Page 37 of The Surrender
“I have to, Clark’s on his honeymoon.”
“You have three managers!”
“Hello,” I say, resting my shoulder on the doorframe. Mum slaps on a smile and whips off her gardening gloves, and Dad drops the watering can. “What’s all the noise about?”
“Nothing, darling.”
“What happened to your hand?” Dad asks, coming to me.
“It’s fine. I cut it and needed a few stitches.”
“How did you cut it?” He lifts it and checks the bandages. “You’re leaking. This needs changing. Jenn, Amelia’s dressing needs changing.” He looks at Mum, who glances between us. She’s a little red in the face. Exasperated.
“You do it,” she snaps. “I have dinner to cook.” Stomping past us, she throws him a filthy glare, and Dad recoils like she could have just slapped him.
“Jenn?” he murmurs.
“You’re in the doghouse,” I say, pointing out the obvious. The poor man looks so wounded. Yes, he’s old-fashioned to a fault, but he’s a good man. “Come on, help me change this thing. I have a dinner meeting. I can’t be bleeding all over the table.”
Dad sighs. “What do I need?”
“Some salty warm water.” I link arms with him and walk us through the patio doors to the dining room, avoiding Mum in the kitchen. “Actually, I’ll get the water. You wait.”
I grab my bag from the hall and go back to the kitchen, where I find Mum stirring the pot on the stove aggressively. I leave her be and get some water from the kettle and salt from the cupboard, then join Dad again, lowering and giving him my hand. “Get on with it.”
He peeks up through his lashes with only mild warning, and I smile, making him shake his head. “Your mother was always the first-aider when you were kids.” He peels away the dressing carefully with his big fingers as I sprinkle some salt into the water.
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“No, you’re not, Amelia Gracie,” he muses. “You’re certainly not a kid.” He winces when he reveals the cut. “Jesus Lord above,” he gasps, horrified. “How the hell did you manage this?”
I grimace at my wound. It really does look angry. “I leant on a piece of glass.” I take some cotton wool from my makeup bag and dunk it. “It looks worse than it is. Here.”
Dad accepts and starts gingerly dabbing. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I smile fondly. What Dad doesn’t realise is the only time he hurts me is when he’s an unwitting misogynist. “You’re not hurting me.”
He grunts, brushing at the cut delicately. “I had my first golf lesson today.”
“But Mum said you were in the office today.”
“I finished early.”
I roll my eyes. That wasn’t the plan, but small steps, I suppose. “How was it?”
“Harder than I thought, but my instructor said I’ve got a solid swing.”
“Did you enjoy it?” Will he keep it up? Maybe stop going to the office every single day and actually embrace retirement?
He smiles up at me. “I did.”
“That’s great.”
“Tell me about your day.”
I nearly fall off my chair. “My day?” I murmur, my shock obvious.
“Yes, your day.”
