke. “I’m not up to a discussion tonight. Have a frozen dinner if you’re inclined. Stay in your old room if you want to save the cost of a hotel. I’ll be in my office for an hour or two. After I finish, I’m going to bed. I have to get up early.”

  It wasn’t much of a concession—but it was more promising than the silent treatment . . . or being shown the door.

  “I’ll stay. Thank you. What time do you have to be at the hospital?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “I’ll drive you, if you’re willing to let me take your car.”

  “Cab’s already been ordered.”

  “You can cancel it.”

  More silence.

  “Fine.” His father closed the blinds over the sink, straightened the soap dispenser, deposited the cans in the recycling bin inside one of the cabinets . . . and walked toward the door without ever making eye contact. “Good night.”

  Zach returned the sentiment as his father disappeared down the hall.

  For several minutes he remained standing beside the island in the empty kitchen—until his stomach rumbled, reminding him it was long overdue for a feeding.

  After the meals he’d grown accustomed to preparing in Oregon, a sodium-laden frozen entrée didn’t hold much appeal. But the calories would stoke his flagging energy—and it was a notch above eating a room service meal at an impersonal hotel.

  He wandered over to the refrigerator. Pulled open the door to the freezer compartment and scanned the stacks of boxed microwave dinners. Selected one with a meatloaf entrée . . . all the while processing the past few minutes.

  No, he and his dad hadn’t had a real discussion about their estrangement . . . but talking about feelings had never been Richard Garrett’s strong suit. Except for that night here in this kitchen, he’d always expressed his emotions more with actions than words.

  Unless he was displeased.

  Then the words came easily.

  Tonight, though, he’d been judicious with his negative comments.

  That was progress.

  And assuming the surgery went well, it was possible a few more chinks would appear in the wall between them over the next few days. Enough to break the radio silence and create an opening for future conversations.

  Wishful thinking?

  Perhaps.

  But as his tenure in Hope Harbor had taught him, sometimes—despite the odds—good could come fro
m bad . . . and happy endings weren’t always just the stuff of fairy tales.

  20

  “Knock knock. Anyone home?”

  At the summons from her deck, Katherine padded barefoot down the hall and into the great room.

  Stephanie stood on the other side of the slider screen, dressed in the same outfit she’d worn at Hope House on Wednesday.

  “Hi.” Katherine crossed to her and opened the latch. “Come on in.”

  “I’m only staying a minute. With Zach gone, I was at loose ends, so I decided to join the Sunday evening rehab crew at Hope House and help paint. You want to come along? We could get tacos first, if Charley is cooking.”

  Mmm. A far more appealing dinner than the quick omelet she’d planned.

  But her first trip to Hope House had stretched her comfort level. Without Zach by her side today, she could be assigned to assist a loquacious volunteer who’d pepper her with questions . . . especially now that Stephanie and Frank had paired up.

  “Um . . . I’m not in the mood to socialize with strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger.”

  “No—but won’t you be working with Frank?”

  “Not today. He’s busy with a special event at the lighthouse. It would be just you and me, kid.”

  An evening spent with Stephanie, including tacos.

  Easy decision.

  “Give me five minutes to change.”

  “Don’t rush on my account. By the way—have you heard anything from Zach?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Only a text letting me know he arrived. I thought he might have called you. In case you haven’t figured it out, he’s smitten.”

  Warmth crept across her cheeks. “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “I’m not the one who’s getting carried away.” She dropped onto the couch. “I may not have much personal experience with romance, but I know it when I see it.”

  Katherine went into the best-defense-is-a-good-offense mode. “No personal experience? What about all that high-voltage electricity pinging around on Wednesday at Hope House while you and Frank were patching walls? I was afraid I’d be electrocuted whenever I walked by the door of the room where you two were working.”