Page 41 of A Family Affair: The Plan
Let me know if you want to grab a beer? Code for “Let me know if you want to talk”. Not anytime soon.
“Sam?” He glanced up from the fuchsia azalea bush he’d just planted, spotted his mother on the front porch. “Dinner’s almost ready. Do you want to come in and clean up?”
“Give me a minute.” He tossed his work gloves in the empty wheelbarrow and headed toward the garage, where he unlaced his work boots and opened the back door. “Smells good.”
His mother had a special seasoning for her baked chicken that even his father liked, and while the man confessed there was nothing quite like a fried chicken leg, the baked breast with the seasoning wasn’t half bad. And then there were the greens. Joyce Harrington loved her greens, insisted they kept a person healthy and regular. Whatever. The one deviation from the healthy menu was the mashed potatoes; creamy with bits of chives and a dollop of sour cream. His mother had given his father a choice ofone serving of mashed potatoes—not two or three—or a double helping of sweet potato. Of course, Sam’s father chose mashed, but not without a scowl, and a few mumbled comments about the single helping.
Sam had been back two days and already missed the calm of the Heart Sent. It was exhausting to hear about meal prep and dietary restrictions. If he had to listen to this much longer, he’d start eating at Harry’s or O’Reilly’s Bar and Grille.
The one tiny bit of good that had come from all of this was that Sam and his father had begun talking again—really talking. It wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t easy, with his father’sYou just can’t pick a good one, can you?Sure looked like Sam had horrible luck in that department and yet it was about more than luck. Maybe he really didn’t know what constituted a decent partner. There were people who were meant to be alone, and he might be one of them. Not what he’d thought when he’d envisioned his life, but there were worse situations, such as choosing a person who pretended you shared the same values and then proceeded to up end all of them. When that happened, you were left with nothing but doubt, uncertainty, and disillusionment.
Sam and his father had talked last night about how Sam could play a more vital role in the practice.Who am I kidding? You know what you’re doing, have the talent, the education, and the experience to build this practice and turn it into something I never thought possible. A rehab facility? A pet sanctuary? A training center? These are solid ideas, and buying Jerome Eldridge’s place with all that land? Brilliant. You have the acreage to develop these projects and if I hadn’t been so stubborn and determined to make you pay for your questionable choices, I would have admitted that.
It’s okay, Dad. I’d rather we move on.
His father’s eyes teared up, his voice turned hoarse.Can we do that, son? Can we really start over?
This was all Sam had wanted since the moment he stepped back into Magdalena.Yes, absolutely.
If Sam had not been so caught up with plans for the practice and how to expand the place, and if he hadn’t been trying so damn hard to forget abouther, he might have noticed his father wasn’t himself. Sure, he was tired and preoccupied, and once or twice his face had gotten red, and his breathing sounded a little off. But he’d also carried a box from the truck and started in about “that woman” and the partner who’d tried to strong-arm him into selling the practice. Sam wished they could forget about that and concentrate on working together to expand the practice and Edgar Harrington’s legacy.
“Sam? Do you not like the chicken? I tried to keep it a bit healthier for your father and?—”
“Joyce, leave it alone. I know what I need to do and it doesn’t help when you keep harping on me.” Sam’s father sucked in a breath, scowled. “Can I just enjoy this meal, even if the chicken isn’t fried and the greens don’t have butter or bacon fat in them? Let me enjoy what’s here, especially the mashed potatoes, even if the serving size is no bigger than a hard-boiled egg.”
His mother pinched her lips like she did when she was irritated, but after this many years together, she knew when to stop. “Yes, enjoy your potatoes.”
No child wants to see his parents bickering, no matter how old the parent or the child was. Sam grabbed for something to talk about, tossed out the first thing that landed in his brain. “Harry Blacksworth said he wants to invite you both to dinner at Harry’s Folly.” This would get his father off the subject of heart-healthy food, and his mother loved Harry. “He’s still thankful for what you did with Cooper last week when he jumped out of the SUV and hurt his shoulder.”
Edgar Harrington’s expression relaxed, the scowl disappeared. “I told him to start using a ramp when he carts hisdog around town. One mention of Cooper developing chronic shoulder issues, had Harry ordering one as soon as he left the clinic.” A sigh, a shake of his head. “Harry’s a good man, but one of these days, I’ll have to tell him the truth.”
“The truth?” Sam’s mother stared at her husband. “What truth is that?”
“Cooper’s a dog andnothis son.”
That comment made Sam’s mother laugh. “Donotdo that, Edgar. Harry won’t recover. He loves that dog and I wish more people would find ways to show kindness to animals…andtheir children.” She darted a glance at Sam, her eyes sparkling.
“I agree.” His father’s voice turned rough, his gaze settling on Sam. “Sometimes parents forget how special their children are, and they just need reminders every now and again.”
20
Hope had never sought advice from a stranger, especially a senior citizen in high-top sneakers and sweatpants, but Mimi insisted Angelo “Pop” Benito could help her. When she contacted him, he hadn’t sounded surprised to hear from her and invited her for afternoon tea and pizzelles. If the man could find a way to help her make sense of her life, she’d agree to anything.
At ten minutes before two, Angelo Benito invited her into his modest home with a wide smile and a welcome. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Hope. How about I fix a nice cup of hibiscus tea and a few pizzelles? Have you ever had a pizzelle?”
Hope shook her head, wondered how this man could help her. Mimi said he held a lot of answers, but he never “told” a person what to do—he merely offered suggestions and helped them find their path. If he could help herfind her pathto straightening out this mess with Sam, she’d eat anything—including a pizzelle even though she’d never tasted one. “Thank you, Mr. Benito. And thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I truly appreciate it.”
He raised a bushy brow, nodded. “You’re welcome, and the name’s Angelo or Pop. No, Mister.” He pointed to an overstuffed chair in the sitting room. “Have a seat and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” His voice softened like one of Mimi’s buttermilk biscuits as he pointed to the portrait of an attractive woman with dark eyes, dark hair, and a mysterious smile. “That’s my Lucy.” His voice turned softer. “My heart and soul. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. How that woman ever saw it in her heart to give me a chance, I’ll never know. I didn’t deserve it, not the kindness or the love, but I wasn’t going to turn away either. She was the one who taught me about real love along with forgiveness and never giving up on possibility.”
Hope thought about Pop Benito’s words as she waited for him to return. There was no denying the love when he looked at his deceased wife or when he spoke of her. What must that be like? The loss would be immeasurable, but to have a chance to experience that connection with another person… She guessed Pop Benito would tell her it was worth it.
She was still contemplating love and loss when he returned with two glasses of hibiscus tea and a plate of pizzelles. “I’ve read about pizzelles, and I’ve seen them in a few bakeries, but I’ve never tried one. I hear they have anise in them?” She would not confess her distaste of anise… How many would she have to eat before he was satisfied?
“Yes, there are anise pizzelles and those are my favorite. However, not everyone loves the anise flavor. I can usually pick out the people who will and won’t enjoy an anise pizzelle.” He pointed to the plate as he sank into his chair. “These are vanilla pizzelles. They have a much sweeter flavor. Try one and see.”
He must have sensed her two-second hesitation because he added, “Just try one, and if it’s not to your liking, I won’t pressure you to finish it.” A wink and a soft, “But I bet you will, and I’ll even bet you’ll have more than one.”
Hope selected a pizzelle, studied it for a few seconds before she bit into it. Crunchy. Sweet. “This is good. Really good.” She munched on the pizzelle, caught Pop smiling when she reached for another.
