He’d been so caught up in his increasingly elaborate preparations, he hadn’t stopped to consider that she might have other plans for the day. And responsibilities she couldn’t walk away from. A life, in other words. Unlike him, whose focus at the moment consisted of a house he didn’t want, a woman he wanted more than he should, and a picnic lunch for two with no one to share it.
Cars had been steadily passing him on the right. The latest, full of teenage boys, slowed as it drew alongside, and the sneering kid in the passenger seat stuck his middle finger out the window and shouted, “Try getting out and pushing—it’d be faster.”
Ordinarily, Griff would have returned the gesture. Of course, ordinarily he wouldn’t have invited it by doing twenty in a forty-mile-an-hour zone, in a car that had rolled off the assembly line before he was born.
Instead, he heard himself calling back, “Where’s the fire, laddie?”
He yelled it with a smile, just the way Gus O’Flaherty used to whenever someone passed them as they chugged along with all the windows rolled down, enjoying the ride and the moment and the breeze that smelled of gravel and summer. Content to be in no particular hurry.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, at the reflection of the old picnic basket on the back seat. Just ahead was a clearing on the right. Griff braked and swung in to it, cutting the wheel back hard to the left. He’d forgotten how much muscle it took to make a U-turn without power steering.
Now this was driving, he told himself as he pulled back onto the road, heading in the opposite direction. None of that automatic transmission, cruise control stuff. Just the horses under the hood and him at the controls. Almost like flying.
The notion drifted through his mind, and instinctively he braced for the recoil he’d come to expect whenever he lowered his guard and thought about flying. The inevitable downdraft that resulted could suck him into a pit of bitterness and self-pity faster than he could say “Life is what I make it” or “Decision is destiny” or one of the other countless, pithy little sayings clueless, well-meaning people had advised him to use to get through bad moments.
Only, this time it didn’t come. No recoil. No downdraft. There was a twinge deep inside, and a cynical voice from the same place pointed out that driving, of any sort, resembled flying, about as much as the current Madonna resembled the original. But that was it. Griff gave the Buick a little more gas and went to work trying to figure out the fastest route to where he was going.
When he drove through the front gates of Willow Haven a while later, he was still not sure exactly what his next move should be. He could go through the proper channels and risk being told no, or he could simply skip all the red tape and handle it in the way that felt most natural to him. His way. It took him all of two seconds to settle on the second option. Only a fool went looking to get shot down twice in one day.
When he reached the fork in the drive, he veered right and drove around back, noting all doors and windows. It was rudimentary reconnaissance, and if anyone had told him back in basic training that he would someday be using it to scout out a retirement home, he would have laughed in the guy’s face.
He spotted the greenhouse as soon as he turned the corner. The solarium, Rose had called it. Whatever the proper term for it, he couldn’t miss the flowers blooming in every window. Dahlias, he decided, not knowing a dahlia from a door-stop. They had to be dahlias. Whatever they were, there were more of them in planters and urns on the patio just outside. And connecting the sunroom and patio was the answer to his prayer: a door propped open with a plastic chair.
Parking as close as he felt was safe, Griff sauntered—as much as it was possible to saunter with a cane—through the open door. Rose had mentioned that Gus’s room was next to the solarium.
There were two rooms directly adjacent to the solarium. Griff got lucky and found Gus in the one with its door ajar. The man seated by the window, reading, was older and grayer and thinner, but he was definitely the same Gus O’Flaherty whom Griff remembered. In a matter of seconds, it all came flooding back to Griff, not the details of the times they’d shared, but the feelings, the friendship, the encouragement from which he’d drawn the first tentative threads of the dream that would come to dominate his life. And with them came a new, long-overdue feeling—gratitude.
Griff gave a perfunctory rap on the door and said, “Hello, Gus.”
The old man by the window looked up from his book. His face was weathered from years of working outdoors, but his eyes were as blue and his smile just as big as Griff remembered.
“Well, well,” said Gus. “Look what the cat dragged in, will you? The Griffin lad, as I live and breathe.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
His snowy brows shot up. “Not remember the rascal who wrapped a rug around my drive shaft?” He snorted. “Not bloody likely to forget you.”
“I’d forgotten all about that,” Griff countered, the memory making him both smile and wince.
“And why wouldn’t you?” Gus retorted, trying to look stern, just as Griff recalled him doing the day it happened. “It wasn’t you who had to stand under the car lift for hours, picking bits of wool and twine from the poor gears until your back was bowed.”
“What the hell were you thinking to let a twelve-year-old drive, anyway?”
The older man shrugged. “You asked. How was I to know we’d come upon a mound of rug in the road and you’d charge straight over instead of going around like I shouted for you to do?”
“As I recall, what you shouted was ‘Look sharp, laddie.’”
“‘Look sharp, go around.’” Another shrug, then a smile. “As I recall, when I said it, you straightened up in the seat…just as you hit the rug dead-on.”
“You’re right, I did,” Griff recalled, chuckling. “Hell, I was so used to Devora telling me to throw my shoulders back and stand up straight, I figured ‘Look sharp’ was just your odd way of saying the same thing.”
“Ah, yes. Your aunt Devora was a stickler for that kind of thing, for sure. Posture and manners and the rest.” He sighed, still smiling, but his eyes were misty. “She taught me a thing or two, I can tell you that.”
“She taught me a thing or two, too,” said Griff.
Gus moved toward him, his right hand extended.
“And it’s better off—we both are because of her,” he said, grasping Griff’s hand in what became a clumsy masculine mix of handshake and embrace.
They pulled apart and immediately looked in opposite directions. Griff cleared his throat. He thought Gus might have dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, but he didn’t want to know for sure. So he took his time looking over the simple room.
“Still got a green thumb, I see.”
Gus brushed off the compliment, but Griff could tell he was pleased. “I do as I always did—stick seeds in the dirt and let God do the rest.”
“Then I’d say you two make a good team. Yep,” he went on, deciding it was probably safe to look Gus in the eye again, “all in all you have a pretty nice setup here.”
“Is that why you came? To check out the accommodations? I notice you’ve already got yourself a cane.”
“Very funny,” retorted Griff, wondering if the fact that it had come from Gus was the only reason the remark didn’t bother him. “I did hear they have a waiting list at this joint. I might consider adding my name to it, if I could be guaranteed this room.”
Gus snorted. “Then I wouldn’t be wasting any ink signing up, if I were you. I’ve just planted a whole two dozen third-generation Lady Violets that I’ll be crossing with the Midnight Ruffles over there.” He nodded at a row of pots to his right. “I’ve a mind to see how well they turn out and won’t be taking a final curtain call before I do—not even to accommodate you, Major.”
His gaze narrowed and scoured Griff from head to toe. “Speaking of which, you’re out of uniform.”
“This is my uniform these days,” he replied. As Gus looked disparagingly at hi
s faded jeans, white shirt and loafers worn without socks, Griff explained the circumstances surrounding his retirement as succinctly as possible.
“Tough break, laddie,” said Gus, when he was done. “So, what kind of work are you doing now?”
“None. I’m retired,” he said again, a little louder this time.
“No need to shout,” Gus told him. “I’m not deaf. Or dumb, either. I know what retired means. I’m retired. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m also an old man.”
“You look pretty go—”
Gus stopped him with a raised hand and a puckered, impatient expression. “Save your breath. I know I’m old, just like I know you’re not. Seems to me a fellow your age who doesn’t work and doesn’t plan to, is just marking time.” He shrugged one rounded shoulder. “Or else wasting it.”
“If that’s so,” he continued, making Griff wish he wasn’t too polite to tell him to mind his own business, “then maybe you ought to sign up for a room here, after all. There’s plenty of your kind here.”
“No offense, Gus, but I’m beginning to regret coming to visit, never mind moving in.”
“Any particular reason you did come?”
“Yeah, there’s a reason,” he retorted, not about to admit to anything that might prompt Gus to tell him that in addition to being lazy, he was also suffering from self-pity and sentimentality. “You once let me take that old tank of yours for a spin when I wasn’t supposed to be driving. Since I’m just marking time, anyway, I figured I’d stop by and return the favor.”
“You don’t say?” The wrinkles in his brow deepened as he pondered the explanation. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“We have a friend in common,” Griff told him. “Rose Davenport.”
Gus’s mouth immediately curved into an affectionate smile. “Ah, Rosie. She plays a mean game of dominoes, my Rosie.”
“She says the same about you.”
“I like that girl,” he said, fixing his piercing blue gaze directly on Griff. “I like that girl a lot.”
Griff understood that the statement was also a warning, and nodded. “I do, too.”
“So. Back to business. Just what old tank were you speaking of a moment ago?”
“How many did you have? I’m talking about the Buick, of course.”
“The Buick?” repeated Gus, his eyes wide but still skeptical. “My Buick?”
“The very one,” Griff assured him, and watched his disbelief give way to excitement. “If you don’t believe me, take a look. She’s parked right outside there.”
“But how…? Where…?”
He trailed off, as if not knowing what to ask first.
“It was still parked in Devora’s garage. It didn’t take much to get the old girl up and running. I’ve done enough tinkering with airplane engines to handle the basics.”
“Well, I’ll be…” Gus was beaming, speechless. Griff could almost feel fresh energy simmering beneath the older man’s wrinkled skin. “Does that mean you’re game?” he asked.
“Game?” Gus looked around excitedly. “Just let me grab my hat and—”
He stopped. His shoulders sagged. “Who am I kidding? They’ll never go for it up at the desk. You have to give them a day’s notice and then fill out a stack of forms and sign your life away before they let you out the door.”
“That’s the front door,” Griff said.
Gus frowned impatiently until the comment settled in his head. Then he peered quizzically at his visitor.
“It just so happens I’m parked outside the back door,” Griff informed him. “If you catch my drift.”
Gus caught it, and his smile lit up the room. It lit up something inside Griff, too. In that second, he knew that even if the old man did nothing the entire time they were together but nag him about being a lazy, good-for-nothing bum, he would still never be sorry he had come.
“The hell with the hat,” Gus chirped, heading straight for the door, his gait slow but steady. He paused to stick his head out and take a look along the corridor before continuing. “Coast is clear,” he whispered. Then, glancing over his shoulder at Griff, he added, “If you can’t keep up, laddie, just toss me the keys.”
Griff kept up, thinking the entire time that the two of them must be quite a sight.
When they drew close to the car, Gus stopped in his tracks and just stood still, staring at it. “She’s as pretty as the day I got her,” he pronounced.
“That’s great, Gus, but do you think you could finish admiring her while we’re moving?” Griff held open the passenger door expectantly. When Gus hesitated, he said, “I thought I should drive getaway. You know, just in case you’re a little rusty.”
“Good thinking,” Gus agreed, and climbed in.
Griff wasted no time taking off, resisting the urge to floor it or glance over his shoulder to see if a posse of nurses was after them. Belatedly, it occurred to him that what he was doing might well be illegal. Not kidnapping, exactly. Senior-napping, perhaps? Even if it wasn’t an actual crime, it was a hell of a lot more nerve-racking than he’d anticipated.
“You’re not on any medication, are you?” he asked abruptly.
“No more than any man my age,” Gus replied.
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“Stupid…same as the question.”
“I was just wondering if this is going to mess up your schedule. It might not be good if you miss a dose.”
“Having second thoughts already?” Gus asked, smiling and caressing the velvety upholstery of the armrest.
“No,” he lied.
The older man chuckled. “Good. Because I haven’t had this much fun in I don’t know how long.” He sighed and looked around, sighed again. “Just so I don’t have to look at that nervous twitch in your jaw the whole time, I’ll tell you that I take my blood pressure pill in the morning and my cholesterol pill at night, and in between I get everything I need for my heart trouble from a patch they stick on my chest.”
Cholesterol, blood pressure and heart problems. Griff supposed that was pretty typical for a man in his eighties, just as Gus had claimed. It still carried a sobering awareness of the ebb and flow of life.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “A side trip to the ER isn’t part of my plan.”
“What is your plan?” Gus enquired, leaning to catch the breeze on his face.
Griff grinned with anticipation. “Wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”
“With my heart?” Gus retorted, thumping his chest as he shot Griff a look of exasperation. “A surprise could kill me. Course, then my room would be available.”
“Very funny. All right, we’ll do it your way and skip the element of surprise. I thought we’d swing by Quonset Point like we used to.” Motioning with his head, he added, “Check out the back seat.”
Gus twisted stiffly to look over his shoulder. At the sight of the familiar old picnic basket, he broke into a grin that made Griff doubly glad he hadn’t mentioned the fact that this was actually Plan B for the day.
“I didn’t have time to make meat loaf for sandwiches,” he confessed—as if he would have known where to begin. “So we’ll have to make do with what I picked up at the deli. But I did chase down some bottles of sarsaparilla.”
“Sarsaparilla.” He shook his head. “That brings back a few memories, all right.”
“I figured it would,” said Griff, quite pleased with how his backup plan was progressing.
“So, we’re headed for Quonset. That should be a fine time.” A couple of seconds passed before the old man added, “If you don’t mind sitting around watching the grass grow.”
Griff’s brows drew together. “What are you talking about? I thought we’d eat lunch and watch planes take off and land, the way we used to.”
Gus responded with a snort. “That was a long time ago, laddie. Things change—you have to keep up. Nowadays they use Quonset to build submarines.” He shrugged. “I suppose we could always sit and watch ’em do t
hat.”
His lack of enthusiasm was obvious.
“All right,” Griff said, ignoring his own disappointment as he scrambled to formulate Plan C. “Maybe we could take a drive along the coast. You know, look at the scenery.”
“Sure, old folks are supposed to like that kind of thing.”
Griff eyed him suspiciously. “Do you have a better idea?”
“Since you’re asking,” he said, sitting forward, “it just so happens I do. Let’s head for Foxwoods.”
“Foxwoods? You mean the casino?”
“I sure do.”
“That’s in Connecticut, for Pete’s sake.”
“Connecticut,” mimicked Gus. “You say it like it’s as far away as Alaska instead of only a hop, skip and jump down the highway from where we are right now.”
“An hour-long hop, skip and jump,” argued Griff.
“Forty minutes,” Gus corrected. “If you’re tired of driving, I can—”
“I’m not tired of driving,” he broke in. “It’s just that…a casino? Hell, Gus, it’s one thing to break you out for an afternoon, but then to take you gambling…somehow it doesn’t feel right.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard, and I’ve been around long enough to hear plenty. Foxwoods is a beautiful place. Clean, classy, first-rate. Think about it, laddie. If there was anything the least bit disreputable about it, would your aunt Devora have gone?”
“Devora went to Foxwoods?” Griff was astounded.
“Once a week,” Gus told him. “As regular as church.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Suit yourself.”
“How do you know?”
“Who do you think drove her?”
“Don’t kid around, Gus. Is it true?”
“Sure, it’s true.”
“It’s funny, I don’t ever remember her going.”
“That’s because there was no casino way back then,” Gus pointed out. “The Pequot Tribe didn’t get the go-ahead until the eighties. You must remember your aunt going off to bingo on Thursday nights.”
“I do now,” answered Griff. “But playing bingo in the church basement is a long way from going to a casino. I just can’t imagine Devora shoving quarters into a slot machine.”
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