More Than This
Page 7
“Sorry, sometimes I open my mouth without thinking. Please tell me if I blather on. I’m not good with silence and tend to fill it with words. See, I’m doing it again, babbling on. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”
“It’s fine,” Riley lied. Maybe if he let him, Dylan would get all his words out in one trip. “Truth is I haven’t decided what to do with the house.” He stared into the distance.
“Mr. Ormerod.”
Riley braked harder than he intended, realizing the roundabout at the end of the motorway was coming up. They were both thrown forward. “Sorry about that. And please, call me Riley. My father was Mr. Ormerod.” He pulled up at the first set of lights.
“D’you need me to stop at the town hall? It can sometimes be busy at this time of day. I have a parking space at my office just around the corner. I could drop you off there instead. With your long legs, it shouldn’t take you long.”
“Sounds good to me. Now, what about tonight? I’m supposed to finish at five. Shall I meet you at yours, or hang about outside? I could go to the library if it’s raining, or there’s a café opposite, if you’re going to be late, or as it’s flexitime, I can leave a bit later. Give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in so you can call me.”
This was the bit of the arrangement that had worried Riley as much as the noise, but after several solitary months, Tony’s call out of the blue, asking if he could give his son a lift, had provided him with a lifeline, and Sue, his father’s carer, had encouraged him to take the olive branch.
“Remind me when we get there. I usually try to finish around five, but it depends as some clients can’t get to the office during the day. Most of what I do is paper, not people, but meetings can happen any time.” He pulled up yet again.
“Bugger me, there are a lot of lights on these roads since they made all the changes and pedestrianized the shopping area,” Dylan said. “And cameras everywhere. Dad hates driving in Preston.”
“At least they’ve finished updating the roads around the station and built the new entrance,” Riley agreed. “They’ve made a real effort to improve the place since it got city status, with lots of modern buildings, and it’s such a big university town now—you should feel much more at home. Riley glanced across at Dylan again. He looked much more like Lori than Tony. “You know, it’s funny. Of all the jobs I thought your father might do, I never figured he’d follow your granddad into his shop in Clitheroe. He hated being dragged there when we were young.”
“I guess people change. He loves the place now he sells what he wants. And it turned out he has a nose for an antique. When Granddad had his stroke, Dad took over. He used to take me with him on trips to find new items. You never know when you’ll get a bargain, he’d say. He’s like a pig in muck at a house clearance. He’s at the big auction place in Clitheroe today. By the way, I’m supposed to invite you round for dinner one night or Sunday lunch to say thank you.”
Riley turned into the narrow lane behind the high street then into the car park, grateful not to have to reply. It had been tough and lonely, coming back home and caring for his dying father, a man he’d never been close to. He hadn’t only come back for the man, but for himself, having nowhere else to go.
“We’re here,” he said, pulling up in front of the sign declaring Whewell and Ormerod, Solicitors. “Give me your mobile and we’ll sort out the numbers.” He exchanged numbers and gave Dylan back the phone.
“Ring me when you’re ready,” Dylan said.
Riley tucked the phone into his jacket pocket. “Good luck on your first day.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later.” Dylan clambered out of the car, threw his bag over his back and hurried off through the narrow back lane between the buildings. Riley sighed. Had he ever been that young? If he had, it was a lifetime ago.
“Bloody hell,” he said, staring in the rear-view mirror. “You’re forty-two, not ninety. Your life is not over.” Willing himself to believe his own words, Riley picked up his briefcase, stepped out of the car and headed for the office with a spring in his step.
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About the Author
Originally from South Wales, Alexa has lived for over thirty years in the North West of England. Now retired, after a long career in teaching, she devotes her time to her obsessions.
Alexa began writing when her favourite character was killed in her favourite show. After producing a lot of fanfiction she ventured into original writing.
She is currently owned by a mad cat and spends her time writing about the men in her head, watching her favourite television programmes and usually crying over her favourite football team.
Alexa loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website details and author profile page at https://www.pride-publishing.com