Felicity Found (Rogue Series Book 6)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  “The only thing I can think is that he’s worried about how our friendship came to be. You know, that we started in a therapy session and then became friends. Like it crosses some boundary he doesn’t agree with? But there’s nothing wrong with it. Right?”

  I don’t like the way she hesitates to answer. Her eyes leave mine and focus on the inky darkness of the night. It feels like she does indeed believe she’s done something wrong, that Conor is right in disparaging her professionalism. The thought that she’d turn away from me, from our friendship, because of this issue Conor has somehow seen fit to bring up, has tears stinging my eyes.

  “Amelia?” I say softly. “There’s nothing wrong with us being friends, is there?”

  Taking a deep breath, she exhales and looks at me. “Well, the truth is—”

  “It was nothing,” Conor says, his voice louder than it needs to be as he returns, causing both Amelia and me to jump. “She never really woke. It was just fussing.” He sits and looks from me to Amelia and back again. “Ella. She’s fine.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I need to apologize, Amelia,” he says.

  I watch them lock eyes for a long moment, wondering what I’m missing. Again, there’s some subtext that I’ve been left out of.

  “I was just playing devil’s advocate, really. I’m sorry if that came off as rude.”

  An excruciating ten seconds passes as they stare at each other. I’m so relieved that Conor has realized he’s been unfair and apologized. I silently urge Amelia to accept his offering and let out a breath when she finally nods.

  Amelia leaves not long after that. I’m ready to lay into Conor for the way he behaved but before I can, he gets a phone call and I finally learn that I’m not the only one who has been keeping secrets.

  27

  Conor

  By the look in Felicity’s eyes after Amelia leaves, I can see I’ve got hell to pay. I briefly consider trying to redirect that energy into something sexual but then my phone rings and I automatically check it. The caller ID shows it’s my parents’ house. It’s almost eleven o’clock, so the call sets off alarm bells.

  My chest has tightened in anticipation as I answer.

  “Conor,” my mother says, “I need your help. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your father. He went to take out the rubbish and he hasn’t come back.”

  Incongruously, I want to laugh. It seems silly that she’s “lost” my father in this fashion. But it’s not funny. It’s a part of the Alzheimer’s.

  “I’ll be right there. In the meantime, round up your neighbors to help look.”

  I assure my mother that the late hour won’t bother her neighbors and beg off.

  “What’s going on?” Felicity asks.

  “I need to get over to my parents’ house.”

  “But why? I don’t understand.”

  “Fee, I can’t explain it all right now. Let me just go and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I turn to go but she grabs my hand, imploring with her eyes me to share more.

  “It’s my Da. He’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “He’s recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For years he’s played off his memory issues as a silly game he meant as a laugh, but my Ma had him see a doctor and it’s not a joke. Now, he’s gone and wandered away from the house.”

  Felicity covers her gaping mouth with her hand and her eyes well with tears.

  “He can’t have gone far. It’ll be okay.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything.”

  I kiss her quickly and hurry out the door, relieved she hasn’t asked me why I didn’t tell her any of this sooner. In my haste and distress, I might well have blurted out that she’s been too unstable lately to rely on.

  * * *

  When I get to the house, I see a smattering of pensioners in their robes walking the neighborhood with flashlights. Checking in with my Ma, I find her sitting in the front room, one hand tightly clasping the other.

  “Stay here and call me if he finds his way back,” I tell her.

  “You will find him, won’t you?” she asks.

  I’d been so eager to go join the motley crew out on the streets that I hadn’t taken time to properly absorb the state I’d found her in. She’s terrified. His symptoms up to this point have been relatively minor. Yes, he has trouble remembering some things, he’s had short moments of disorientation, and will repeat himself without realizing it. But he’s never done something like this.

  Crouching down, I take my mother’s hand and rub it gently. “Yes, I will find him, Ma. All will be well, you’ll see.”

  She nods but her eyes are glassy with tears.

  “After this, I’ll look into some kind of tracking device for him. Won’t that be a laugh?”

  Though she shakes her head, the corners of her mouth turn up. I kiss her soft cheek and head back out.

  After speaking briefly with a few of the neighbors and learning they haven’t seen or heard anything, I get back in my car and circle the block, then the outer perimeter, both without any luck.

  Fuck. Where could he have gone? I try to put myself in his place. Think about the fact that the night air is cool. Even if he was disoriented, he’d feel the chill and want to get out of it, wouldn’t he? With that in mind, I drive back toward the house, toward his local pub. It’s an easy walking distance and a place he’s spent countless hours over the years.

  The pub, Mulligan’s, is a sea of dark wood paneling, posters of old beer and spirits adverts on the wall, and an accumulation of disparate memorabilia ranging from Mohammed Ali’s 1970s visit to Dublin, old movie posters, and personal snapshots of the Irish coastline. This is where I had my first beer. I’d come with my father on one of his usual “stop-ins” after work when I was fourteen. He had been in a good mood, as one of the newer bartenders, a cute young woman, had indulged him by flirting. Then, he asked her to pour two Guinness and suggested it was time for us to share a drink. I’d had the odd sip—or gulp—before, but this was different. It made me feel like I was a man. But it also meant something to have that first, full drink with my father. It showed me he had trust in me and that I could trust him in return because now, we were on a different, more mature, level with each other.

  That feeling of equality dissipates as I see him sitting at the far corner of the bar, clad in his pajamas and robe. He looks happy as can be, to tell the truth, hunched over a pint and smiling at something that Joe, the pub owner, is telling him. I make my way toward them and catch Joe’s eye.

  “There’s your boy now,” he says with a nod to me.

  Joe’s always had a smile as big as the belly he hefts around over a low-slung white apron. The pub is a family business, having been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. He’s always treated my father and his other customers as an extension of family. It’s one of those places you feel comfortable whiling away the hours in, and I can see why my father ended up here.

  “Hey, Joe,” I say as I take a seat. “Having a pint, are you, Da?”

  When he looks at me, his eyes go wild for just a split second. It feels like he’s trying to place me. Or place why I would suddenly be here. But recognition soon floods his face.

  “Joe, get my son a drink, won’t you?” he says.

  I nod when Joe looks to me for confirmation.

  “Gerard was just by for a stop-in,” Joe says, and gives me a meaningful look. He’s suggesting I don’t force my father to understand what he’s done, how he’s shown up here in his nightclothes without even realizing it.

  I nod. “Of course, he has. Just like always.”

  “I was going to ring your Ma. Should I go ahead and do that now?”

  “Appreciate that.” I get the sense he’s been stationed at the bar with my father all this time, wanting to make sure he was okay. “Thanks a million, Joe.”

  The bartender nods, places my still settling Guinness
before me, and moves away. I watch him go, taking a deep breath as I try to release the anxiety I’ve felt since I answered my mother’s call.

  “So, you’re in town, then?” Da asks.

  “Eh, yeah.” He’s forgotten that I have been home from tour for quite a while. He’s forgotten that I’d visited him and my mother not long ago. “We won’t do any touring for a few months yet. Still trying to wrap up the latest album.”

  He nods and takes a drink off his pint. “Did you bring the babies with you?” he asks, suddenly looking past me as if I’d hidden them in one of the nooks of the pub.

  “Not today. I’ll bring them next time I visit you at the house. You’ll be shocked by how quickly they’re growing.”

  “They are sweet little angels, aren’t they?”

  “They sure adore you.” I feel a flood of emotion threatening to overwhelm me as I think of the fact that my father may never really get to know my children. His fleeting memories will no doubt impact his ability to have a meaningful relationship with them.

  I clear my throat and then down half my pint. “Listen, Da, our next tour will be shorter than the usual. I want to be home more these days, you know?”

  “For the wee ones, no doubt.”

  “Well, it’s all about family, isn’t it?” I squeeze his shoulder and he smiles at me.

  “Had enough of all that running around and chasing skirt, have you?”

  I laugh. “Had plenty.”

  “Your Felicity is a keeper, isn’t she, though? Your Ma and I always liked her.”

  That he’s remembered her name makes me beam, but I stop short of complimenting him on the simple act. Instead, I agree with him, saying, “She’s my one.”

  Da laughs. “Like the song goes,” he says and whistles a bit of Rogue’s biggest hit, “You’re My One.”

  “Let’s get on home now, yeah?”

  After another drink of his Guinness, he nods. “Your mother will have tea ready, I’d think. You should stay. You must be hungry.”

  We get up and I help my father adjust his robe to brace against the chill outside. Of course, I’m not hungry for the dinner he’s offering. But there’s no need to get into explaining that to him, nor do I need to tell him that it’s after midnight and that he’ll be going straight to bed.

  “This way, Da. I drove, so we’ll be home before you know it.”

  “Oh, I always like driving in your sports car,” he says with glee.

  I laugh. “It’s your lucky day, then.”

  28

  I’ve slept hard and without dreaming. I’ve also slept, once again, far later than I should have. The bedside clock tells me it’s almost eleven. The routine I had long established of rising no later than eight in the morning to work out—regardless of how late I was out the night before—has fallen by the wayside.

  When I came home last night, Felicity was waiting up for me. I knew we needed to talk, but I didn’t have the energy. I slumped down on the sofa next to her and was grateful that instead of pushing things, she simply pulled me into her arms and held me tight. We’d fallen asleep that way until Ella woke us. Felicity had pushed me toward our bedroom while she’d gone to the babies’ room.

  I know I should get up. Not only should I be checking in with Felicity and the kids, but the studio awaits. Yet, I don’t move a muscle. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling and picture my mother’s face last night when I brought my father home. The anguish she’d been feeling was slow to depart, but finally her relief won out and then turned into gratitude. She’d hugged Da and he’d joked about her getting frisky with him.

  I’ve never seen my mother look so vulnerable. She’s always been a figure of strength. She was the one to set boundaries and discipline me, but it was always with the aim of getting the best out of me, of making sure I lived up to the potential she saw in me. So, to see her so fearful was a blow. But more than that, it brought home the fact that she’s getting on in years. They both are. And they are at the point where I will have to step up and be the one to take care of them. That shift—as inevitable as it may be—is tough.

  Add my concerns for Felicity into the mix, and I’ve got my hands full. I can only hope that talking with her about my father will help and that it doesn’t instead add to her own worries.

  There’s no other choice in the matter now. I’ve kept all this from her long enough.

  * * *

  I’m careful to put on some clothes before going downstairs. Lizzy doesn’t come on Sundays, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Felicity had called her in to help since she’ll likely want to have the freedom to speak with me.

  Lizzy doesn’t appear to be here, however. I find Felicity in the kitchen with Ella strapped to her chest in a sling and Romeo in a high chair at the center island. Kodaline is playing on the remote speaker sitting on the counter and she is humming along as she loads carrots into the blender.

  “Morning,” I say, and she turns to me.

  “Good morning.” She leans over and kisses me quickly before starting up the whir of the blender.

  I give Ella a gentle kiss, not wanting to wake her and surprised that the noise hasn’t disturbed her. When I go to Romeo next, I’m rewarded with the sweetest smile ever created.

  “What are you up to here?” I ask once Felicity has finished with the blender.

  “I am making carrot puree for Romeo. It just needs to cool down a bit now.” She glides over and offers Romeo Cheerios to gum.

  “Homemade baby food, huh?”

  “Yep. I figured I’d start off easy and see what else I can add in. Tea or coffee for you?”

  I hesitate, thrown by her supermom routine. “Tea. But I can get it.”

  “It’s no bother,” she says quickly and gets to work preparing it.

  I join Romeo at the island and we have a conversation in gibberish for a few minutes.

  “Here you are,” Felicity says, setting a tea cup in front of me. She’s already prepared it with the perfect amount of milk by the looks of it. “I’m making a bit of a fruit salad. Just give me another second.”

  I watch as she slices a banana to add to a bowl already full of blueberries, strawberries, and peaches. She brings it and a bowl of the carrot puree to the island and sits next to Romeo. Raising a spoonful of the carrots to her mouth, she tests it for heat by touching it to her lips. Satisfied that it’s cool enough, she offers a bite to Romeo.

  “Do you want some toast or something else?” she asks after Romeo’s had several bites.

  “No, I’m grand. Thanks.”

  I’m still struck dumb, watching Felicity expertly manage everything. Then Ella begins to stir. Felicity shushes and bounces her and the baby settles.

  I sit back in my stool and try to think of how I should phrase my question delicately. Because, basically, what I want to ask is, what the fuck is going on here?

  This is not my wife. My wife is not on top of things like making her own baby food while satisfying both children and catering to her husband. She’s slapdash and barely got her head above water but still making it all work, despite how she tears herself down over it.

  “So, I was thinking,” she says before I can speak up, “it might be time to let Lizzy go again.”

  “What? Why?”

  She eyes me with a playful smile. “Well, I do know you appreciate her, but I think I’ve got a handle on things.”

  “Fee, there’s no need to push aside good help. And I know you’re joking about thinking I have any interest in her like that.”

  Shrugging, she gives Romeo another bite, and then uses the spoon to wipe clean the bits at the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. I’m on solid ground now. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  Ah, so that’s it. She’s overcorrecting, to use Amelia’s diagnosis. She thinks that if she proves herself to be fully capable and without any need for help, it’ll make my life easier. Because with my father declining, she doesn’t want to add to my burden.

  “Honey, this isn’t hel
ping.”

  She looks at me, confused.

  “This. Whatever this is that you’re doing. I don’t need you to put on some act for me. You are fine just the way you are.”

  “I don’t think you really believe that,” she says quietly.

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  Instead of answering me, she takes Romeo out of his high chair and places him into his walker where he immediately starts pushing buttons, causing high-pitched nursery rhymes to play. Then I watch as she carefully releases the straps on the sling and pulls Ella into her arms. She heads upstairs where I assume she will put Ella in her crib.

  I wait impatiently for her to return to the kitchen. When she finally comes back, I expect to pick up right where we left off, to get an answer from her about why she doubted me when I said she was fine the way she is. But instead, she’s mute, busying herself with gathering the spoon and bowl from Romeo’s snack. I lose patience.

  “Well?” I demand.

  “How can I think you believe that when I wasn’t someone you could talk to about what your father is going through? I wasn’t fine enough to confide in.”

  Fuck. Here we go.

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “What does that mean?” She doesn’t just drop the bowl and spoon into the sink, she does so with enough force to make an angry clatter. It’s a clear indication of her frustration. But I’m a long way from finished with this issue.

  “It means, I’m apparently not fit for you to speak with about your issues, am I? No, you’ve turned to a stranger for that.”

  “Amelia is not a stranger,” she says, as if the thought is ridiculous.

  I throw up my hands. “Okay, sure. That makes a lot of sense. The point is, though, that you haven’t been able to talk to me. So, let’s not pretend this isn’t going both ways.”

  “The difference is that I haven’t even been sure what I’m feeling. That’s why it’s hard to talk about. You always want cut and dried answers. And I can’t give that to you. I just need to sort it out myself.”