“With the advent of spring comes Foster and his amazing baseball analogies,” Conor retorted, feeling more than a little peevish because the one person he wanted to spend time with was refusing his calls. Again. “I’m sorry the poorly-planned timing of my near-fatal illness requires you to miss spring training.” Foster had canceled his annual trek to Florida to watch the Yankees test their mettle with the advent of a new season.
Foster ignored the barb in Conor’s voice. “There will be other springs, sir. There’s always another season when it comes to baseball. Kind of what attracts me. Can I get you anything?”
“My wife.”
“Um, well, yes, sir, I’ve actually just had dinner with Mrs. Bradstreet. And the dog.”
Conor leaned forward. “Sarge? How is he? How’s he doing?”
“Remarkably well as I’m instructed to tell you. He’s eating home-made chicken and rice, and his bowels seem to be working just fine, much to Mrs. Bradstreet’s chagrin.”
Conor remembered Alicia’s gentle manner with the unclean animal, how she ignored the smell and the general foulness of the poor creature as she stroked his neck, his back. A smile tugged his cheek, picturing her in the vet’s office, her stance tough, her touch gentle. “She’ll be fine.” His brain must have become more fully engaged because he hadn’t missed the meaning behind Foster’s casual words. “She’s sending messages through you again, Foster?”
The houseman’s eyes dimmed, but he kept his countenance even. “Yes, sir.”
“Of all the—” Conor sent a mulish look to both Kim and Foster. “I need to get out of here.”
Kim put a hand to his arm. “Soon, Dad. She’s not going any place. It’s Mom, remember? Once in Princeton, always in Princeton.”
Conor recognized the truth in that, but he needed to see Alicia, talk to her, for his own peace of mind. Having his New York office descend on his hospital room pushed her over some unseen edge, but he couldn’t do anything about the situation if she deliberately stayed away.
He wondered if she got the flowers he’d ordered the day before, if she liked the mixed bouquet.
“And Mrs. Bradstreet would also like me to express her gratitude for the lovely floral arrangement that arrived at her door late yesterday. The ones the dog didn’t chew up and spit out all over the living room Aubusson are perfectly lovely.”
“The dog ate her flowers?”
“Only some.”
“Did she go ballistic?”
Foster frowned as he tidied up the room, which appeared much larger now that thirty-one floral arrangements had found other lodging within the hospital. “Oh, no, sir. I believe her words were to the effect of: ‘It’s nice to see someone enjoy Conor’s efforts as much as I do.’ End quote.”
Conor straightened his shoulders and pressed his lips into a line. “She said that? About a dog eating a bunch of flowers that cost nearly two hundred dollars?”
“A stellar arrangement, if I do say so myself, sir, but they went a mite heavy on the pinks. You may want to note that for next time. I believe Mrs. Bradstreet prefers bold, sassy colors.”
“And I believe Mrs. Bradstreet—”
“Dad.” Kim’s warning came in the nick of time.
Conor glowered her way. “I need to see your mother before this gets out of hand.”
“Well, without dragging her here, that’s quite impossible, so I suggest you put a sock in it, stop grumbling and growling at everyone, concentrate on getting healthy and getting out of here, and then you can go see Mom, and put this whole stupid thing to rest.”
Grayce’s little voice gasped from the door. “Stupid’s a bad word, Kimmy.”
Kim sent Conor a rebellious look that reminded him of her mother and turned to greet Brian and Grayce. “Oops. I know. Sorry, Graycie. I won’t say it again.”
Brian brought Grayce to Conor’s bedside and dipped her close for a kiss. Her tiny hand trailed along his cheek, feeling his unshaved skin. “You’ve got prickles. Like the Christmas tree.”
“I do.”
She gave him a look to melt his heart. “I miss you, Grandpa.”
“I miss you too.” Conor patted the bed beside him. “Climb up here, Kid. Let me see you.”
“You sure?” Brian gave him a warning look. “She wiggles.”
“She’ll be fine,” Conor said. “They’ve got me almost unhooked and they’ve ordered soft foods for later this evening.”
“Well.” Brian grinned and doffed an imaginary cap. “Aren’t you The Man?”
“As long as I control the checkbook, I am,” Conor retorted. “Have you guys heard anything on that little matter we discussed before I took sick?” He meant his offer to Chloe Martin, Grayce’s biological mother.
“No.” Kim shook her head while Foster left the room in search of fresh water that didn’t come from an unfiltered tap. “Not a word.”
“And you’ve gotten over the idea of taking out a contract on your only father for extending the offer?”
“Yes. Once I realized you were right. Didn’t necessarily make things easier,” announced Kim with a side look at Grayce, “but your reasoning made sense. Which only served to annoy me.”
Conor huffed a sigh. “You are your mother’s daughter. Sometimes.”
She smiled and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “And yours.”
“Yes.” Conor flashed her a smile. “A good combination, all in all.”
“If you throw in the all important checkbook,” Brian added.
Kim leaned across the bed, over her father’s weak, inert body and glowered. “Knock off the checkbook jokes or there will be no wedding. Got it?”
Brian pretended remorse. “All of them?”
“Every one.”
“But—”
Conor kicked Brian in the leg, just enough to get his attention. “Word to the wise: Women like to be loved for themselves and themselves alone, not for the proximity to their parents’ monetary funds.”
“Got it, sir. Thanks for the reminder.” Brian rubbed his leg in punctuation.
Grayce reached over to give Conor a hug. “I miss you, thiiiiiiiiis much, Grandpa. When are you coming home?”
“Soon, Kid. Real soon.”
“Good. Grandma ‘Licia misses you, too, and wants you to take your doggie home.”
Conor glanced from Kim and Brian. Kim shrugged. “No clue, Dad.”
“How do you know this?” Conor eyed the little girl who’d stolen a huge part of his heart.
“Cause the doggie ate the flowers and made a mess on the floor and she told me it’s okay to cry, even if you’re a grown-up, ‘cause even grown ups get sad sometimes. But I don’t like it,” Grayce announced.
Conor was having a hard time getting past the image of Alicia’s beautiful flowers strewn about by the neglected animal he’d foisted on her because of his poorly timed illness. On top of that, the thought of dog messes in her picture-perfect home seemed more than slightly out of place when she’d just committed her time and efforts to the rush of putting together her own business and her daughter’s wedding. She had every reason to hate him. His timing couldn’t have been worse.
Brian looked at Grayce, his face puzzled. “What don’t you like, honey? The dog?”
“No, Sarge is special,” Grayce explained. “‘Licia said so. I just don’t like to see ‘Licia cry. It makes me sad.”
Her woebegone expression chugged Conor’s heart to his throat. Here he was, tied to this stupid bed, in this stupid room, in a stupid hospital that hurt Alicia’s feelings, and he couldn’t get to her, make things better.
Brian whisked the little girl up and off the bed. “Well, enough cheering up Grandpa for the moment, hey?” He held Grayce up and gazed into her eyes. “You could have just given him a paper cut and poured some lemon juice in it, Kid. Easily as effective as your tried and true methods as witnessed thus far.”
Grayce looked utterly confused. Kim shook her head and leaned in to kiss her father. “Do what the nurses say if you
want to facilitate your release. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Love you.”
“I love you, too. Tell your mother to come see me.”
“Right. I’ll get right on that.” The look she threw him said plainly that she’d leave him to tidy up his own messes, canine and otherwise, once he was set free from the restraints of hospital life.
“Bye, Grandpa.”
“Bye, Kid.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
She smiled and blew him a kiss. “I know.”
*
“Things are looking much better, Mr. Bradstreet.” Dr. Montoya nodded his encouragement the next afternoon. “Everything appears to be fully functioning. We’ll discharge you tomorrow. Here is a list of instructions. Will you be staying in Princeton, or returning to New York?”
That decision had been weighing on Conor’s mind for the past forty-eight hours. He glanced at Foster who kept his expression carefully blank. “I’ll be here for a few days. Then New York.”
Conor couldn’t be sure, but he thought the houseman gave the slightest of approving nods.
“If you have further troubles while you are here, please call me,” Dr. Montoya instructed him. “My emergency service will contact me immediately if I am out of the office. Once you are in New York, you should see your own doctor. I sent him your records so he can review the treatment step by step.”
Conor reached out a hand. “Thank you, Doctor. For everything.”
Dr. Montoya gave a brisk nod. “It is my job, yes?”
Conor smiled, acknowledging that. “Yes.”
His cell phone rang about an hour later. He scanned the display and fumbled the phone, his fingers clumsy. “Yes?”
“Mr. Bradstreet?”
“Yes.”
“This is Nurse Barnes from Crossings Adult Care.”
“Yes, Miss Barnes? How’s Sarge?” Conor said the words, but his heart read the writing on the wall from the over-quiet tone of her voice.
“He’s nearing the end, Mr. Bradstreet. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I know how ill you’ve been, and how difficult this is, but your orders were to call you, regardless.”
“Absolutely.” Conor pushed his legs to floor and stood up from the chair, grasping its arm with his free hand. The room spun, but nowhere near as bad as the previous day. Bit by bit. “I’m still in Princeton, but I’ll head that way directly.”
“Use the side entrance,” she instructed. “The guard there will let you up.”
Side entrance. Guard. Simple enough. “Thank you, Ms. Barnes.”
She sighed. “You’re welcome.”
Foster came into the room as Conor struggled into his pants. “Sir?”
“It’s Sarge. He’s dying. We’ve got to head up there.”
Foster, bless him, broached no word of argument. “I’ll help you dress then bring the car around.”
Conor clapped a hand to the other man’s back. “You’re a good friend, Foster.”
“As are you, sir.”
“Do you think we’ll get there in time?”
“That depends solely on how quick you can convince those nurses to let you sign out of here and God’s eternal plan. My driving abilities should not be brought into question.”
Conor knew the truth in that.
He hated leaving things unresolved with Alicia. That thought stabbed his gut, but right now Sarge needed him, if nothing more than to hold the old man’s hand as he crossed that final bridge. Conor could do no less.
*
Soft lighting welcomed Conor as he stepped into Sarge’s room. Cassie Barnes glanced up, nodded and stood, then crossed the room and helped Conor into a chair alongside the bed without making him feel weak or foolish. Good woman. “How’s he doing?”
Her eyes misted. “Standing at the edge. I think he was waiting for you.”
Her gentle words stretched Conor’s heart a bit more. He leaned over his old friend, called his name.
“Hey, Sonny.”
That weak, thready voice couldn’t come from the Sarge he knew, but it did. Conor held a small box aloft. “I brought you some fresh smokes.”
A tiny smile twitched beneath the whiskers. “Give ‘em to the nurses, boy. My smoking days are over. Unless they sell Marlboros in heaven.”
Conor shook his head. “No smoking zone. I saw it on Fox News.”
Sarge struggled to open his eyes. Once open, he worked harder to focus. “You take care of that wife and them girls, you hear?”
Conor fought the thickening in his throat. “You have my word.”
The hint of a smile flickered once more. “You’re one of the few who keep their word these days, Sonny. Kinda surprised me with that, back in the day.”
“Really?” Conor leaned close, holding Sarge’s hand. “You didn’t think I’d come back?”
“Most don’t. You’re...” Sarge’s lids fluttered, his grip tightened, then relaxed. “...one of a kind.”
Conor thought of the myriads of crazed businessmen lining the streets of New York, vitally important pencil pushers, just like him, frenzied with the rush and bustle of wheeling and dealing. “Just one of the crowd, Sarge.”
“Hah.” Again Sarged huffed for breath, his chest rising in silent protest. “Shows what you know. You got things under control down here? Feeling up to the task?”
Conor nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’m heading on home.”
“You do that, Sarge.” Conor stood, leaned down, and gave the old man a gentle hug goodbye. “You do that.”
*
“Mom, this looks totally awesome.” Kim made a full turn as she scoped out the nearly ready bookstore two weeks later, her gaze sweeping the balance of historic colors, wainscoting, crown moldings and the curving stair, center-stage, elegant and timeless. Golden oak library shelving lined the walls, with round oak tables arranged for quiet or communal seating throughout. To the far right stood a coffee bar, set apart by tiny, clear, globed lights. Coffee signs done in black script on brightly painted thin boards dangled from the ceiling in multiple lengths and languages, while the wall behind featured eclectic artworks. The coffee machinery gleamed metallic as early morning sun streamed through, tiny rainbows dancing their way across the honey-finished oak bar. “Absolutely wonderful. Who thought of all this?”
Alicia smiled. “Actually...me.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, Jerome suggested the colors for upstairs. By the time he was done showing me what could be done with color and room spacing, I had some fun down here.”
“I’ll say.” Kim nodded and gave Alicia a hug. “It’s great.”
“So.” Alicia angled Kim a look. “I didn’t exactly expect you down this week. I know you had to take a lot of days off with your father’s illness.”
Kim nodded and shrugged. “Between that and the funeral, it’s been a crazy few weeks, but I felt like I was neglecting you. Amazing thing, guilt.”
Alicia nodded. “Awful and wonderful, depending on the levels applied. Who died?”
“Sarge. Dad’s friend.”
Alicia’s hands stopped in the middle of showing Kim how well the coffee set-up worked. “When?”
“The day Dad left the hospital and went back to New York. The nursing home called him, said Sarge was nearing the end and Dad hopped into his pants and had Foster get the car.”
Kim’s explanation painted a glib picture, but Alicia had seen Conor a few days previous. There was no way he hopped into anything, pants or otherwise. “That’s why he went back so quickly?”
Kim met her look. “Yes.”
Alicia worked her jaw, feeling dense and foolish, take your pick. “I thought...”
“That he’d hurried back to work because he’s crucially important to the ongoing success of New York litigation as we know it?”
“Um. Yes.”
Kim moved forward. “You wouldn’t answer his calls.”
Alicia shrugge
d and didn’t look up. “He hasn’t called in nearly two weeks.”
“Why call if the person you’re calling refuses to speak to you?”
“Kim, I—”
Kim held up a hand for silence. “No. Let me just say this, get it out there. The guy made some bad mistakes in his life. You know it. I know it. But were his any worse than those the rest of us make?”
Alicia thought of her ongoing anger, her constant refusal to try things new, to see things Conor’s way. He’d made a serious mistake in the wake of losing his child, one she refused to forgive, carrying a grudge she fed for years. Did the gravity of his mistake weigh heavier than hers? Not if you figured in the longevity of grudge-holding and the negativity it spawned.
If life were a balance scale, her side tipped dangerously low.
“Dad has worked really hard to turn himself around, to be the kind of guy any girl would be proud to call her father,” Kim announced, her tone flat. “He cares about everyone and everything. If someone needs help, Conor Bradstreet’s their ‘go-to’ guy, and half of New York knows it even though he keeps things low-key.”
Kim’s words stung. After all of Alicia’s empty promises to herself about being a better person, less judgmental, less critical, she’d gone and behaved in typical Alicia fashion the minute Conor’s attention was divided. She’d stormed out, pouted, whined and fussed like a pre-schooler welcoming a new baby.
At that moment she hated herself.
Kim waved a hand to the new bookstore, the soft glow of the freshly finished wood, the clean lines of unchipped paint, the jazzed and upscale coffee bar. “I love that you’re doing this. I really do. I think it’s a great step up from hiding in the library.”
“But?” Alicia met Kim’s eye and refused to flinch.
“I wish it didn’t mean quite so much.” Kim glanced at her watch, made a face and headed for the door. “I’ve got to meet the florist in ten minutes. See you later.”
See you later?
Alicia watched her leave, then sank onto one of the leather-topped coffee stools and looked around her. Really looked.
The store, slated to open in a few days, stood nearly ready, everything fresh and new, a mix of books and giftware, an eclectic but welcoming shop for the average buyer. She hadn’t gone high-end Princeton, but middle-of-the-road, tried and true.
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