Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Now, were there things about it I’d change?
Hard yes.
Starting with the man seated across from me, who was prattling on about how someone must have taken his baseball uniform, because he’d looked for it this morning and it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
“I’ll find it for you,” I told him. “Or maybe Amy can help you. She should be here any minute.”
“Amy?” My dad brightened at the mention of my oldest sister.
“Yes. She’s coming over to spend the day with you.”
“Amy Maureen. April nineteenth, nineteen seventy-nine.”
“That’s right.” Listing the full names and birthdates of his kids was something he liked to do to prove he was still with it. “How about Mallory?” I prompted, naming the middle sibling.
“Mallory Grace. January twentieth, nineteen eighty-two.”
“And me?”
“Beckett Eugene. October second, nineteen eighty-seven.”
As always, I cringed a little at my middle name. “Right. And who won—”
“The Twins,” he said, a smug look on his face, because he’d anticipated my next question. “The Minnesota Twins won the World Series that year over the St. Louis Cardinals, in seven games.”
I grinned. His long-term memory, especially for baseball stats, was still pretty sharp. “That’s good, Dad.”
“You were just a baby,” he recalled, his blue-gray eyes alive with the memory. “You were just a baby when I watched that game.” He looked over his shoulder toward the center of our house. “But where’s that room I was in?”
“That was the old house. We built a new one, remember?” After I’d moved back to Bellamy Creek four years ago, I’d had the clapboard farmhouse my great-grandparents had built on the property torn down in favor of a big, rambling timber frame structure.
“Oh.” My father scratched his head and continued staring into the two-story great room, with its massive stone fireplace and oversized dark leather furniture, its thick rugs and blankets in earth tones that mimicked the views outside, and the huge windows overlooking a deep front lawn. “Well, if I had a map, I could find my way home.”
Sadness squeezed my heart. He was always talking about maps, and I knew it was because he felt lost, but no map was going to take him where he wanted to go. “You ready to get in the shower?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I took one already.”
“No, you didn’t. Come on, finish your breakfast and then I’ll help you. I told Amy you’d be all dressed and ready to go into town when she got here.” I knew that would get him going. My dad loved getting out of the house—actually, what he really loved was wandering off on his own, although we knew better than to take our eyes off him now. “She said she’ll take you for a haircut.”
His chin jutted. “I could take myself for a haircut if you hadn’t stolen my truck.”
“I didn’t steal your truck, Dad.” I got up from the table and carried my coffee cup and empty plate to the sink.
“Well, then, you stole my keys,” he said, following me to the kitchen. “I haven’t been able to find them for a week.”
In reality, I’d taken his car keys away from him about six months ago, and his beat-up old truck was still in the garage. “You don’t need keys. Amy’s going to drive.”
“Amy!” he shouted. “She can’t drive. She’s just a kid.”
I rinsed his plate and coffee cup before taking him by the shoulders and steering him out of the kitchen. “Come on. Shower.”
We headed for the master suite, which was off the far side of the great room. When the house had been completed, my father had offered to let me have the spacious first-floor bed and bathroom, but he was already struggling a little with his hips, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before stairs were too difficult. And I didn’t really need all that space. I wasn’t even sure why I’d let Enzo, whose company had done the work, talk me into the large walk-in closet or the soaking tub.
After helping my dad choose clothing for the day, I laid it out on the bed and instructed him to get in the shower. “I’m going to knock on the door in five minutes, and then it will be time to get out.”
“Okay.” He nodded and ambled off to the bathroom.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to help him bathe or dress yet, and he could still handle his own personal hygiene. But I knew the day would come when I’d be responsible for those things too.
When I got back to the kitchen, Amy was coming in through the mudroom, keys in one hand and a travel mug in the other. Like me, she had our dad’s slate blue eyes and sandy brown hair that would brighten to blond every summer. Hers was pulled back into a ponytail. “Morning,” she said.