Page 3 of Don't Fall for a Grump

2

Jackson

The taxi pulls away and drives back down the long lane that leads up to my father’s house. The house I grew up in. The house I’m standing in front of with a feeling of dread, and hunger, strangely. I know I’m not getting them confused. The dread has been sitting in my stomach since I decided to make this trip. The hunger’s only just arrived.

I take a moment before I go in. It’s like I’m readying myself for some important business meeting. It’s not that I don’t want to see Dad. In fact, I usually love coming down for a visit. But this isn’t really a visit, is it? It’s more like a prison sentence. I moved out of this small community for a reason. A very good and justified reason. Now, I’m back in the last place I want to be. I already feel claustrophobic, every eye in town on me. I haven’t even been into town yet. But, what choice do I really have?

I know Dad’s as frustrated as I am. Ben Scott is not a man who likes to sit on his hide for more than five minutes. But for the next six weeks, he’s just going to have to get used to it. That active lifestyle he loves so much is going to have to take a hiatus until his broken leg heals.

When he phoned me with the news of his accident, I heard the reticence in his voice.

“I’m so sorry, son. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

“It’s OK,” I had replied. We both knew it was not OK at all.

“It’s not OK. I’m asking too much of you. If there were anyone else…”

“Dad, it’s fine. Really. It’s not ideal, but you will go throwing yourself off the side of mountains.”

Dad had chuckled then. “It could have been worse. I could’ve been skiing.”

“Yeah, and knowing you, you’d have ended up in a full-body cast,” I had replied with a smile.

His regret was not that he needed my help, Dad has never been an overly proud man. It was more the knowledge that he knew he was asking me to do something I would hate. And he wasn’t wrong.

We’ve always had a great relationship. When mom died, I was only six. I know now, that he had been suffering far more than me, and yet, he had always suppressed his feelings to make sure I was OK. When he remarried, it was to a sweet woman named Lizzy, who loved him unconditionally. That’s when my brother, Daniel came along. Sadly, Lizzy died of cancer four years ago. Dad hasn’t had the greatest of times, but he’s never let any of it overwhelm him. He’s a man who grabs life by the throat and demands the most that he can get out of it.

After Lizzy died, he drowned himself in work, and to keep himself further occupied, discovered a newfound love of the great outdoors. I know he’s had a few love interests since, but nothing serious. I often wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to get too attached, so he doesn’t have to cope with another loss. I suppose losing two women that he deeply loved in one lifetime is enough for anyone.

It’s his active lifestyle that has brought me back to this crappy town. His business has grown over the years and he has a lot on his plate. Due his skill and other-worldly attention to detail, his woodwork pieces are in great demand all over the country. He can take any piece of wood and transform it into art.

Which is why I’m now here, because, with him stuck in a wheelchair for the next several weeks, he can’t do it on his own. Before I left to make my fortune in the city, I helped him run the business, so I know how all the tools work. I can’t craft the kind of art that he does, but I’ll sure be able to help with most of the heavy lifting. Daniel has been great, but he has a demanding job of his own, and just doesn’t have the time Dad needs.

Grabbing my suitcase, I walk up the front steps. I grab the spare key from under the mat and let myself in. You could never leave your key under the mat in the city. If you do, you’ll come home to find someone has relieved you of your possessions, light fixtures, the lot.

“Hey honey, I’m home,” I call out.

It’s a little joke between me and Dad.

But all I get is silence, and the hum of the aircon. Dropping the suitcase in the grand hallway, I move through the house to look for him, but can’t find him anywhere. Maybe he’s out. I have arrived a couple of days earlier than I said I would. He told me not to rush, but I could hear a little anxiety in his voice. Dad doesn’t like to keep his customers waiting, and I know he’s already behind. The truck was in the driveway, and he can’t drive with his leg. If he is out, he’ll have someone else driving him. Maybe that new housekeeper he mentioned.

My stomach growls.

Yeah, OK. I could eat.

I walk into the kitchen and stop for a moment. I don’t know why exactly, maybe because there’s something a little different about it. Maybe things are not where they used to be? No. That’s not it. I’m scanning the room when I finally get it. It’s clean. That’s the difference. Dad’s messy and Daniel, being ten years younger than me at nineteen, is hardly tidy either. But the room is spotless.

Suddenly, I feel a hard crack against my elbow, and an electric shock shoots up my arm. It’s excruciatingly painful.

“Owww,” I cry out, gritting my teeth and grabbing hold of my elbow. As if holding an injured part of yourself ever makes any difference.

I have never understood why they call that part of the body, the funny bone. When it gets hit, there’s nothing funny about it. The door that just slammed into my elbow, rebounds and closes again, and my attention is pulled between the shooting pain and the door.

For a second, nothing happens. I’m waiting for the door to open, because clearly, there’s someone behind it. That, or Dad has a poltergeist. I’m about to open the door myself to see who it is, when it opens slowly, and I find myself more than a little surprised. She’s clearly terrified and utterly astounded at the sight of me, but I dismiss her expression. I’m too busy being gob-smacked at her appearance.

She’s wearing oversized denim dungarees; one strap over her shoulder, the other hanging down over her hip. Under the dungarees, a thin strapped vest clings to her slender body. The red hair that she has tied up in a messy knot on her head, looks like it’s natural. I haven’t seen a natural red-head for years. It shows off a long, slender neck, as well as the dips and crevices of her shoulders. Her breast is heaving as though she’d been running, and the thin layer of sweat makes her skin glisten. Maybe it was the running, or maybe she’s breathless because she’s terrified of finding me here in the kitchen.

Don’t move a muscle.

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