Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Delilah
An hour later I finally log out of a call that takes at least two years off my life. The man needing training would’ve been better suited to a Computers 101 course before ever trying to operate our system, but who am I to judge? Just the one who has to repeatedly remind him to use his mouse to click on things instead of poking his monitor with a fat, greasy finger.
I close my laptop with a sigh and turn toward my bedroom door, steeling myself. Facing Truett shouldn’t rattle me the way it does. Not after all this time, in the face of so many more important challenges. But when he’s in front of me… my body reacts on my behalf. My mouth runs twenty paces ahead of my poor brain. I’m always playing catch-up with him, and I can’t afford to be.
The only way I’m going to get through this whole ordeal is by holding my wants and needs at arm’s length. When I find myself halfway down the hall, I’m still not sure which category he falls under.
The scent of coffee hits me first, followed by the soft trill of a feminine voice and my father’s responding tenor. When I emerge from the hallway, the fist around my heart relaxes a bit. Truett is nowhere in sight.
Instead, seated at the table with my father is a woman in her early fifties. Roberta, I deduce. Her brown hair is streaked with gray and flows in soft waves around a heart-shaped face. When she smiles, her whole face gives over to the expression. And she smiles easily. In response to every word out of my dad’s mouth, though he’s simply talking about various music lessons he’s given through the years. It can’t be that interesting to her, but she watches him intently, giving him another warm grin.
Comfort relaxes my limbs just from entering her orbit. She’s exactly who you’d want in a nurse. A caretaker. Hell, even a mom. She looks kind. Like she gives the best hugs. A small part of me knows Truett made a good choice, even if I hate to admit it. Even if I can’t afford it.
I pad over to the coffeepot, remove a mug from the cupboard, and pour myself a hefty serving.
“You must be Henry’s daughter!”
I glance over my shoulder to see Roberta watching me, another award-winning smile on her face. Her nose comes neatly to a point, which on anyone else would be a flaw, but with so much softness in her features, it somehow serves her well.
“Yes, sorry.” I finish shoveling a few spoonfuls of sugar into my mug and turn to face them, resting my butt against the counter. “Sorry to be rude, but I didn’t want to interrupt.” And I’ve never had to fire anyone before, so I’m biding my time.
“Nonsense.” Dad sweeps a hand in Roberta’s direction. “This is Roberta. She’s gonna be hanging out with me during the day so you don’t get sick of your old man.” There’s a glassiness to his gaze that belies his chuckle. He watches her thoughtfully, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
I press my lips together, heart aching, and shake my head softly. “I’d never get sick of you, Dad. ”
Roberta smiles, but this time it doesn’t touch her eyes. A rare occasion for her, it seems. “Henry and I will be more like coworkers.” She pats his hand where it lies trembling on the table. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.” His voice is full of gravel and grit. It hurts my throat just to hear it.
I tilt my head, studying him. I can’t imagine being sick enough to need help, but aware enough to be ashamed of that fact. All the more reason to keep his care between us. Roberta’s presence, while calming to me, seems to trigger a sad type of shame in him that I itch to soothe away.
“Besides, we’re old pros by now,” Roberta muses. The words drip with melancholy.
I take a sip of my coffee. “How so?”
She glances at my dad as if prompting him to answer. His gaze drifts out the window instead, to that far-off hilltop, as a tear slips silently over his cheek.
There’s a distinct shift in the atmosphere of the room, like how the air turns thick and irritable right before a storm rolls in. Instinct has me checking the cloudless sky on the other side of the windows, but all I find is endless sunshine.
Sunshine that pours in and sets Roberta’s gray streaks alight. She nods, accepting my dad’s nonanswer, and rolls her bottom lip beneath her teeth. “I was Lucy’s caretaker, too.”
The coffee sours in my stomach. “Pardon me?”
Dad winces, his gaze transfixed. Roberta rubs his knuckles gently. “Is everything okay, Henry?”
I forget to inhale. My lungs scream for oxygen, but I can’t bring myself to do this basic bodily function. I’m watching my dad. Waiting, hoping for the punch line to this awful joke. Willing him to make the world sensible again.
For a moment the distant bellowing of cows is the only sound in the room. And then he whispers, “I’d like to see her. Lucy. Will you take me today?”
Without missing a beat, Roberta says, “Lucy’s busy today. Maybe tomorrow?”
Relief courses through me, right up until I check Roberta’s gaze. It’s then that I see the hesitation. The sadness. That relief turns to ice in my veins.
“You bitch!” Dad slams his hand on the table. “Don’t lie to me! She’s not busy!” The corners of his eyes fold, pain wrenching his features. “Why doesn’t she want to see me?”
My hands are trembling. I set my coffee mug down for fear I’ll shatter it. This isn’t my dad. Not any version of him that I knew, at least.
“Where is she?” he asks again. “Don’t lie to me.”
She rubs at her pert nose with her free hand. Compassion softens her expression as she says, “Lucy passed away, Henry.”
He looks almost relieved at this news, like she confirmed what he knew in his heart. Still, he whispers, “She’s gone?”
“That’s right. Lucy’s gone.” Roberta nods. Her voice is silken, and yet it shreds me to pieces. She turns to me, a crescent-moon frown fitting ill on her face. “When her cancer got bad, Truett hired me to help so she could pass comfortably at home.”
The words hit me square in the chest. When I finally inhale, it’s like I’ve swallowed a thousand bees. My throat stings and throbs, lungs much the same.
It’s inconceivable, a world without Lucy Parker.
“I miss her,” Dad whimpers. Quiet tears slowly morph into sobs that rack his entire body. He tugs his navy-blue sleep shirt up to wipe his nose and sucks in a deep breath, only to let out the most heartbreaking wail I’ve ever heard. My stomach hits the floor, cemented there with my feet, as I watch my dad shatter into a million pieces while I’m helpless to stop it .
I’ve seen my mother lose control lots of times. From an early age I learned she was volatile, a volcano waiting to erupt if anything shifted. So I never shifted. I remained the constant in our lives: always dependable, always the same. “ Henry is so prone to whimsy, with his music and wild dreams. But my Delilah has her head on her shoulders straight. She’s solid as a rock, ” she’d proudly tell her family each time they’d visit, and I’d grin and bear it, all the while swallowing my heart back down when it surged to defend Dad and his dreams. Dreams a part of me understood, if not shared.
Solid as a rock. Over the years Dad learned to do the same. This dance we both knew despite never being taught the choreography. Behave as expected. Don’t disagree. Keep your true feelings buried deep down, and everything will be all right.
We spent so much time avoiding her breakdowns that neither of us got to have any. I’ve only ever seen my dad cry once, that night on his knees as he begged forgiveness. I didn’t know what to do then, and I certainly don’t now.
Even as panic rises like a tide in my chest, Roberta remains peaceful, although her face is etched with grief. She continues rubbing my dad’s hand. His sobs dissolve into hiccups, then into deep, uneven breaths. Finally he tears his eyes away from that distant hill and looks at Roberta and then me, face turning a mottled red.
“I’ve got— I’ve got to…” He rubs his lips together. I lurch forward like I can tug the words out of him. This I can do, assisting with a problem. It’s the raw, unfixable emotions I don’t know how to handle.
But he stands, shaking his head, and walks toward his room. Once inside, he slams the door behind him, and quiet descends in his wake.
It feels like one. A wake. Like we’ve buried Lucy right here in this room .
Roberta’s gaze remains locked on his door. “Sometimes it’s like it happened yesterday, even for me.”
I plant my hands on the kitchen island, desperately needing to anchor myself to something. Anything.
Lucy Parker is dead. Truett’s mom is dead.
“Delilah, do you want to talk about it?”
Yeah, I want to talk about it. I turn to Roberta, blinking her into focus. Tears stream down my cheeks and pool in the hollow of my collarbones. I’d wipe them away, but I’m pretty sure my hands on the countertop are the only thing holding me upright.
“How could you do that?” The words spew out of me, but they lack any venom. I don’t have it in me. I’m barely standing as it is.
Roberta hardly reacts. Her gaze remains soft. She crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands, resting them on her knee. “Do what?”
“‘ Do what?’ Do that!” I point to my dad’s door. “He clearly didn’t remember! When he and Truett—” My God, Truett. I press the heel of my hand against my chest. “You broke his heart all over again.”
Her head tilts, lips pressed into a frown. “He may not have remembered outright that she died, but he knew something was wrong. He cried when I first arrived, too, because he remembers how he felt around me last, even if he couldn’t put it into words right at that moment. Sometimes people with dementia benefit from avoiding the subject, but sometimes they know something is off and they need to be allowed to grieve just like we do. Since he asked me directly if she was gone, it would’ve upset him more to lie.”
“But Tru lied.” Every word is an effort. I focus on each syllable, forcing them out through the driest throat I’ve ever experienced. “Earlier, when they were talking, he said… he said she was on the hilltop, just enjoying the day. Why would he do that? ”
Something flashes in her eyes. One of many stories I missed out on by being away. “He didn’t know any better. And maybe he needed to pretend for himself, too.”
“H-how do I know? How do I know what to do?” My face crumples. Roberta stands and crosses the room, offering her open arms to me. I collapse into her. My forehead rests against the soft skin of her neck. My tears soak into the rough fabric of her polo shirt. Her hand moves in steady, slow circles over my back. I suck in a breath, bracing myself to tell her a truth I haven’t even admitted to myself. “I’m so out of my depth, Roberta. I have no clue what I’m doing here.”
Somehow it’s easier giving it to a stranger. Someone who doesn’t know me well enough to hold it against me.
She pulls back and places a warm palm on each of my cheeks. “You’re here for your dad. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.” Her gaze levels with mine, two big, brown eyes brimming with empathy. “Have you ever been around someone with any form of dementia?”
I nod my head in her hands. “My nana had it. She died when I was a kid.” That fact feels too fragile, too close to home. It’s easier to think of Dad’s condition as a change in circumstances than the beginning of an ending. A semicolon rather than a period. Saying it aloud, even in reference to my grandmother, feels like I’m jinxing us all. “She didn’t remember any of us, though. Dad’s isn't that bad.”
Roberta’s lips flatten. I glance away as best I can so I don’t see the pity in her gaze.
“He’s been fine for the most part all weekend. I don’t know what’s wrong with him today. He’s not an angry person, I promise.” I open my mouth to continue but stop short. My gaze cuts to the pill organizer on the counter, and the heat drains from my face. “I forgot his meds. Oh my God, what the fuck is wrong with me? ”
“It’ll be all right.” She rubs my shoulder, then reaches for the pills. “These things happen. You’re only human, Delilah.”
I can’t afford to be.
“The meds will help. He also might just be having a bad day. That’s how things go with dementia. Things change by the day, by the hour even.” She wipes a tear from my cheek with her thumb. “I’ll be here with you every step, Delilah. I have some resources I’ll give you to study up on. Everything it means to have his diagnosis, to be a caretaker. And you can call or text me whenever you want.”
It all sounds so comforting. And so expensive. I choke on the knot rising in my throat. We’ve delved too far into our emotions; I’ve lost sight of what I came out here to say. I need to get back to stable ground. Back to the task at hand.
“How much are we paying you?”
She balks. It was probably the last thing she expected me to say, but I can’t help it. Her knowledge, her experience, the resources… all that comes at a cost. And Mom made it clear I was on my own coming here, for however long I stay.
“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be rude. But I don’t know if we— if I —can afford all this. Dad’s doing a few lessons here and there, but who knows how long that’ll last. I’ll need to help him apply for disability, and I make decent money but not stellar?—”
“Truett’s paying for it.”
I clamp my mouth shut. A cow somewhere lets out a surprised bellow. Same.
“What do you mean, he’s paying for it?”
“Exactly that.” Her hands come together at her waist. The thick gold band on her pinky shimmers in the fluorescent kitchen lighting as she fidgets with it. “He told me not to tell you, but I’m not sure how he thought we’d avoid a conversation exactly like this one. ”
Heat catches at the back of my neck, spreading until my cheeks are engulfed.
My gaze flicks to the bay window and the farmland beyond it. In the distance, a lone figure is hunched over the old part of the Parkers’ fence with a cluster of cows standing watch nearby. His face when he saw the suitcase in my trunk flashes in my mind. “Because he never thought I’d stay.”
I watch him working for a heartbeat too long, recounting every interaction we’ve had since I arrived. Suddenly the shadows in his eyes make all the sense in the world. The weight that sits on his shoulders. It’s grief. And grief can make you do crazy things.
Before I realize it’s happening, I’m moving. Opening the door. Jamming my feet into my Keds. Pounding down the steps and hitting grass.
Roberta braces a hand on the doorway. “Where are you going?”
“To talk to Truett.”
Her response is lost to the summer breeze.
The Parkers’ farm spans 100 acres, most of it sprawling across the hills behind the little farmhouse, but enough between our homes that I’m out of breath from running the distance. The dirt road cuts a winding path through the fields, so I opt for the more direct route: straight through the pasture. Truett is still bent over a fence post to the left of the house. The few cows standing around are observing his progress with disinterest, their tails swatting back and forth to keep flies away. When they finally catch wind of my approach, their large heads swing in my direction. One grunts, drawing Truett’s attention. He turns to see what the fuss is about, removing his ball cap when he lays eyes on me.
“If it isn’t Delilah Ridgefield.” His brow furrows. As I close the distance between us, I can see the wheels in his brain turning. “Didn’t expect you to come calling after you kicked me out of your room earlier. ”
“Truett, I?—”
He immediately cuts me off, a wry grin catching the corner of his mouth. “You may want to watch?—”
“Can you just let me speak for—” I start, but then my foot lands in something squidgy and hot, and the words die on my lips. If I weren’t already bright red from crying, I’d certainly be turning that color now. I don’t even have to look, but I do. My once-white shoe is now coated in a thick layer of cow manure.
He wipes a hand over his mouth, hiding a laugh. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Son of a bitch.” I kick the shoe off, putting my bare foot down on a clear patch of grass a safe distance from the patty.
“Rookie mistake.” He clicks his tongue. “You never take your eye off the ground when cattle are nearby.”
I roll my eyes. The grass tickles the soft underside of my foot. Shifting my weight to balance my bare foot on the remaining unsoiled shoe relieves the uncomfortable sensation, but it also further proves Truett’s point. I’ve forgotten basic farm protocol.
“Haven’t been barefoot in a while?” he asks, smirking.
None of the responses I have for that are particularly helpful. Mostly a lot of pathetic, You’d know if you hadn’t abandoned me when I needed you most, and other similar quips. Letting him know how much he hurt me after all this time is decidedly not high on my list of secrets to share, so I swallow back the words as quickly as they rise. I’m here for a reason.
It’s not about me.
“Truett, I know about your mom.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, so long on top that his natural waves are peeking through. It makes him handsome in a charming, boyish way. Not that I’ll be telling him as much. His face goes soft at the edges, like he heard the compliment anyway. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. “Guess Roberta told you, huh. ”
I suck in a deep breath. I don’t want to cry, not in front of Truett.
“Yes. She told me.” My voice cracks. I’m looking at my bare toes. The cows over his shoulder. Anywhere but at him. “And I think you were trying to tell me earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t let you speak.”
He clears his throat. My gaze drifts to his against my better judgment. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t even put a name to, but it guts me. Despite everything that has or hasn’t happened between us, it’s muscle memory to step into his orbit.
My arms come around him. We embrace gingerly at first, and then so tightly I could map the topography of his muscular back. He collapses over me, his tall frame sloping to meet mine. His chin tucks into my neck, and I feel his damp eyelashes brushing the sensitive skin of my ear. He smells like sweat and sky and home. Like a memory I’ve been pretending not to have.
My lips move against the fabric of his T-shirt, along the hollow beneath his collarbone underneath. “I’m so sorry, Truett. I can’t imagine.”
When he pulls back, a sad smile tugs at his lips, exposing the places he’s chewed them raw. “Part of me thinks you can.”
I don’t want my mind to go there, but it does. Imagining this same conversation a year from now, maybe five, in which I’m the one mourning someone who cannot be replaced. Reality snaps back into place like a rubber band. I step away, praying all the while that the memory of his skin against mine will fade quickly.
“I can’t.” My head shakes back and forth of its own volition. The tears are there, pressing against my eyes. I fight hard to blink them back. “But I loved your mom. I wish you’d told me.”
“Kinda hard to do when you blocked my number.”
I grit my teeth. “You could’ve found a way if you’d wanted to.”
We stand there watching one another. I wonder if he feels as exposed as I do, with all these secrets flying between us. Because now I know he tried to call. He had to, to realize he was blocked. Was it after the party that night? Or once I moved?
But I also showed my hand to him. And I can see in his eyes that he knows it. There was want in my words. Need. The two things I’m supposed to be keeping at a distance.
The standoff lasts a beat too long, with each of us willing the other to rip their confession wide open. But I’m not doing it. And apparently neither is he.
I finally let out a sigh, releasing the tension between us. “I came to talk to you about Roberta.”
His eyes are the pale gray of a rain cloud. That ball cap taps against his thigh. “Listen, I meant what I said before. Things are manageable right now, but they’re going to get hard. You’ll need her.”
I hear the unspoken and me that he wants to add. For both our sakes, I’m glad he didn’t.
Bile that tastes suspiciously like shame gets stuck in the back of my throat. I swallow it. “Roberta told me you’re the one who was going to pay for her. But that was before you knew I was coming back, and I can’t… I can’t afford her.”
“What”—a cocky smile brightens his face—“not servicing enough customers?”
“Don’t deflect with humor.” I plant my bare foot firmly on the ground. Grass be damned, I need to feel it. To anchor myself to something when I feel so beyond control. “I’m serious, Tru. We—I—will find another way. A more affordable option. But me owing you isn’t it.”
Hurt flashes in his eyes, that impish grin faltering.
My lungs ache with a deep inhale. The scent of his farm and the river and the magnolia blooms—it’s home. But it’s also pain. Something I’m realizing Tru knows more about than I thought.
“Listen, I know you’re doing this for your mom, but you’ve paid your debt, okay?” I swipe my arms, palms out. “You’re free.”
I half expect him to argue. To quip something smart. But he just stands there, stoic as his grandfather behind the pulpit, watching me. Sunlight hollows his tanned cheeks, casting shadows over his angular features. It touches him reverently, like it’s in on the secret. Truett Parker is someone who’s easy to adore.
I should know. It only makes it that much harder when he lets you down.
When he doesn’t object, doesn’t comment, I hum my agreement for both of us. Scooping up my soiled shoe, I give that patty a wide berth and start the long trek back to the house. I’m a good twenty feet away when I pause and turn, finding Tru exactly where I left him.
“One last thing.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “You don’t need to mow the lawn anymore.”
His gaze lifts from the hat in his hands. “Let me guess. You can do it on your own?”
I nod. A curt, jerky motion. “That’s right.”
A cow saunters over to the fence, swings her head over the top, and nuzzles his shoulder. Her dark black fur turns almost brown where the sun hits her flank. She’s petite compared to the others, with eyes like saucers of chocolate. Without releasing my gaze, Truett reaches back to scratch her neck. “I tell you what, Delilah. Roberta stays. I’m paying for her. There’s no getting around it.”
“Tru—”
He makes a noise low in his throat, two degrees shy of a growl, to let me know he wasn’t finished. “You won’t owe me a dime. I’m doing it for him. Not my mom, and not you.” The deep melody of his voice breaks. “I love Henry.”
My mouth snaps shut. A solemn hush falls over the field, as if even the wind is holding its breath for what comes next .
One strong, dusty hand combs back his hair before he replaces the cap on his head. “As far as the mowing goes, I’d love to see you try.” Warmth returns to his gaze as he scans my body, measuring me up but also lingering too long on the curve of my hips, the swell of my chest. When he finally meets my own stare, there’s a spark there that fills me with a delicious warmth, even from this distance. “Always nice to have some new entertainment around here.”
He takes a step in my direction, then another. Faster than I ever could, he closes the distance between us until he’s a breath away. A heartbreak within reach.
His chin dips, gaze darkening. “If you really want to pay me back, spend some time with me.” A grin curves those perfect lips, framed by a day’s worth of stubble. “We can play in the river like when we were kids.” One eyebrow quirks on the word play, sending all the heat in my cheeks due south. “Or I could cook you dinner.”
I’m breathless. My lungs are lodged somewhere between my stomach and my toes, though closer to the latter. When he’s this close to me, I can see every detail on his face. As familiar as my own and yet wholly new. Unexplored. Tantalizing.
A dangerous thought. Warning alarms go off in my brain. No matter how tempting, I can’t go down this road. He showed me who he was once; I can’t afford to forget.
I stumble backward, narrowly avoiding another patty. The sun is showing off, throwing rainbows in arcs across the river in the valley behind his house. Cattle dot the landscape in every direction. And this man stands in the midst of it all, looking a lot like a temptation I can’t afford. I’m here for my dad. For as long as he needs me, I realize. I can’t be distracted by pieces of my past—no matter how good they look in Wranglers and cowboy boots.
“No.” I shake my head, stepping even farther away. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not kids anymore. Our parents are gone or going… or something just as bad. We’ve gotta be the responsible ones.” I bite my lip. It’s not lost on me that his eyes are there the moment it happens. That they linger long after it’s over. “It’s time to grow up, Tru.”
Before he can argue, or I fall back into his embrace like I so desperately want to, or both, I slip out of my unsoiled shoe, collect it alongside the other in my fist, and take off running barefoot toward the house.