Kiss Me Goodnight #4
“As soon as Summer calls me back. Hopefully before the week is out.” Tom bit his lip, trying to stifle his irritation.
He inhaled his pie, savoring the smooth sweetness and the chunks of banana.
Not his favorite, yet not bad. He took the dishes from next to his grandmother and carried them to the sink.
Grief washed over him again—missing his friend, his surrogate grandfather.
They’d fallen into a friendship at church.
Tom had volunteered the next winter to help Walter with some house repairs, and they’d become solid friends, sharing a love for card games and books, politics, and public service.
He’d helped Walter stay in his home for six years before his health forced him to move to the nursing home.
The stroke he’d had two months ago robbed him of all resemblance to the Walter he’d known.
It was a relief he was gone. He missed him, though.
Missed their conversations, missed doing things for him, and grew more at odds with himself and his life as time passed.
His grandmother walked up behind Tom and rubbed his shoulder. “I know how hard this is for you.”
He wrapped his arms around her and held on for just a few moments, listening to the conversation at the table between Rick, Chad, and Bret about working Saturday at the farm. Chad was about to open the pumpkin market for the fall and needed help.
His cell phone rang, the distinctive notes of Steve Miller Band Swingtown blasting from the counter near the door. Releasing his grandmother, he went and picked it up, frowning at the screen. Not recognizing the number, he opened the back door and went out on the porch before answering.
“Applegate.” He listened to the silence for a moment. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” a quiet, melodic voice said. “Summer LeFey.”
Tom exhaled carefully. Finally.
She went on before he could reply. “You called a couple of days ago. I’m sorry I didn’t return your call sooner. What do you need?”
There was no easy way to tell a loved one someone had died.
As a cop, he’d done it a time or two, but it wasn’t a job he relished or handled with any expertise.
He figured she deserved to hear it from him, so he delivered the unvarnished news.
“Summer, I’m sorry to tell you your grandfather died two days ago.
” Tom tensed, not sure what he expected from a woman he’d talked to a few times, argued vehemently with once, but never really understood.
“He died?” Her voice wavered, seemed unsure.
“Yes. He’s been declining for several months, Summer. He went in his sleep.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yes.” He stayed motionless on the porch, listening intently for any clues as to her feelings. “I need to arrange the funeral. When do you think you can come?”
‘Tomorrow. I’ll be there tomorrow,” she whispered.
Before he could say anything else, she hung up, or he lost her, he wasn’t sure which.
He pulled the cell phone away from his ear to be sure it wasn’t dropped coverage.
But he still had multiple bars. He frowned at the phone, debating whether to call her back to confirm they hadn’t been cut off.
Considering it had taken her two days to call him back, he figured he wouldn’t get her again.
And what did it matter. He imparted the necessary information to the prodigal granddaughter, and now he could get on with setting up Walter’s funeral.
The back door screen squeaked. Bret came out on the porch and stood there.
“Summer LeFey.” Tom answered the unspoken question.
Bret silently crossed the porch. “About time.
When is she coming?”
“Tomorrow. She’s coming tomorrow. Guess the funeral will be on Friday if I can set it up with Pastor Cale.”
Bret adjusted his duty belt. “I have to get back on patrol. I’ll be around if you need me.” He clasped a hand on Tom’s shoulder, and then disappeared around the side of the house.
Tom slid his cell phone in his pocket and went back inside. What he needed was to get Walter’s granddaughter back in town so he could bury his friend and then find a way to get back to normal. Or what would pass for normal without this dissatisfaction with his life eating at him.
￡￡￡￡￡￡
Numbness overtook Summer, a disbelief that squeezed the air from her chest, emotion clogging the back of her throat.
Her grandfather was dead.
She bent over, hardly able to breathe. For some unrealistic reason, she’d always thought of him as strong and indestructible.
Maybe that had more to do with the anger and the memories of a seventeen-year-old bent on artistic freedom than truth.
Maybe that’s why she’d never gone home, afraid his enduring judgment would be more than she could bear again, and she would crumble and give up in the face of it.
Instead, she appeased her conscience by calling Tom Applegate and sending money, but never actually visiting.
Unfortunately, it never really worked. She was continually laden with fierce defensiveness about who had been right and who had been wrong.
Now the reality of her stubbornness and petty refusal to see him permeated from skin to core, shredding her with both poignant memories and distressful retrospection.
She straightened and stared out the window, fiercely wiping at her blurred vision. She swiped away those tears before they could slide off her face, clamped her mouth shut before any sobs could escape. A futile attempt. They wouldn’t be denied.
“What have I done?” She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked.
The canvas across the room mocked her with its blankness.
In that moment of despair and grief, her grandfather won.