CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Carriage House stood at the edge of the garden path, trimmed by bare hydrangeas and a drift of crushed oyster shell.
Emily ducked into the wind as she and Roy crossed the courtyard, the late sun casting her shadow ahead.
When Roy unlocked the door, the air inside was warm and stale, cut with the heavy mineral note of old books and something he’d last cooked.
Emily let her gaze wander the little parlor: the spray of family photos crowded onto the mantel, a scatter of pill bottles clustered on a tray, a throw blanket in the couch, a bottle of single malt with two inches left.
If you didn’t know the context, it looked cozy, the way a lived-in guesthouse should.
“Mom came and dropped off jam for you earlier,” Emily said. “She thinks you’ll eat more if you use it.”
Roy huffed, but the lines around his eyes softened. “She’s probably right.”
Emily settled into the armchair opposite the fireplace, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.
“You should have stayed home today. I thought you were resting,” she said, after a beat.
Roy looked away. “Don’t tell your mom that I went to town.”
“She’s worried,” Emily said, gentling her voice. “We all are.”
He bristled, a flicker of pride. “I stood up too fast. Happens to anyone.”
“Maybe.” She glanced at his hands, now gripping the arms of the chair he’d sat down in. She couldn’t tell if they were shaking.
For a long moment, he didn’t reply. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were washed pale, shot through with the glassy brightness that sometimes preceded his old temper. Then, it faded.
“I didn’t want to say in front of the kids,” he started, then stopped. He licked his lips, searching for words. “I keep thinking it’s just a patch. That I’ll get over it if I rest, or eat better, or—” He shrugged, a movement so slight it barely counted. “But it’s not going away. Not really.”
Emily’s pulse picked up, thudding behind her ribs. “The doctor said it was serious if it didn’t go away.”
Roy let out a short, joyless laugh. “Some days I can’t hold a pencil steady enough to write my name.
Yesterday I forgot the word for spatula.
” He shook his head, as if that offense hurt more than anything else.
“It’s like I’m leaking bits of myself out with every breath. And I’m tired, Ems. So tired.”
He raised a hand to his face, covering his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. The words came out raw. “I wanted to be strong for you. For the girls.”
“You don’t have to pretend, Dad,” Emily said. Her throat closed a little, but she pressed on. “Not with us.”
He slumped back in the chair, defeated. “Your mom will fuss. She’ll start hovering, because that’s how she copes.”
“She wants you to be comfortable.”
“I want to be useful.” His voice rose, then broke. “I left you all for so long. Because I was selfish. I was a coward. Now that I’m back, If I can’t be useful, I’m nothing.”
Emily shook her head. “You’re still my dad. That counts for something.”
“You know what the worst part is?” he said. “It’s not the pain. It’s not even the forgetting. It’s sitting here and realizing this is it. This is as good as I’ll ever feel again.”
Emily didn’t know what to say to that.
The silence stretched again, and Roy’s chest hitched, and the sound that came out of him was so small Emily almost missed it.
She recognized the precursor to a full-on breakdown—not from her father, who’d never typically allowed himself more than a rough throat-clear in front of anyone, but from the girls she’d raised, the guests she’d soothed after weddings gone sideways, and especially herself.
But she’d never seen her father cry. Not like this.
At first, it was just the tremors, then the sudden drop of his chin, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.
The tears followed almost instantly, shocking in their abundance, wetting the lines of his cheeks and dripping off the end of his nose.
He didn’t make a sound again, but the movement shook his whole frame.
“Hey,” Emily whispered, pushing out of her chair before she knew she’d moved. She knelt on the thin rug beside him, the fabric scratchy against her bare knees, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He stiffened, just for a second, then gave way, burying his face in the hollow of her neck.
His shirt was soft, worn thin at the collar, but still held the musk of him. Roy’s arms came up around her, one hand gripping her forearm, the other splayed at her back. She felt every shake, every shallow gasp as he tried to steady himself.
She rocked them both, gently, the way she used to when Chantelle skinned her knee and tried to be brave about it. Roy made no effort to hide the tears now. His body shook harder, the grief ragged. Emily pressed her cheek to the side of his head, hair brushing her face, and just let him fall apart.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with mucus. “I didn’t want you to see this.”
“Don’t,” Emily said, and the word came out fierce, not gentle. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughed, a wet, bark of a sound, then let the rest come. She stroked his hair and felt the fine strands course against her palm. For a few minutes, that was all there was: the two of them on the rug, a child comforting a parent.
When he managed to speak again, his voice was hoarse but steadier. “You know, when I left—when your sister died—I thought I’d ruined you. All of you. I thought it was better if I was just… not around.”
Emily closed her eyes, the words a dull ache behind her ribs. “You came back.”
“I didn’t deserve to.”
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Roy’s grip on her arm tightened, his hand cold, but alive.
“I got to see you as a grown up,” he said, voice catching. “I got to see your girls. That’s more than I earned. All this—” He gestured with his free hand, as if to take in the inn, the Carriage House, the whole sprawl of their lives. “Every day is borrowed.”
Emily felt her own tears now, hot and silent. She let them come, not bothering to hide her face.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t say it.”
“I know, Dad.”
At last, he leaned back, using her shoulders as leverage, and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. His eyes were bloodshot but clear.
“You okay?” Emily asked, voice shaky but light.
Roy managed a crooked smile. “Been better. Been worse.”
She smiled, too, the tears already drying on her cheeks. She let herself sink back onto her heels, hand still clutching his, both of them unwilling to break the contact just yet.
Roy cleared his throat, gentle this time, and squeezed her hand. “Promise me something, Em,” he said.
She tilted her head, waiting.
“When it’s time,” he said, picking each word like a pebble from a pile, “don’t make it into a tragedy.
I’ve had more joy these last few years than I ever deserved, and I mean it.
I don’t want everyone walking around in black and talking about what could’ve been.
Just throw a party. Drink the good stuff, let everyone tell every story, even the ones I’d rather stay buried.
” His eyes flashed with that old, dangerous humor, and Emily nearly laughed.
But the request was not a joke.
“I don’t want anyone—especially you—feeling like you have to fix what I broke,” Roy continued. “You already did that. All of it.”
Emily felt her throat close, the old fear rising—of loss, of being left again. Her eyes stung, but she held his gaze, refusing to blink.
“Promise?” he said, soft.
She nodded, unable to find her voice. She hadn’t expected his fear, his honesty. But like Patricia’s openness, Emily welcomed it. It meant they were all still trying.
Outside, the last of the sun slipped behind the roofline, and the little living room grew dim. Neither of them made a move to turn on the light. The clock ticked on, each second absolute, and for once, she wasn’t counting how much time they had left.
She was just glad to be there, with him, in the soft closing of the day.