Chapter 13
13
“You’re up.” Noah closed the fridge and turned as his father appeared in the kitchen doorway, ice pack in hand.
“A man can’t sleep all day, even with a broken wrist. But I have to admit I was ready to stretch out after we got home from church. I didn’t plan to snooze the afternoon away, though.”
“It’s obvious you needed the rest. We shouldn’t have stayed for doughnuts.” The worrisome pasty tint to his dad’s complexion as they left the church had been proof of that.
Thankfully, several hours of sleep had restored his normal color.
“Yes, we should. It doesn’t feel like Sunday without a bit of fellowship after the service.”
“Come on over and sit down.” Noah started toward him to offer an arm.
His father waved him off. “I can walk by myself. A bum wrist doesn’t make me an invalid.”
Instead of arguing, Noah compromised by pulling out a chair for him, then retrieved a throw pillow from the living room and set it on the table. “Elevate that wrist. I’ll refill your ice pack.”
“You remind me of your mother. She always fussed over every little bump and bruise.”
“A broken wrist isn’t a bump or bruise. And I’ll take your comment as a compliment. Mom fussed because she had a caring heart.” He emptied the ice pack into the sink.
“Yes, she did.” His dad’s expression grew melancholy. “The world lost a ray of sunshine when she passed on. My world in particular.”
A perfect opening to introduce the idea of a move again.
“It must get lonely here for you, without her.” Noah crossed to the fridge and removed some ice from the freezer compartment.
“Yes, it does. Mostly at night. The house feels too big after it gets dark. But I keep busy during the day, like she would have wanted me to do.”
Noah filled the ice pack, secured the lid, and carried it over to the table. After he handed it to his father, he sat. “You know, if you moved back to St. Louis, I’d be close by.”
“You have your own life to live, Son. I don’t expect you to play mother hen or spend your evenings entertaining me.”
“I wasn’t planning to do either—but I’d be minutes away if an emergency arose. Like a broken wrist.” He tapped the ice pack. “It’s going to be tough for you to manage here after I’m gone.”
“I’ll get by. Are you still planning to stay for the two full weeks you took off?”
What choice did he have at this point, with his father’s hand out of commission and no services in place yet to provide the assistance Dad would require for at least six weeks?
“Yes, but that’s only a temporary fix. You won’t be able to function on your own after I leave.”
“I’ll be fine, Noah. We help each other out in this town. And speaking of help—I have a favor to ask you. We’ve run into a snag with a fundraiser for Helping Hands. That’s why we had an emergency meeting the other night, and why I got waylaid at church this morning. You may have the skills to bail us out.”
They were getting off topic.
“I’ll be happy to discuss that, but can we finish our conversation about moving back to St. Louis first?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s finished.”
“Dad. Be reasonable.” He linked his fingers on the table. “You’re not getting any younger.”
His father snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable having me nearby?”
“I’d be happier, no question about it. So why don’t you move out here?”
They were back to that.
“We’ve been through this before. I’ve invested years with my firm, and a partnership is on the horizon. It would be crazy to leave now.”
“It’s not crazy if your priorities change.”
“They haven’t.”
His father narrowed his eyes. “You’re not getting any younger either, you know.”
As Dad parroted back his comment, Noah braced. “I’m aware.”
“Don’t you want a family of your own someday?”
“Someday, yes.”
“Most men your age are quite a distance down that road.”
“I’ll catch up when I have time. Serious dating takes effort and energy, and I don’t have either to spare at the moment.”
“I agree it can be a challenge to find someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. But not always. Sometimes the right person just comes along. Often in a place you least expect.”
He was talking about Bren again.
Why on earth was his father fixated on the barista who’d taken up residence in the cottage? Especially since he’d admitted he didn’t know her all that well.
But dancing around the inference was silly. They should talk this through once and for all.
“If you’re referring to Bren, you’ll have to explain why she caught your fancy. You told me yourself you haven’t talked to her that much and don’t know anything about her background.”
“That’s true, but I’ve observed her in action at the coffee shop and at church, and she always has a kind word for everyone. Not only does she remember personal information people tell her, she asks for updates later.”
“A lot of people in the service industry cultivate that skill. They know it builds customer loyalty—and tips.”
“Now you’re sounding cynical again.”
“No. Realistic.”
His dad shook his head. “It’s more than that with Bren. She cares about people. Not at a superficial level, but deep down. I experienced that firsthand. She went above and beyond after your mom died, sitting down to talk with me at The Perfect Blend during customer lulls, asking how I was doing, even dropping cookies off at the house once. She also steps in whenever Helping Hands puts a call out for volunteers. She’s always impressed me as a genuine, caring person. Your mom felt the same about her.”
“I’m not saying she isn’t a nice person. But she’s here, and I live more than two thousand miles away. Besides, I doubt we have much in common.”
“I can think of one thing.” His father’s eyes began to twinkle.
Oh, brother.
“Dad.” He shot him a don’t-go-there glower.
The warning went unheeded.
“I’ve seen how the two of you look at each other.”
Noah gritted his teeth.
He was not having a discussion about superficial, hormone-based attraction with his father.
“I think you watched too many rom-coms with Mom. What’s the favor you want to ask me?” If his father wouldn’t talk about moving, it would be safer to shift the discussion to a more innocuous topic than romance.
After a couple of beats, his dad adjusted the ice pack on his wrist and followed his lead. “One of our board members suggested we organize a 5K run to raise funds for the organization and increase awareness about all the services we offer. We signed on to the idea, assuming he’d lead the charge. But his son in Minnesota was just diagnosed with leukemia, and he and his wife are going out to help with the grandkids for a month or two. None of the rest of us have a clue how to organize a run, nor does anyone on the volunteer steering committee. They’re like a ship without a rudder. With your running background, I thought you might be able to get them rolling while you’re here.”
“Being a runner and organizing a running event are two different things.”
“But you run in races, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you probably know the basics of how they work.”
“Only from the participant side.” Although he did have a coworker who was heavily involved behind the scenes with one particular annual race.
Best not to offer that tidbit, however, if he wanted to steer clear of involvement.
“That still makes you more of an expert than any of us.”
“There’s another option, you know. Since the event is in the early stages of development, you could postpone or cancel it.”
“We talked about that, but we’re pretty fired up about the idea from both a civic and charitable standpoint. To generate interest in both Hope Harbor and our organization, we were going to plan a route that took people past sights of interest in the town as well as locations that have benefited from Helping Hands. A tourism boost is always welcome for a little town that relies on visitors for much of its income.” He leaned forward. “It wouldn’t take up much of your time, Noah—and we’d be grateful for any insights you could offer.”
He fidgeted in his chair.
The truth was, he did have the time while he was here to sit in on a couple of committee meetings. And he could talk to his coworker, pick the man’s brain about what went into planning an event of this type.
It seemed uncharitable to refuse.
“When is this race supposed to take place?”
“October 1.”
“That’s not a long window for planning. I imagine there are a lot of moving parts. It may be difficult to pull it off in that time frame.”
“We won’t know unless we try, will we?” His father repositioned his arm on the pillow. “I don’t see how it could hurt to have a meeting or two, explore the possibilities.”
Noah expelled a resigned sigh. He was stuck. “I’m not an expert, but I suppose I could share what I know with the committee.”
“Wonderful.” His dad gave him a grateful smile. “Everyone will be glad we don’t have to kill the idea.”
“Let’s not jump to that conclusion yet. You may still have to back off. With my limited knowledge, I can’t promise to be of much assistance.”
“You know more than all of us combined. I’ll let the committee chair know so he can get a meeting on the books ASAP.”
“Don’t forget to make it clear that my role is purely advisory. I don’t want anyone to think I’m—”
Ding-dong.
“Are you expecting someone?” Noah rose.
“No.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.” Leaving his father at the kitchen table, he strode toward the front door. Pulled it open.
An older woman stood on the other side, a shopping bag in one hand, a cake carrier in the other. “Afternoon. You must be Noah. I’m Anna Williams from the casserole brigade.”
Noah stared at her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I’m from the casserole brigade. I took the first dinner slot.” She cocked her head. “Didn’t you get Adam’s message? He said he phoned yesterday afternoon.”
Whoops.
That must have been the call he’d ignored while he was pulling out of the urgent care center.
“It’s, uh, possible he left a message. I haven’t gotten around to checking my voicemail. Sorry.”
The woman smiled. “No worries. I imagine you’ve been preoccupied with your dad. In a nutshell, the casserole brigade delivers dinners and offers other assistance to people who need temporary help, usually after surgery or an injury or if there’s a new baby in the family. Someone will come by tomorrow to do a help checklist.”
“A what?”
“Help checklist. We take an inventory to see what sort of assistance a person might require. Meals, transportation, help with day-to-day activities, housecleaning, laundry, grass cutting, grocery shopping. Those sorts of chores.” She held out the bag and cake carrier. “Enjoy. If you leave the empty containers on the porch, I’ll stop by in a day or two and pick them up.”
Noah took the items. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I hope Fred is on the mend soon.”
As she bustled back to her car, Noah nudged the door shut with his shoulder and returned to the kitchen.
“Is that from the casserole brigade?” His father examined the bag and cake carrier.
“Yes. You knew about this?”
“Not today’s delivery, but I’m familiar with the brigade. Your mom was a regular contributor on the food front. I didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end for meals, though. Not with you here. I guess they weren’t certain how long you’d be around.” He grinned. “Or they assumed your kitchen skills were limited.”
Noah set the bag on the counter and began to unpack it. Salad, casserole, green beans, rolls. “This is a full dinner—including dessert.”
“Yep. That’s how it works. Who delivered it?”
“Anna Williams. She said someone would be by tomorrow with a help checklist too.”
“That’s always part of the deal. Like I told you, we look after each other in Hope Harbor. You don’t have to worry about me being on my own here. I’ll be well taken care of after you go back to St. Louis.” He sniffed. “That smells delicious. Why don’t you dish it up and we’ll dive in?”
Noah did as directed, and after his dad offered a blessing, they chowed down in silence until they’d taken the edge off their appetites.
“This is great.” Noah scooped up another forkful of chicken tetrazzini.
“Yes, it is. And no cutting involved, if you’ll notice. I can manage all this left-handed. The group is thoughtful like that.”
Impressive.
Also further proof of his father’s contention that he’d be okay in this small community that appeared to take care of its own.
Noah speared a cherry tomato from his salad.
Maybe he could leave sooner than planned.
Except suddenly the idea of returning to the stress of the office grind, working long hours, and coming home to a sterile condo and a microwaveable dinner wasn’t very appealing.
He popped the tomato into his mouth. Chewed.
Why not stay the full two weeks, whether his presence here was essential or not? His vacation had been approved, and he hadn’t taken time away from the office in ages. As long as he logged on every day to ensure nothing fell through the cracks, as he’d been doing all along, no career damage should be done.
Being on-site at headquarters and having face time with the boss were important, of course—but for whatever reason, they didn’t seem quite as critical as they had a few days ago.
Which could be bad.
He stopped chewing.
If he lost momentum, allowed his priorities to shift, let his go-getter muscles become flabby, it would be hard to regain his stride.
But surely that was an unrealistic concern. After all, he’d been a man on a mission for years. Had dedicated copious amounts of blood, sweat, and tears to reach a clear destination that was now within touching distance. A stay of two short weeks even in an idyllic town like Hope Harbor wasn’t going to divert him from the course he’d laid out long ago.
No way.
Right?