Once dinner was over, Rosemary, Marsha and Tiff ushered everyone to the living room. No one was allowed to carry a single dish into the kitchen, let alone participate in the washing up. Rusty and Gwen held hands as they settled on the love seat facing the window. During dinner they’d exchanged a lot of amorous looks and smiles. Tiff suspected they couldn’t wait to get out of there, and sure enough, they were first to announce they were leaving, a mere ten minutes later.
Bob and Janet and the twins were next to go, but the others seemed to be enjoying the last of the 2010 vintage Sangiovese. At Marsha’s request, Tiff put a match to the logs and kindling stacked in the fireplace. Soon a cheerful, crackling fire was warming the room.
Marsha opened another bottle of wine, then sat next to Jacob Bradshaw’s wife, who apparently went to the same yoga classes as Marsha. Meanwhile Tiff’s mother sat straight-backed in the chair next to them. Tiff could tell her mother longed to start clearing the table, though her good manners wouldn’t let her.
Kenny refilled Tiff’s glass. “This is really good wine.”
“Marsha buys all our wines from her favorite shop in Missoula. She has excellent taste.”
“I’ll say.” Kenny returned the bottle to the sideboard, then lifted his glass to hers. “Happy Thanksgiving. We’ve got a lot of trees to move before Christmas. The weeks are going to fly by.”
“Are you going to visit your parents for the Christmas break?” He’d told her before he was estranged from his family. But maybe he had friends he’d want to visit.
“Nope. The plan is to stay right here.” The long look he gave her seemed to imply lots of possibilities.
Tiff’s chest was tight with a giddy sense of anticipation. So much was unsaid between them. But she’d noticed him looking her way a lot during the meal.
“How long have Rusty and Gwen been dating?”
His gaze broke away and he leaned back on his heels. “Not long...a week, maybe.”
“They look crazy about each other.”
“They do, don’t they? Did it seem to you that Marsha was annoyed when she saw Gwen?”
Tiff had picked up on the same vibe. “Yes. Did you notice Marsha pull Gwen aside before dinner? Maybe there’s a problem at the clinic.”
“I happened to overhear a few words. Sounded like they were talking about Lacy Stillman. Isn’t that the woman who died a few days ago?”
“Yes. Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Marsha was accusing Gwen of eavesdropping on some conversation.”
“It must have been at the clinic.” Zak had mentioned that Lacy had a checkup the day before she died. Tiff made a note to ask her aunt about it later.
But when she did, a few hours later in the kitchen while they were washing up, Aunt Marsha’s expression went blank. “I really can’t remember what Gwen and I were talking about. I’m sure it was nothing important.”
The doorbell rang just as Justin was pulling his fifteen-pound turkey from the oven. The puppy ran for the door and started to bark.
“Dad!” Justin called out to his father who was helping Geneva string pink crepe paper streamers all over the dining room.
“Got it, Son.”
“Race you to the door, Grandpa!” Geneva skidded on her socked feet as she ran by Justin, missing the hot roasting pan by inches.
“Careful...” Justin set down the pan and shook his hands free of the oven mitts. The bird looked gourmet-magazine perfect. And smelled even better. He followed the sound of commotion to the front door, pausing when he saw Debbie-Ann and her daughter Ashley on the welcome mat.
Debbie-Ann’s cheeks were pink from the cold. With a rainbow-colored scarf around her neck and her dark hair in curls, she looked lovely. She proffered a box covered with a towel to his father. “Happy Thanksgiving! Ashley and I baked pies this morning and thought you might like one.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Justin’s father shot a bemused expression back at his son. Justin gave the tiniest of shrugs.
Debbie-Ann sniffed the air. “I’m guessing you were just about to eat. We’ll get out of here and let you enjoy your meal.”
Justin caught the second look his father shot him. So much for new family traditions. “Would you and Ashley like to stay for dinner? We’re about thirty minutes away from serving.”
“Grandpa and me trimmed the dining room. It looks really pretty. Come see.” Geneva reached for Ashley’s arm and started tugging her.
“Hang on, honey. Ashley’s still wearing her boots.” Debbie-Ann caught Justin’s gaze. “I don’t want to intrude on your dinner. I’ve got something waiting at home.”
“It isn’t turkey, Mom.” Ashley mustered every bit of maturity she could into her six-year-old voice. “This smells better.”
“Please stay. We have so much food. And you’ve saved us from the store-bought pie I brought for our dessert.”
Justin’s father sounded gracious and welcoming, much more so than he had. Justin glanced at his daughter’s excited smile and felt immediately shamed. On this of all days he should be teaching his daughter about sharing what they had with others.
“Yes and I could use your help in the kitchen. I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to open a bottle of wine.”
“We can’t have that.” Smiling, Debbie-Ann helped her daughter out of her boots and jacket, shed her own winter gear, and then followed him to the kitchen. “Where’s your corkscrew?”
Less than an hour later they were all at the table and his father was pushing seconds. “More Brussels sprouts, girls? I know they’re your favorite.”
Both girls groaned and covered their plates with their hands.
His dad winked, then offered the dish to Debbie-Ann.
“I’d love more of everything, but I have to save room for dessert. You’re a really fabulous cook, Justin. I’ve never eaten such moist, delicious turkey before.”
“It’s the brine. I soak the turkey in salt and herb-infused water a day before I roast it.” He’d learned the trick in his college years, on one of the holidays he’d spent with Paul and Willow at the Quinlans’ vacation home in Colorado. They’d flown from Missoula on Paul’s family’s private jet. It was the first time Justin had appreciated just how wealthy the Quinlans were.
“Good thing it’s so delicious because we’re going to have lots of leftovers.” His dad set the casserole dish back on the table. “But I agree with Debbie-Ann. Let’s save some room for that pumpkin pie.”
“Dishes first,” Debbie-Ann said, getting up from the table. “Ashley and Geneva, please collect the cutlery and rinse it for the dishwasher.”
Justin was impressed when Ashley jumped out of her seat, clearly used to such requests. After a brief hesitation, Geneva was right in there, too.
Debbie-Ann lifted an eyebrow in invitation to him. “If you put away the leftovers, I’ll wash the roasting pan.”
“Deal. I hate washing the roasting pan.”
“And I’ll put on some coffee for the pie.” His father settled both hands on the table before slowly pushing up from his chair.
The cleaning was almost as much fun as the eating had been, and Justin couldn’t help comparing this to the much quieter Sunday family dinners they’d had when Willow lived here. Willow had been like a butterfly, hovering, not sure where to land. He understood better now why she hadn’t made an effort. She’d just been marking time waiting until she could go back to Paul.
Maybe that realization should have wounded him more. But with each day that passed he knew that becoming a father had been the real appeal in marrying Willow.
After pie—which was the best he remembered eating—they played some games of Sorry and Trouble and when Debbie-Ann announced it was time she and Ashley went home Justin was almost as disappointed as his daughter.
“Please stay longer. Can Ashley have a sleepover?”
Justin looked into Geneva’s pleading face and wondered how he could disappoint her.
But he didn’t have to
.
Debbie-Ann grabbed her daughter’s coat and held it open. “You girls are a little young for sleepovers. Don’t dawdle, Ashley. We’re getting up early to go shopping tomorrow, remember?”
Black Friday. Justin’s heart sank at the reminder. He wasn’t a fan of mob-shopping but he’d rather be doing that tomorrow than facing the Stillmans during the reading of Lacy’s will.
Once Debbie-Ann and Ashley left, the house seemed inordinately quiet. Justin gave Geneva a ten-minute warning for bedtime then asked his dad if they could talk after Geneva was asleep.
“It’s been a long day, Son. How about we get together for lunch tomorrow after your meeting with the Stillmans?”
His father’s shoulders were drooping with fatigue but Justin couldn’t put this off any longer. Tomorrow at lunch Geneva would be around and this was a conversation he didn’t want her to hear. She would get a much-edited and age-appropriate version soon enough.
“Please, Dad? It’s important.”
The concern in his dad’s eyes slowly morphed to fear. Justin bit back the impulse to offer false reassurance. Since his mother’s death, he and his dad were everything to one another. This was going to be so hard.
“Yes. Of course, I’ll stay.”
Justin called for his daughter so he could wash her face and help her brush her teeth, but it turned out those normal tasks would have to wait for morning. Geneva had fallen asleep on the sofa. He carried her to her room, turned on the night-light and closed her door.
In the living room he found his dad in the armchair, Dora snoozing at his feet.
His dad looked absolutely terrified. But when he spoke, his voice was calm. “You’re sick, aren’t you, Son?”
Sick.
The word hung in the air: the unwelcome dinner guest who couldn’t tell it was time to leave.
Justin sat on the edge of the sofa closest to his dad. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and resting his arms on his thighs. “Yes. It’s Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
His father slowly shook his head. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? The signs were there, I just didn’t see them. Didn’t want to see them.”
“I was diagnosed two years ago. I thought I was lucky. The doctor figured we’d caught the disease early enough and I handled the chemo treatments well.”
“That client you said you had in Idaho, the one you kept going on business trips for...?”
Justin brushed a hand over his head. His blond hair was growing back, but it was thin, so he’d kept the trendy buzzed look. “That’s when I had my treatments. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was hoping this was something I would never have to worry you about.”
Most of Justin’s friends had poor to average relationships with their fathers. Paul and his father, for instance, couldn’t be in the same room for more than an hour without arguing. The link Justin had with his own dad was rare, and came primarily from the fact that since Justin was six, they’d had only one another.
His father was the reason Justin had turned down an offer from a big firm in Missoula and opened his own law practice in Lost Trail.
His father was a big part of the reason he’d married Willow last July, and adopted Geneva, and given her their family name.
And his father was the reason he’d kept his illness secret, knowing the toll it would take and hoping to spare him from all that.
His decisions, his life, might have been different if his father had shown any interest in dating or remarrying after Justin’s mother died. But even though the perfect woman was available—Marsha Holmes, the attractive nurse who had worked with his father her entire career—his father remained single.
Occasionally Justin would catch a snippet of conversation, a lingering glance between them, that made him wonder. But if something was going on between Marsha and his dad, they were keeping it private.
“Who’s your doctor?”
“Zimmermann.”
His father nodded. “He’s good. What’s the prognosis?”
Justin’s gaze fell to the dog. He wished he could curl up on the floor beside her. “My best chance is a stem-cell transplant.”
His dad was quiet for a long while as the implications sank in. “You need a donor. A sibling would have been your best bet.”
His father had told him many times he felt guilty about Justin being an only child. Justin didn’t want that wound reopened. “I have about a seventy-five percent chance of finding a donor in the registered pool. Those are good odds.”
“Transplants from a matched unrelated donor aren’t as successful as those from a relative.” His father rubbed both hands down the sides of his face. “Oh my Lord, Son. I’m so very, very sorry...”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. This isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s just...lousy luck.”
“I’ll get tested.”
“You can. But I’m sure you know that as my father and a contributor of only fifty percent of my DNA, the chances are less than one in two hundred you’ll be a match.”
His father craned his neck, pulled at the collar of his shirt. “What a mess. What a terrible mess.”
Tears were falling now, one after the other down his father’s gray, gaunt cheeks. And though he was the sick one, Justin had the disorienting feeling of being the parent. Of wanting to hold and protect and shield.
He put his arm across his dad’s back, wishing there were reassuring words to say.
“If only it could be me who was sick. If there’s a God in heaven, it would be me.” His father choked on a sob, buried his face in his hands.
Justin went to the kitchen to get some water and tissues. His body felt unbalanced, his legs weak. He paused at the kitchen sink, resting his weight against the counter and examining his reflection in the kitchen window. He’d never looked much like his dad. But they had the same expression of misery tonight.
Gathering his courage he went back to the living room and sat on the arm of his father’s chair. Gently he blotted the tears, then passed his dad the glass of water.
“I’m sorry to ruin Thanksgiving this way. Maybe I should have waited for a better time.”
“There is no good time for news like this.” His dad took the tissues and blew his nose. “And you shouldn’t have needed to tell me. I’m a poor excuse for a doctor if I couldn’t see what was right before my eyes. Your shaved head, all that weight you lost...”
“It doesn’t matter. We have to look to the future.”
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. And when it did, a fresh new sorrow etched into the lines on his dad’s face.
“Geneva...”
Justin swallowed against the huge boulder in his throat. What was going to happen to his daughter if he didn’t make it?
Chapter Five
Zak toweled sweat off his face and squared his shoulders. He felt ready to take on the world after his fifteen-mile run on Tamarack Trail. Some people thrived on being with family for the holidays. Zak got off on being alone.
He jogged home to his basement suite. It wasn’t much, but it was cheap and soon he’d be moving anyway.
Watson, perched on his favorite windowsill, gave him a commanding meow as he entered. Sure enough, his food bowl was empty. Zak opened a can of premium chicken liver pâté, a special Thanksgiving treat for his pet. He had no idea what he was going to eat for dinner himself—probably another chicken breast and some salad—but he didn’t care.
His mom was a good cook and no doubt she was serving turkey and all that went with it tonight at his family’s new home in South Dakota. But he’d rather eat toast and peanut butter than deal with the tension that always accompanied a sit-down Waller meal.
There was only one person he would have been happy to spend the holiday with, and she was spending the day with her family in Helena. He only knew that because he’d heard Nadine ask Ford for an extra day of vacation.
She was still putting on the cool and distant attitude with him. Still hadn’t said a word about blowi
ng him off the other night.
She’d either decided he wasn’t for her, or she was playing games. Either way, he’d be smart to keep his professional distance. Work romances were never a good idea anyway.
He poured himself a tall glass of chocolate milk—his favorite recovery food after a long run. The sweet, cool beverage went down in seconds. He needed a shower, but wanted to wait until his metabolism returned to normal. To pass time he checked his phone.
Earlier he’d texted Luke Stillman asking if he wanted to join him on a run. Looked like Luke had responded.
FAMILY STUFF HERE. THANKSGIVING AND ALL. MAYBE ON SUNDAY AT ELEVEN?
SURE, Zak typed back. C U THEN.
No sooner had he hit ‘send’ than his phone started to ring with the theme song from The Hunger Games. His mother.
He resisted the urge to hit ‘Decline.’
“Hey, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same to you, Zak. We just finished eating. Had all your favorites. Turkey, stuffing, gravy, pumpkin pie.”
“Bet it was great.”
“The whole family was here, except for you. Me, your dad, and all your brothers—even Matt.”
“Sorry I missed it.” White lies didn’t count. “Matt still enjoying the army?”
Matt, the closest to Zak in age, was also the most aggressive of the brothers. He’d been Zak’s biggest tormenter growing up. Like their father, he could switch from being incredibly charming to scary and aggressive at the slightest provocation. Zak hoped his brother’s military training would instill some much needed self-discipline and control.
“He’s an ordnance officer now, stationed in Florida. Which is a hell of a lot farther from South Dakota than Montana.”
Zak ignored the dig. “How was harvest this year?”
His parents and two older brothers were trying to make a go of his deceased grandfather’s grain farm.
Bitter Truth Page 5