The Last Goodbye

by Sarah Mayberry

  They both stopped in their tracks. For a moment, Ally Bishop simply stared at him. Then a wide smile curved her mouth.

  “You came,” she said. “I’m so glad. I know he really wanted to see you. He’s so proud and stubborn, but the moment I mentioned calling you I could see he wanted it, he simply didn’t know how to ask for it.”

  She was delighted he’d come. Overjoyed by the family reunion she’d effected. No doubt she had visions of him and his father staying up late into the night, exchanging memories, sharing their innermost thoughts. Telling each other how proud they were and how much they loved each other.

  He laughed. Couldn’t help himself.

  “Lady, you have no idea,” he said.

  He left her standing in front of the hospital, her face pale with shock.

  He made it to the safety of his truck before it all caught up with him. He pinched the bridge of his nose but was powerless to stop the tears burning the back of his eyes.

  They’re not for him. They’re not.

  He wasn’t sure who he was crying for. Definitely not his old man, and certainly not himself. He’d never cried for himself, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE mistake.

  Ally’s hand curled around the strap of her handbag as she watched Tyler Adamson duck his head and brush his forearm across his eyes.

  She’d followed him to his truck, determined to make the most of his change of heart despite his less-than-welcoming demeanor. After all, he’d come when he said he wouldn’t—that had to mean there was a chance of father and son reconciling.

  But now Tyler was hunched in his truck, choking back tears as though they caused him physical pain.

  At first she’d thought it was simple grief she was witnessing, that Tyler had seen his father and learned the prognosis and was now experiencing the first wash of sorrow and regret. But there was something about the way he curled into himself that spoke of emotions more complex and uglier than grief alone.

  She took a step backward, then another, then another, until there was a tree between herself and Tyler’s shiny red pickup. She turned and walked until she was safely inside the hospital foyer, well out of Tyler’s sight.

  With the abruptness of a camera changing focus, she suddenly understood that she should never have made contact with him. Should never have pushed Bob, should never have pried into what was clearly a very complicated, painful situation. She’d thought she was helping, that if there were issues between Bob and his children, they would all appreciate the opportunity to talk them out before it was too late.

  But some scars ran too deep and she’d been hopelessly, childishly naive to dive headfirst into something that was clearly none of her business.

  She’d been behaving like the worst sort of interfering do-gooder, lumbering in with her hobnail boots on, causing everyone more pain.

  She wrapped her arms across herself as she glanced toward the parking lot, feeling cold despite the warmth of the summer’s day. She couldn’t get the picture of Tyler hunched over his steering wheel out of her mind. She knew instinctively that he would hate for her—for anyone—to have seen him in such a vulnerable state.

  The worst of it was, there was nothing she could do to fix the mess she’d made. She’d meddled, and there was no way she could take it back.

  And now Ally was uncertain if she should go ahead with her visit or not, unsure what she might find when she entered Bob’s room. If he was as upset as his son, she knew absolutely that he would not want anyone to see him break down.

  She bit her lip. Then she gave herself a mental shake. She was here. If Bob didn’t want to see her, she’d go. And if he was upset, she’d do her best to comfort him—provided he allowed her to. It was the least she could do.

  Bob was talking to a nurse when she arrived. Or, more accurately, arguing, judging by the raised voices.

  “Fine, Mr. Adamson, I’ll go find someone in charge,” the nurse said darkly, brushing past Ally as she exited the room.

  Bob was scowling as Ally approached the bed. “She’d better be going to find someone to make this TV work, or there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  “What’s the problem, Bob?”

  “They want to stiff me to watch my TV shows. Twenty bucks a day!”

  “It’s been like that for a while. Do you want me to arrange it for you?”

  “No, I do not. It’s an outrage to charge a man to watch what should be free.” He was flushed, agitated—far more so than the argument warranted.

  Ally reached for one of the gnarled hands fisted on the sheets. “Bob, you need to take a deep breath. Getting upset like this isn’t going to help you get better.”

  He didn’t quite meet her eyes but his hand gripped hers tightly, almost painfully.

  “I guess you probably think I’m a stupid old bugger, getting upset over a TV.” His voice was low, thick with emotion. She returned the pressure on his hand.

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  Then she set herself to the task of distracting him, telling him a story about Wendy’s cat, Mr. Whiskers. She waited for him to mention his son’s visit, but he didn’t. And neither did she.

  She’d learned her lesson, well and truly.

  TYLER HESITATED ON THE rear doorstep of his father’s house, the spare key gritty with dirt and cool in his hand. It had been hidden beneath the old brick beside the steps for as long as he could remember, but he’d still been surprised when he’d lifted the brick and found it there. For some reason he’d thought his father would have changed the hiding spot after he and Jon had left.

  He rubbed his thumb over the ridges on the key, staring at the peeling paint of the door.

  He didn’t know why he was here. He’d been driving through town on his way to the freeway, keen to get back to the business, his head busy with all the things he needed to do between now and the weekend. Then he’d seen the sign for his parents’ street and signaled to turn.

  Like his father, the house hadn’t aged well. The paint was peeling, and the trim around several of the window frames was rotten. The garden was overgrown, the gutters sagging along one side of the house.

  The key slid easily into the lock. The door swung open and a rush of hot, stale air hit him. He walked into the short hallway, stopping when he saw the boxes stacked against the wall. More than a dozen of them, filled with what looked like newspapers. He took a step closer and inspected the topmost one.

  Yep, newspapers. So old they were yellow with age. Frowning, he made his way past the cartons and into the kitchen.

  It was dark and he reached for the light switch. Even after twenty years he found it unerringly, some subconscious part of his brain leading his hand to the right point on the kitchen wall. The fluorescent light flickered to life and he surveyed the room, his frown deepening as he took note of yet more newspapers stacked against the wall, the dirty dishes in the sink, the food-encrusted stove.

  When his mother had been alive, this room had been pristine, every surface clear, every pot gleaming. It had been his and Jon’s responsibility to wash and dry and put away the dishes every night, then his mother would set the table for tomorrow’s breakfast, everything neatly lined up.

  He glanced toward the crowded sink and a memory hit—him and Jon fooling around while doing the dishes, flicking each other with their damp tea towels. He’d been holding one of his mother’s prized Royal Doulton teacups when he’d slipped on the wet floor and instinctively flailed to save himself, dropping the cup in the process. The sound of porcelain shattering had sounded like a gunshot through the house. Tyler could still remember the thrill of panic that had rocketed up his spine.

  His mother had appeared in the doorway first, her face twisted with dismay and grief, then his father. One look at his wife’s tear-streaked face as she’d knelt to collect the remains of one of her treasured teacups had been enough to seal Tyler’s fate.

  Tyler walked away from the memory
and into the living room. The curtains were drawn, the room dark, and he flicked on more lights. Apart from the cartons of newspapers stacked along the far wall, nothing had changed in here since he’d last seen it, down to his mother’s knitting basket sitting beside her favorite chair by the fire.

  He crossed to the mantle and picked up a tiny porcelain mouse peering out of a piece of cheese. His mother had loved her menagerie, as she’d called it. He and Jon had selected a new animal for her birthday every year, bought from the jeweler in town and paid for with their hard-earned pocket money. She’d always acted surprised when she’d opened her present, even though she must have known she’d be getting yet another creature to add to her collection.

  Tyler traced the line of the mouse’s back, remembering how proud he’d always been of the fact that he’d made her happy, even for a moment.

  He put down the mouse and glanced toward the bedrooms. He walked slowly across the threadbare carpet and stepped into the empty hallway. Closed doors lined the right side, the first leading to his parents’ room, the next to Jon’s, the last to his. At the far end of the hall was the door to the bathroom.

  Tyler reached out to flick on the light switch and another memory flashed into his mind. Jon, naked and still wet from the shower, cowering on the carpet as their father lit into him with an old belt. Jon had tried to escape to his room and their father had stalked him up the hallway, raining blows on his exposed back. Tyler had stood in his bedroom door, too afraid to intervene, too afraid to retreat.

  Tyler couldn’t remember what his brother’s crime had been. Perhaps he’d been in their father’s toolbox without permission. Maybe he’d sat in their father’s car, pretending he could drive, a favorite fantasy for both him and Jon. Or maybe he’d genuinely done something wrong—lied or stolen or cheated at school.

  Tyler could feel his heart beating against his rib cage. He glanced around, feeling overwhelmed by the gloom and the smell of old papers and the memories. So much ugliness and sadness.

  He’d intended to check out his old room, but instead he turned and grabbed the nearest carton of newspapers. Hefting it, he strode to the entrance and balanced the box on his knee while he opened the front door. Then he strode down the steps and dumped the box by the curb.

  He stared at the yellowed newspaper for a beat, then he turned on his heel and went into the house. He crossed into the living room and jerked the curtains open, letting in bright, clean light. He slid the catches free and pushed the window open. He did the same thing with the other window, then he walked into the kitchen and wound the blinds up and pushed that window wide, too.

  He returned to the hall, grabbed another box and headed for the curb.

  ALLY STOPPED BY THE supermarket on the way home. She was just adding the latest edition of Country Living magazine to her shopping basket when she glanced up and saw a familiar blonde head.

  “Daniel,” she said automatically, taking a step forward.

  Immediately she felt ridiculous, because Daniel was in London, thousands of miles away.

  The man looked over his shoulder and she murmured an apology. Ducking her head, she made her way to the checkout.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d thought she’d seen Daniel on the street or in the supermarket. She understood it was guilt, that she still hadn’t forgiven herself for leaving and hurting him the way she had. As she paid for her groceries and made her way to her car, she told herself the same thing she always did—she’d done him a kindness in the long-term.

  She wondered if he understood that yet.

  It’s been five years, Bishop. You’re probably a faded memory, if that. He’s probably married with three kids and a huge mortgage by now.

  Strange that the thought made her throat tight when it was everything she knew she didn’t want.

  She drove home, drowning her thoughts with the car radio. She slowed when she turned onto her street and saw a shiny red pickup parked in her usual spot under the tree.

  Tyler’s truck, unless she was wildly mistaken. She parked behind him, glancing toward Bob’s place. For the first time since she’d been living next door, the curtains were all open, the windows thrown wide. Out the front, half a dozen cardboard boxes were stacked along the curb.

  She’d only been in Bob’s house twice, once to call the ambulance when he’d collapsed, the second to collect his pajamas and crossword puzzles to make him more comfortable in hospital. Both times she’d been dismayed by the dark rooms and stacks of newspaper and the evidence that he’d been living off canned food and little else. She’d literally itched to do something about all of it—but it hadn’t been her place and she’d satisfied herself with disposing of any perishables in the fridge and taking out the garbage.

  She gathered her groceries, locked the car and started toward Wendy’s front gate. She was fumbling with the latch when she heard heavy footsteps drum on the ancient planks of Bob’s porch. Seconds later, Tyler appeared, a box of newspapers in his arms as he strode up the garden path. He was frowning and his dark hair was ruffled as though he’d been running his fingers through it. He pushed Bob’s gate open with his knee, then crossed to the curb. His big biceps muscles bulged as he dropped the box on top of the others. He turned and registered her for the first time.

  She felt an odd thud in the pit of her stomach when she met his gaze. She’d been preoccupied during their previous meetings, but in the clear midday light she was struck by the unusual color and clarity of his cool silver-gray eyes.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He nodded his head in silent acknowledgment. Then he headed into the house.

  “Wait!”

  He paused, one hand on the gate, eyebrows raised, his body angled only slightly toward her.

  Not exactly welcoming or encouraging. But she probably deserved not to be welcomed or encouraged, the way she’d lumbered into his life with her preconceived judgments and inexcusable meddling.

  “I just wanted to say I was sorry. For yesterday, I mean. I made a lot of judgments based on not a lot of information and it was really out of line for me to read you the riot act the way I did.” Her words came out a little rushed, but at least she’d said them.

  It took him a moment to respond, and she realized she’d surprised him.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But—”

  “You were being a good neighbor. I get it.”

  “Well, yes, but I was also being a horrible busy-body. I get about a hundred letters a week from people making exactly the same mistake, so you’d think I’d know better, but apparently I don’t. Apparently I’m as susceptible to do-gooder syndrome as the next person.” She offered him a small, self-deprecating smile.

  His gaze slid down her body briefly before coming back to her face.

  “You’re a psychologist?”

  She wasn’t sure if she should be insulted by the skepticism in his tone or not.

  “I’m an advice columnist. I write the Dear Gertrude column in the Melbourne Herald.”

  “Right.” He didn’t seem very impressed with her profession.

  “I see you’re having a bit of a clear out,” she said, gesturing toward the stacks near the curb.

  “Those newspapers are a fire hazard.”

  There was a preemptive defensiveness to his tone and she guessed that Bob had no idea he was about to lose his newspaper collection.

  “Well. Good luck with it,” she said. “I hope everything works out okay.” She offered him another smile before pushing Wendy’s gate open. Once she was safely inside the house, she closed her eyes and groaned.

  I hope everything works out okay.

  There was only one way things were going to work out. Bob was dying. There was no miracle happy ending to this story.

  Rolling her eyes at herself, she carried the groceries to the kitchen and started putting them away.

  She’d handled that really well. Not.

  She tried to concentrate on work for the rest of the
afternoon but it was almost impossible to ignore all the activity next door. Now that the curtains and blinds were open at Bob’s house, she had a ringside view into both the kitchen and living room from her customary perch at Wendy’s desk in the study. She saw Tyler moving back and forth and back and forth as he worked at clearing Bob’s hoard of newspapers. She heard him swear a few times, heard him talking on his phone, his deep voice drifting through the window in indecipherable snatches.

  By three, she’d chosen only one letter for her next column and she shut the letters file on her computer with a frustrated sigh. Clearly she was too distracted—unsettled—to work properly. She might as well call it quits for the day.

  She logged on to the internet instead and spent the next few hours checking out the latest offerings on her favorite house-sitting site.

  She’d been house-sitting for nearly three years now and had a solid history to offer prospective clients, so there was a pretty good chance she had a shot at any job she applied for. Typically, no actual money changed hands—the homeowners provided the accommodation, she ensured their properties and gardens and pets remained in good order. A you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours kind of deal. To date, the longest span she’d had between jobs was three weeks, and a serviced apartment had provided the necessary stopgap. As far as she was concerned, it was the perfect lifestyle choice, a great solution for a born-and-bred gypsy.

  She bookmarked two options that had possibilities—one in Sydney, the other in Brisbane—then shut down the computer and went into the kitchen to stuff and baste the chicken she’d bought for dinner. She could see Tyler moving around Bob’s kitchen on the other side of the fence. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he tackled the dishes before turning his attention to the stovetop and oven. Clearly, he was as appalled as she’d been by the way his father had been living.

  She frowned as she slid the chicken into the oven. She couldn’t work Tyler out. When she’d first accosted him in Melbourne, she’d gained the impression that there was no love lost between father and son. Then he’d shown up at the hospital, and there had been that moment in the parking lot. And now he was clearing out his father’s house…