Chapter 4
THREE PHONE CALLS ON SUNDAY morning had put Anita in an excellent mood. They were all art commissions, and she’d be set financially for the next couple months. Besides, Carly had done her assigned chores without complaint, and now it was time to head to the assisted living center. Now, if only the car would behave.
“Do you think we’ll be assigned to Mr. Davis again?” Carly asked as they climbed into the Bug. She’d also baked some cookies because one of the conversations she and the older man had gotten into was how much he missed home cooking.
Since Carly had made a double batch, Anita had told her to take a plate over to Phyllis. That had led to a longer conversation between the two, so now they were running a little late. It’s fine, she told herself. Surely they wouldn’t get turned away if they showed up late for the activity night.
“I don’t know how it all works at the center,” she said. “I think he was at our table because his family hadn’t come. Maybe today they’ll be there.”
“Well, if they don’t come, let’s request him.”
Anita smiled. “All right.” She was pleased at Carly’s interest in befriending the older man. He’d given plenty of life advice without making anything sound like a lesson. She turned the key in the ignition and the Bug jumped to life. Both she and Carly kissed their fingers and touched the roof.
“How was Phyllis?” Anita asked. “She seemed chatty.”
“She’s always chatty, Mom.”
Anita smiled at that. “I suppose she is.”
“She’s just lonely, you know.”
Anita glanced over at Carly as guilt pricked. “That’s probably true. I haven’t seen her son show up for a few weeks.”
As they turned the next corner, Carly said, “Hey, Mom, do you think we can go to the video store tonight after my service hours are done?”
Anita didn’t hesitate. “Sure. What kind of movie do you want to watch?”
“Something funny.” Carly leaned forward in her seat. “I wonder if we could get Mr. Davis to tell us more about the Air Force. I think it’s cool that he was a pilot during the war.”
“Some people don’t like to talk about their war experiences,” Anita warned. “So you can’t push him.”
“I know.” Carly let the subject drop.
Once they reached the center, she parked, and they headed inside. The day before, they’d been told that today was craft day. The residents were already filling the tables by the time they walked into the dining room.
“There he is,” Carly said, pointing to where Mr. Davis sat alone at a table.
This morning, he wore a navy shirt, and he wasn’t in a wheelchair. Maybe it had been a good walking day?
Before Anita could tell her to not bother the man, she hurried over to his table.
“Is your family coming today?” Carly asked.
“Not until later,” he said, a smile appearing on his face. “Have a seat unless you have other plans.”
The man’s hair was mostly gray, but his eyebrows were dark, telling Anita that he’d had dark hair when he was younger. His face was angular, which made him look stern when he wasn’t smiling. But they’d quickly learned he had a soft side.
“We don’t have other plans.” Carly sat right next to him. “What’s the craft?”
Mr. Davis scowled. “I don’t know, but I hope it’s not anything with yarn. That blasted stuff makes my fingers feel like noodles.”
Carly laughed. “My mom uses yarn in her art. It’s not too bad.”
“Oh, is that right?” Mr. Davis glanced at Anita as she took her seat. “What kind of art?”
She had answered this question dozens of times. “I create portraits out of natural materials like leaves and flower petals.”
His brows tugged together. “Is yarn natural?”
“Not quite,” she said. “Sometimes I’ll use fabrics or yarns in colors that represent the person.”
He leaned back in his chair and threaded his hands together. “Interesting.”
“She’s making a portrait of a dead guy right now,” Carly blurted out. “The man’s wife sent a picture and a flannel shirt.”
One side of Mr. Davis’s mouth lifted. “I’d like to see one of your creations.”
Anita smiled, wondering if that was possible since today was their last day.
“Please, Mom?” Carly asked. “We could come back next weekend.”
Anita stared at her in surprise. “You want to come back next weekend?”
“I have to beat Mr. Davis at Scrabble,” she said, as if it wasn’t any big deal.
“Well, okay, we’ll bring one of my projects that I’m working on.”
Mr. Davis and Carly grinned at each other.
Anita’s heart tugged. What was happening here? Carly was becoming...her old self. And it was due to Mr. Davis.
“Here you are,” an aide said—the same one from the day before. Ginny. “These are faux stained-glass projects. You paint each piece, then glue them together. Putting them in a window or by a light source will bring out all the pretty colors.”
“That sounds fun.” Carly jumped in before Mr. Davis could say something negative.
It was written all over his face, and Anita held back a laugh. Maybe these two were good for each other. Maybe she didn’t need to date a guy like Glenn and wonder if he’d be a decent father figure to her daughter. Maybe Carly would benefit more from being around a grandfather stand-in.
Her own parents were long gone, and Bobby’s parents had never been in the picture much. They thought she was the temptress and the seducer of their precious son. There hadn’t been any bonding between them and Carly as a baby, and once Bobby took off, that door had completely closed.
The next hour was actually fun. Carly and Mr. Davis both laughed at their conversation, which bounced from painting their project and stories of selling furniture to “tight wads” and crushes both of them had in elementary school. Anita had heard about Carly’s, of course—back when she told her mother everything—but Mr. Davis’s story was interesting.
“It was always Susan from the moment I saw her,” he said, dragging a brush with a careful hand over the plastic shape on the table before him. “I was fascinated by her bright red hair. Much like Pippy Longstocking’s. Ever read those books?”
Carly’s eyes brightened. “I did—my mom read them to me when I was little. Until I learned to read them myself.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about,” Mr. Davis said with a wink. “We both planned to attend the same college, then get married. But the world had other plans.”
Carly’s brow furrowed.
“The war?” Anita asked. Obviously Mr. Davis had survived it, but what about Susan?
“The economy struggled,” he said, dipping his paintbrush again. “It wasn’t the Depression yet, but after World War I, a lot of people were out of jobs. Her dad lost his job, and her family moved during our junior year of high school. Her father had found a job with her uncle’s company in Carson, Nevada.”
Anita was surprised by the pain still in Mr. Davis’s voice. Had he never seen her again? Had his childhood crush been that strong?
“Did you write letters to each other?” Carly asked.
“We sure did,” he said. “We called a few times too, but they were very short phone calls. Long distance was very expensive.”
“But surely when you both graduated, you had more freedom?” Anita asked, becoming invested in the story.
“We made plans, but they fell through.” Mr. Davis set his paintbrush down and met Anita’s gaze, then looked over at Carly. “We were going to see each other over Christmas break. I was in my first year of college, and she was training to be a hairstylist. That was December 1920. But her mother died of the Spanish flu, which ran rampant through Nevada.”
He dipped his paintbrush into the green paint. “I couldn’t expect her to come to Seattle, and not many were traveling for fun or taking vacations. Too many deaths going on.”
He painted a few strokes, then paused. Both Anita and Carly were staring at him, waiting for him to continue.
“By the time the scare was over, Susan had found another fellow.” His hand trembled slightly as he continued to paint. “I met Norma a few months later, and we raised a daughter together. Norma was a wonderful woman, and we had a good life. She died a few years ago, and I miss her every day.”
Anita didn’t know why her eyes were burning with tears. Maybe it was the way that Mr. Davis obviously missed his wife, or maybe it was the forlorn way he looked when he spoke about his first love.
“Did you ever see Susan again?” Carly asked.
Anita winced, wondering if the question was too personal.
“I didn’t,” Mr. Davis said, his tone brighter now. “She stopped writing letters, of course, and we both moved on. I don’t even know how many children or grandchildren she has now. Although...”
“Although what?” Carly pressed.
Mr. Davis breathed out slowly. “About a year ago, I received a postcard with no return address on it. It was a Medford postmark, though. There was a very short message, and it was signed by Susan.”
Carly gasped, and Anita could only stare.
“What did the message say?” Carly asked.
Apparently Mr. Davis wasn’t holding anything back from his new confidante. “She wrote, ‘I hope life is swell. Sincerely, Susan.’ No last name, but it could only be her.”
“Did she spell ‘sincerely’ right?”
Mr. Davis chuckled. “She did.”
“Are you talking about that postcard again, Gramps?” a man said, approaching their table.
Anita could only assume he was Mr. Davis’s grandson—a man in his mid-thirties, with dark blond hair and green eyes. Wyatt didn’t look like an accountant, unless a Clark Kent-type was an accountant.
His looks and height made her wonder if his grandmother or mother had been blonde with green eyes? Had their daughter been too? Wyatt was tall, over six feet, and Anita guessed Mr. Davis to be around five ten. Not that a grandson couldn’t be several inches taller than a grandfather, but it just made her all the more curious.
She assured herself that her curiosity had nothing to do with the fact that Wyatt was a good-looking man, who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She pushed that thought away because it was a thought that should have never entered her mind, and she was just here with her daughter to get service hours in.
“Wyatt, you made it.” Mr. Davis extended his hand.
Wyatt grasped it, but also leaned close to hug the man. “I told you I was coming.”
“You did.” Mr. Davis patted his grandson on the back. “But I know you’ve been busy lately with tax season.”
“If I can’t take Sundays off to visit my grandpa, what’s the meaning of life?” Wyatt shed the suitcoat he wore over a button-down shirt, then took a seat on the other side of his grandfather.
Mr. Davis grinned. “You didn’t take the day off, did you?”
“I’m taking the afternoon off,” Wyatt said.
“My grandson’s an accountant, you know,” Mr. Davis said. “Which means April is his busiest month with corporate taxes, and that’s like a demanding wife.”
Wyatt raised his hands. “Whoa, Gramps. Talk nice about my wife.”
The interchange between grandfather and grandson was definitely interesting, Anita decided.
“Do you save companies from bankruptcy?” Carly asked.
Wyatt’s green eyes cut to her. “Not exactly. That’s for their lawyers to handle. I just run the numbers and file their taxes, for better or for worse. Who are you? New friends?”
“This is Carly and her mom, Anita,” Mr. Davis said. “Carly is an expert Scrabble player and an artist like her mother.”
Wyatt’s brows lifted and his gaze focused solely on Anita. She didn’t know why she felt scrutinized. Maybe it was the accountant in him?
“You’re an artist?”
“I am.” It was a simple question, but it also felt like a loaded one.
Wyatt surveyed the table, then looked at her again. “Are you running today’s craft event?” He picked up one of the paintbrushes.
“No, I create portraits for individual clients.”
Wyatt nodded, but a line had appeared between his brows.
“She uses stuff from our garden,” Carly said. “Stuff I help plant.”
Wyatt met her gaze. “So it’s a collaborative effort?”
Carly’s cheeks pinked. “More like chores.”
Mr. Davis chuckled, and Wyatt smiled.
Anita hadn’t expected his smile. Well, it wasn’t out of line, but she hadn’t expected his smile to make his eyes lighter and make her pulse jump. She decided to attribute it to the fact that Glenn was currently annoying her, and she hadn’t let her gaze stray for a long time.
Wyatt looked at Carly again. “Someday you’ll be grateful for your chores, because there’s nothing worse than having a college roommate who doesn’t know how to do the dishes and never throws away rotten food.”
Carly’s brows popped up. “Did that happen to you?”
“Sure did,” he said. “But if you can already garden and grow things that turn into beautiful art made by your mother, then I’ll bet you’re more independent than most grownups. You could probably go to college right now.”
Carly smirked, but Anita could see she was pleased at the compliment.
Wyatt’s gaze shifted to Anita again. He didn’t say anything, but didn’t seem to have any qualms about just looking at her. She scrambled for something to say. “Where did you, ah, go to college?”
“San Diego,” Wyatt said. “Far away enough to get out from under my grandpa’s thumb, yet close enough to come home for holidays.”
“Oh, he’s exaggerating,” Mr. Davis said with a wave of his hand. “Once he went to college, he became a complete stranger.”
“What are you talking about?” Wyatt said, his gaze snapping to his grandpa. “I came back almost every month for one thing or another.”
Mr. Davis tapped his chin. “Well, maybe you did. It was a long time ago.” He smiled at Carly. “You want to put away all this painting stuff? We can get out Scrabble, and if you can beat my grandson, then I’ll know you’re a real expert.”
Carly didn’t waste a second. She popped up from the table and cleared everything off, leaving the painted faux glass on one edge. When she took the paintbrushes to wash in the sink, Mr. Davis said, “I’ll help you.”
Anita watched with surprise as he used his walker to go with Carly to the utility sink outside the dining room.
“You know, my grandpa told me about you and your daughter on the phone this morning,” Wyatt said.
“Oh, so you know why we came in the first place.”
He nodded. “Yeah, and I think it’s great that you’re spending time with people at this center, but you must know that my grandpa has been living inside his own memories for the past while. It’s why he’s here. For the physical as well as memory care.”
“Does he have dementia?” she asked.
“Not diagnosed,” Wyatt said. “At least not yet. Ever since he received that postcard, he’s been telling some rather strange stories of his past—things I’d never heard of before. I can only conclude that they’re made up.”
Anita was surprised at this. Did he mean everything about Susan was made up? “Was the postcard real?”
“He showed it to me, but his name wasn’t on it. Not even on the address. Susan could have been writing to anyone.”
“Oh,” Anita said. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, to say the least,” Wyatt said. “I’m just glad the postcard didn’t arrive when my grandma was alive. I’m sure hearing a fictional story about her husband’s first love wouldn’t have been easy to bear.”
Anita nodded. What else could she do?
“So I need a favor from you,” Wyatt said, lowering his voice. Carly and Mr. Davis were on their way back. “If he brings it up again, change the subject. I don’t want his imagination to run away with him, or pretty soon he’ll be convinced that it was all real.”
Anita didn’t say that Mr. Davis had already convinced her it was real. “Okay,” she said, but something felt off, because the look in Wyatt’s eyes told her he wasn’t entirely convinced Susan was a fictional.