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)
“Morning. You’re here early.”
“Yeah, I woke up before my alarm and decided to get on the road.” She shrugged. “It’s summer. The kids can get their own breakfasts.”
“I appreciate the help,” I said, leaning back against the counter. “He refuses to go back to the day program at the senior center, but I can’t keep running back in here to check on him. And I worry about him trying to use the oven again.”
She nodded solemnly. “Think it’s finally time we talk about assisted living?”
“No.” My answer was still firm. “Not yet. I just need some help during the day while I work. And it’s not even really hard stuff—just keeping him occupied and fed. Making sure he takes a nap. Getting him to his appointments. I put another ad in the Bellamy Creek Gazette, but no one has called yet. I feel like word’s gotten out that he fires everyone.”
She sighed and took a sip of her coffee. “How’s his morning going?”
“Not bad.” Shaking my head, I smiled. “He’s a little concerned about finding his suitcase so he can pack up and get to Chicago on time. I mean, how are the Tigers gonna beat the Sox without him?”
She laughed. “I have no idea.”
“He thinks I stole his uniform.”
“You bastard.”
“And his truck.”
“Rude.” She was joking, but her eyes were sad.
I felt it too, but if we didn’t sometimes laugh with each other about our dad’s behavior, we’d have drowned in sorrow.
“He did cheer up when I told him you’d be taking him to town for a haircut,” I told her. “He’s probably thinking he can give you the slip and get to the train station.”
“He’ll forget about the train once he’s in the salon chair. He loves the girl that cuts his hair—he goes on forever, telling her all about his baseball career.” She shook her head. “You have to wonder where he gets that stuff. All those stats he rattles off, the crazy stories. Where’s it coming from? His high school days?”
“Probably some of it—he was a great fucking player, and he could have played college baseball if he’d been able to go away to school. He had the talent as well as the brains.”
“Yeah,” my sister said, misty-eyed.
Our father had been the only son in his family, and by the time he’d graduated from high school, his dad had died, and his mother and sisters needed him to stay home and run the farm.
Once, as a kid, I’d asked him if he’d been mad about that—I certainly would have been—but he’d shrugged and said no, he’d always known where he was needed most and what would matter in the end.
I never forgot that.
“However,” I went on, “he’s also getting his high school career mixed up with some of the best moments in MLB history. Do you know how many times I’ve heard him describe the Willie Mays over-the-shoulder catch from the 1954 World Series like he made it?”
She grinned. “Game one? Top of the eighth? Deep fly ball to center field?”
Exhaling, I shook my head. “I gave up arguing with him on that one.”
“Why do you argue with him at all?” She turned to the sink, rinsed out her mug, and set it upside down on a paper towel to dry. “You know it’s pointless.”
“Because half the time, I feel like he knows what he’s saying is ridiculous, and he’s just doing it to get under my skin.”
“Why would he do that, Beckett?” she asked, pulling the dishwasher open and loading our breakfast dishes.
“To get back at me for stealing his truck or his keys or his freedom. Or whatever else he thinks I’ve robbed him of.” I rubbed my face with both hands. “I’m just trying to help him hang on to reality. But it’s slippery.”
“I get it.” My sister’s voice was soft as she closed the dishwasher and faced me. “And I’m sorry you’re dealing with this on your own every day. I wish I could be here more.”
“It’s okay. You and Mallory did more than your fair share around here while I was young.”
My mother had left when I was still in diapers, and my sisters had practically raised me while our dad worked his fingers to the bone to convert the struggling dairy farm his grandparents had started into a small cattle ranch.
Being a rancher hadn’t always been my career plan, but after earning my MBA at Yale, I’d spent five years working for a hedge fund on Wall Street, where I made a fuck ton of money before I realized I hated what I was doing. Then just as I was questioning everything, my father developed health problems and contemplated selling the ranch—it was like a punch in the gut from the universe.
I knew where I was needed most, and what would matter in the end.