Page 38 of The Sweetest Devotion

I was rightfully angry about my forced engagement and marriage, but I loved my father and couldn’t stomach never speaking to him during what remained of his time here. Because there was a clock ticking away. No one survived ALS. There wasn’t a cure. Some lived three to five years, others ten, and some even twenty. My fingers were crossed for twenty.

Friday afternoon a courier had arrived at my suite with a bouquet of white roses and a card from Cain. A very short note ofGo see him. – C. Carterwas all that was written. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about Cain, but it wasn’t lost on me that he was right in my needing to see my father.

So, Saturday morning I got myself together and drove over to my parents’ house. The groundskeeper was tending to the lawn outside. The smooth buzzing of a lawnmower could be heard as soon as I got out of my Lexus. The scent of fresh-cut grass filled the air, mixing well with the fragrance of my father’s nearby tulip garden.

Inside, I caught my family’s housekeeper, Priscilla, heading down the hall with a basket of laundry.

Everyone was moving, going here and there as they’d always done, making the scene of the Nichols estate appear so normal.

It was when I found myself outside of my father’s bedroom that it all came crashing down on my shoulders. The conjoined weight of my anger and fear. The uncertainty of my future hung in the balance and I hated having no control over any of this.

With a deep breath, I knocked a couple of times on the door before inviting myself in. Lying back as comfortably as possible in his four-poster bed, my father was wearing silk pajamas. Something so out of the ordinary for a man of his position. Usually, he was up by five on the dot to start his day.

The curtains were drawn, allowing light into the room as he laid back watching something on the large TV mounted on the wall across the room. There was an empty chair beside his bed, probably belonging to my mother.

My father turned from his program, glancing at me momentarily before doing a double take. At once, a broad smile curled onto his mouth, stopping and starting my heart violently.

He was happy to see me.

Breathe, Kennedy, breathe.

I coached myself to walk over to his bed. To approach him. To be civil.

As much as I loved my father, I hated him for putting me in this awful position to feel so conflicted.

My father had always been so big and powerful to me, but now here he was, so fragile and small it seemed, before my very eyes.

I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t know how.

Instead, I found myself sitting in the vacant chair beside his bed, stealing a peek at the TV before turning back to him.

“Hi, Daddy,” I spoke softly, my trembling voice giving way to how broken I was at the state of affairs taking place.

My father chuckled, hearty and strong. He was still here. Grounded with me. “Neddy.”

The sound of my childhood nickname warmed my heart and stilled all my trepidation. “Long time, no see.”

He nodded, appearing thoughtful. “I assume you’re angry.”

“You’re damn right I am,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s not fair!”

My father blinked and faced me, sympathy tugging on his features. “I understand.”

“Do you? You put me in a shitty position. And I can’t even be really mad because…” I stopped myself, trying to stay strong, trying not to break, trying not to let him see me crack. Now wasn’t the time for weakness. He was already suffering enough.

“It…won’t hurt my feelings if you say I’m dying,” he said.

My eyes hurt as I squeezed them shut to stop the tears. I couldn’t handle this. I couldn’t face this.

There was no time to be upset or feel betrayed with his insidious illness plaguing our family. It felt selfish. Selfish for him to put the burden on me to help his company. And selfish for me to feel anything but supportive and caring as he battled his disease.

“He’s a cunning bastard,” my father admitted. Oddly, though, he seemed to smile at the fact. “He mustlikeyou. A lot.”

Or he was a control freak who didn’t like taking “no” for an answer. “I’m touched.”

“Give it three years. Please,” my father seemed to beg.

Confusion took over me as I leaned over, resting my arms on his duvet. “Three years?”

---