Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRANKIE
“I’m hoping he’ll like Warm Springs and decide to settle here,” I tell Grandpa as we make our way to his room after our evening walk.
The gentle stroll along the hallway and back is part of his rehab routine.
“It’s probably unlikely he’d continue full time, but it would at least start you off with one fully trained regular volunteer after I’ve gone back to Chicago. ”
“Sounds like a fine young man,” Grandpa says. “You’ve certainly had plenty of good things to say about him.”
Now that he mentions it, I realize I’ve been talking about Miller ever since I got here. “I’m just relieved we finally have someone to help out, that’s all. And one that’s happy to put in a decent number of hours. I mean, how rare is that?”
“Nonexistent,” Grandpa says. “Why does he even want to do it?”
I guess I haven’t actually asked Miller that question. “I assume he must be tired of sitting around by himself, staring at his laptop, doing whatever investment thing it is he does all day. He probably wants some fresh air and connection with nature in his life.”
“Well, if you think he’s good, then he must be,” Grandpa says, as I open the door to his room and stand back to allow him to hobble inside.
“I’ve trusted your judgment ever since you thought there was something fishy about that one volunteer back when you were sixteen. The one who was stealing feed from us.”
“Ugh.” I shudder. “What kind of person thieves from rescued donkeys, for God’s sake?”
“You’ve always had good instincts. And you were right about me staying here too.” He eases himself into a chair at the round table for two in the corner.
“You certainly didn’t think so when I first suggested it.
” We almost had our first ever real fight.
But I wasn’t going to give in. “Even though you knew as well as I did that you wouldn’t rest or do your exercises properly if you were at home.
You’d have wrecked all that good surgery by running around after the animals, or slipping in the mud or bashing a shiny new knee on a water trough or something. ”
“It was only you agreeing to take charge that changed my mind.” He reaches for the pack of playing cards in the center of the table. “With you there I know I can rest easy. You’re the only person who knows that place like I do.”
“And loves it like you do.”
He gives me that open, loving smile that says his mind understands mine, and mine understands his. Will there ever be another man on the planet who does that?
My stomach clenches at the realization that this is the perfect opening for me to ask the question I’ve been putting off since I got here.
I take a deep breath and nod as I sit opposite him. “So, why didn’t you tell me how much trouble it’s in?”
“Trouble?” He says it like he has absolutely no clue what I’m talking about.
“Financially,” I clarify.
“Oh.” He makes a pfft sound and waves his hand, dismissing it as nothing. “Everything’s fine.”
“Everything is not fine, Grandpa. I’ve looked at the books.”
“Just a blip. Donations are always down in the winter.” He presses his hand onto the table to try to ease himself up, but winces and sits back down.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
“Was just going to get us a drink.” He rubs his right knee and flinches again.
“I’ll get it.” I steel myself to dip my toe into the delicate water. “But do you think maybe we should start to consider selling to one of those two asshole developers?”
“Absolutely not.” Now he looks at me like I just told him Waldo broke a leg. “Though, to be fair, we don’t know the second one is an asshole.”
“Only because we haven’t met him. They’re all the same,” I say. “The last time developers swept into Warm Springs, they ruined the other side of town with all those ugly townhomes. And weren’t Polly from the produce store’s parents screwed over by one of them?”
“Yup.” His head drops.
Grandpa was good friends with Polly’s dad, who passed away not long after the first round of new development.
“I hate the thought of selling as much as you do,” I say. But regardless of how it breaks my heart and makes me want to throw up, I have to be sure Grandpa’s clear about the consequences of his decision. “I just wonder, you know, if it isn’t the practical solution.”
“Practical, my royal ass,” he says.
And I can’t help but smile.
“We’ve always managed before, and we will manage now.” He slides the cards from the box. “We have to choose our own adventure, remember?” His eyes fill up as he repeats Grandma’s life motto. “And I think you and I both chose this one a long time ago.”
“Okay.” I swallow past the lump in my throat.
I can’t push this conversation any more this evening. But I can’t see a way out of having to revisit it another time.
I get up and give his shoulder a squeeze as I pass him on my way to the kitchenette. “Drink, then, Gramps?”
“The brandy’s in the cabinet over the sink,” he says, “if you’d like to join me in a wee snifter and a quick game before you go.” He taps the cards on the table to level the edges.
My heart swells at the tradition. No matter how long I go between visits, Grandpa and I always play blackjack.
When my parents were teaching me to read and write, Grandpa taught me blackjack—I don’t think I even knew how to add up to twenty-one, I probably just put down random cards.
My main memory of it is how much we laughed as we played at the table in the kitchen, while Grandma cooked dinner.
As I grab two short tumblers from the shelf, an image of the matching pair in my kitchen cabinet in Chicago pops into my mind. And it dawns on me that I haven’t given a second’s thought to my life there since Miller showed up.
I even brushed off a text from Paige saying that Dickish Darren’s been bragging about having a professional résumé writer polish his application for the VP gig that I’m striving for.
Mine was scrambled together in the couple of days before I left to come here. I had to get it in then because I knew I wouldn’t have a second to work on it once I got to the sanctuary.
Damn Dickish Darren.
But it does remind me that other than calming Petunia, my only other skill is knowing how to market the shit out of anything.
Everyone was stunned when a pair of terrifying doll-like bookends, that resembled Chucky, sold out in every store across the country after I got them into the hands of a couple of cool influencers and they went viral.
If I can manufacture a hit out of an ornament that looks like it could try to transfer its soul into you during the dead of night, maybe I can market the sanctuary out of destitution.
Perhaps Miller will be in some videos for me. He’s definitely easy on the eyes. If I pair him with the cutest and funniest donkeys, it might give us enough exposure for the cash to start pouring in.
I cannot believe that I made that quip about him modeling his underwear for me. Every time I think about it my face burns all over again and I want to bury myself under a pile of dung and never come out.
But I did briefly wonder which boxers he chose.
And I wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s settled into his freshly scrubbed loft room. He seems to have real neat-freak tendencies. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
In fact, I can’t think of a single bad thing about him right now.
“Are you going to take that bottle out of the cabinet or just stare at it?” Grandpa says.
“Sorry. I was just having some ideas for social media posts for the sanctuary.” The glass bottle is cool in my hand. “It might help to boost the fundraising. The big barn really needs some repairs. And it would be so good if we could raise enough to turn it into a gi—”
“Gift shop and tearoom?” He gives me one of his big, beaming smiles. “I swear you first mentioned that when you were about twelve.”
“It would be amazing.”
“Forget about all that for now,” he says. “Just pour us both a drink, grab the Chex Mix from the side, and let me thrash you at blackjack for half an hour.”
And I do exactly that.
While also wondering how I might get the best shots of Miller.