Читать книгу First Love Again - Kristina Knight - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

EMMETT APPROACHED THE front door of the dilapidated Victorian home with dread. When he’d left Gulliver’s Island ten years before the gingerbread trim along the roof was an inviting green, the porch painted a delicate peach and the second floor a deep navy.

The painted lady he remembered was chipped and stained.

There was no trace of the peach color on the porch, although sometime in the past few years the porch steps had been painted what appeared to be a bull’s-eye red color. A few strips of navy remained along the windows on the second floor. The gingerbread trim looked like the rotting wood it was.

From a professional standpoint the place was a mess, but he knew he could bring her back to life.

From a personal standpoint, he didn’t understand how things had gotten this far.

How had his stickler father allowed this to happen to their home?

The doctor’s voice echoed in his mind, reminding Emmett of his father’s diagnosis. He clenched his hands. He’d failed his dad in not coming back for all this time. Maybe if he had...

Staying off the island had made it easier to move forward. Easier to forget the careless boy he’d been and to become someone capable, dependable.

The boy who’d been careless enough to ruin the life of his best friend was gone and in his place was a man people came to, to solve their problems.

Jaime Brown’s big brown eyes seemed to dance in front of him. He’d left to make things simpler for her, but seeing her again... She was no longer the broken girl who’d come back from Pittsburgh, but she wasn’t the girl he remembered from before the attack, either.

The front door creaked open and Gibson Deal stuck his head around the corner, a shock of white hair falling forward to hide eyes that were once a clear, bright blue and were now faded like Emmett’s Levi’s.

“I’m not buyin’ nothin’,” Gibson said in a voice that still held the iron Emmett remembered from his youth. To listen to the old man, nothing had changed. It was probably one of the reasons no one on the island had figured out Gibson was fading. He could still talk a blue streak; had opinions on everything. Hell, during his visit to Cincinnati last fall Emmett had thought his father was fine. Last week the doctor had assured him that during that visit his father had already been losing his mind.

Emmett was doing more than listening for the first time in years. He was observing and what he saw left no doubt in his mind that the doctors in Toledo were right. His father was fading.

Gibson’s hand tremored against the door and there was a confused look in his gaze.

“It’s me, Dad. Emmett.”

The door creaked open a few more inches. Gibson pushed the hair from his face, squinted faded blue eyes and pressed his lips together while he inspected Emmett as if he’d never seen him before.

“Well, what the hay are you doing on the porch? Come on in, boy. I’ve been expecting you.” As if nothing was wrong. As if Emmett landed on this doorstep every other weekend. “You said you’d bring paint. Did you bring paint? Mary Margaret loves to paint.”

Emmett motioned to his truck loaded with enough paint, wood and various other supplies to fix up every house on the island, which was good since he’d volunteered to—at least—take a look at Gulliver School, too. Maybe his father wasn’t the only one losing his mind.

Thinking about the school brought back the image of Jaime.

Wearing white pants and a silky blue top. In eighty-five-degree weather. When he’d known her she’d worn sundresses on any day the temperature breached seventy.

He could still see her standing on her front porch in a white sundress with pretty blue flowers long into October that last year he’d been on the island. It had been unseasonably warm that fall and when anyone had reminded her of the changing seasons she would smile and tell them she wasn’t ready for turtlenecks and snow boots just yet.

The calendar would change over to June in a few days and already it felt like August on the island.

She’d also cut her hair and the shoulder-length blond curls suited her face. She was thinner than he remembered, but those brown eyes were still deep enough to drown in. Not that he had any intention of drowning.

The Jaime he remembered... The Jaime he remembered had grown up, Emmett told himself. Just as he had.

“I’ve brought everything we’ll need with me.” He wasn’t sure what he would need when he’d left Cincinnati, only that the sooner he had the place fixed up the sooner it would sell. The sooner he could get Gibson into the assisted-living facility in Cincinnati where he could begin treatment. Not that treatment would change anything.

He’d done enough late-night internet surfing to know there was no coming back from dementia. There would be good days and bad, and eventually he would lose his father altogether, even though the man might still be alive.

Emmett’s heart beat rapidly at the thought. Gibson was his only family and he didn’t want to lose the old man.

He shouldn’t have made such a big deal about coming back to Gulliver. Should have made more of an effort to put the past to rest. He’d lost ten years he could have had with Gibson and for what? Because he’d made a few mistakes as a teenager? Didn’t everyone?

“You thirsty? Want a sandwich before we get started?”

Emmett couldn’t stomach what might be on the inside of the refrigerator. “I thought we’d just make an inventory list today.” The farther into the house they walked, the more Emmett’s hopes sank. When he was a kid, the hardwood floors would have gleamed, the end tables sparkled. A few magazines might have been stacked on one end of the coffee table and there would have been a basket for the TV and radio remotes beside his father’s favorite green recliner. His mom would have been baking something and, more often than not, Jaime would wander in through the back door.

Emmett refocused on his father.

What he saw now were stacks and stacks of newspapers. A few empty food containers. The TV was on but muted. Two lampshades sat askew because of the jackets hanging from them. Envelopes—some opened and some still sealed—littered the dining-room table and a thin film of dust covered everything.

Emmett swallowed. How much worse would it be if his father hadn’t taken the ferry to the mainland last month? He’d boarded a bus for Dayton at the ferry stop and become so disoriented that a restaurant manager had called the police. The police had called Emmett and now he could see for himself that things were very wrong. He dragged his finger through the dust covering his mom’s favorite side table and then wiped his caked finger on his jeans.

“Dad, I thought you hired that local company to clean once a week after Mom died.” He tripped over something and picked it up, holding the cracked leather shoes by their strings. What were his old football cleats doing in the hallway?

Gibson waved his hand as they continued through to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water and passed it to Emmett. “Those girls didn’t know a broom from a dust rag. I let them go a while back.”

His mother had passed away the summer after he’d left the island. God, how had he missed all of this in their weekly phone calls?

Once more Emmett racked his brain, trying to remember any incident that could have alerted him during Gibson’s last visit. He’d been a little more crotchety and particular than normal, but when had Gibson not been particular? From the pressed pants and natty ties he’d worn every day to school to the way Emmett’s baseball uniforms should be washed after the games, Gibson had ideas. Ways of doing things. Emmett and his mother had become so used to his opinions that they’d forgotten any other way of doing things. So it was normal to fall into that routine when his father had visited for a couple of weeks in October.

When he’d left Emmett had found a stack of newspapers under the bed but hadn’t thought anything of it.

Now he wished he had.

“I was thinking we’d start with the porch. You know how your mother likes a clean and pretty porch. Peach. That was her favorite color.” Gibson finished his water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The upper level should be navy and I think green would be a nice color around the eaves.”

“Dad—”

“And in here, I know your mother likes her wallpaper, but I think paint is more practical. And if we used some of that blue, it would be a nice accent for her paintings and things.”

“Dad.” Emmett tried again, but Gibson kept talking.

“Now, we turned your bedroom into a sewing room for your mother a few years ago so you’ll be staying in the guest room. If we could just update the closets and bring in a little more storage space for your mom’s bits and bobs, we’ll be in good shape, don’t you think?” He looked around the dingy kitchen with pride, obviously not seeing the dirty stove or ancient refrigerator. “We’ll bring this place back to life yet.”

Emmett tossed their water bottles into the empty trash can and then grabbed several old containers from the cabinets to throw away. He considered running scalding-hot water into the sink to wash the piles of plates and cutlery but decided against it and tossed it all into the trash. No amount of dish soap or hot water could bring those things back to life.

“Dad, we’re fixing this place up to sell it, remember? You’re coming to live in Cincinnati, near me.” He was careful not to say “with me.” The doctors had been clear. Though his father was in the early stages, he needed more care than Emmett could give on his own. And patients like Gibson would grab on to any chance to stay in their homes. Emmett had failed his father so far; he wasn’t going to fail at this. Gibson would come to Cincinnati and get the care he needed.

“Your mother loves the island, you know she won’t move.”

Emmett took a breath and closed his eyes. His mother was buried in Toledo in one of the plots she and Gibson had picked out years before. “Dad, Mom isn’t here anymore. She’s gone.”

Gibson gestured dismissively and began adding more things to the trash. “She’s just gone to get groceries. She’ll be back in a while. She was going to bake shortbread cookies for you but forgot we were out of vanilla.” He cleared one corner of the kitchen table and started on another, tossing things willy-nilly into the big trash can along with Emmett.

Emmett reached for his father’s hands; stilled them. “Dad, let me do this, okay? I’ll make sure everything that is thrown out needs to be trashed. Why don’t you rest?”

“I don’t need to rest. I’m healthy as a horse.” He pounded once on his chest as if that would sway Emmett. Maybe he really thought it would.

Maybe he didn’t remember why Emmett was here in the first place.

“Dad, we’re selling the house, remember? We talked to the doctor about it last week. You’re moving into that nice apartment that’s just down the road from my house.”

Gibson was quiet for a long moment. “You’re here to renovate the house. Our house.”

“Yeah, I am, Dad. And then we have to sell it. You can’t stay up here on your own and my work is in Cincinnati so you’re coming to live with me.” Emmett winced. “Near me, at that nice apartment.”

“I don’t think your mom will like living in an apartment. She likes to have room to move.”

“Do you remember the bird room? With all the parrots and cockatiels?” Emmett led Gibson to the table, cleared another space and they sat. “And there was that nice walking path around the pond, remember? We saw that big, Great Dane when we walked around it last time.”

“His name was Percy. And the parrot wouldn’t repeat anything we said.”

Emmett smiled. “That’s right. The nurse said he was shy, remember? And you said once you got acquainted, everything would be all right.”

“But your mom didn’t see the place. I’m not sure she’ll like it. Maybe we should just do the painting and things here.” Gibson clasped his hands, twisting them around. “We could take her down in a few weeks, when she’s ready.”

“Dad, Mom isn’t here. She died several years ago.”

Gibson’s brow furrowed. “Mary Margaret is at the store, getting vanilla for snickerdoodles. Emmett’s coming home.”

It had been shortbreads a few minutes before but Emmett didn’t correct his father. He looked away and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Oh, God, it was happening.

“Dad, do you remember visiting Cincinnati?”

Gibson pushed away from the table and stalked to the kitchen sink. “’Course I remember Cincinnati. Terrible football team, pretty good at baseball, though, depending on the year. My son, Emmett, lives there. Mary Margaret and I go down every few weeks because he’s too busy to come up here. You went to school with him, didn’t you?”

Emmett rose from the table and began stacking old magazines and junk mail into piles. When the pile looked ready to topple, he pushed it into the trash can and started another. “I’m Emmett, Dad. I’m here to help you get the house ready to sell.”

But Gibson kept talking, as though Emmett hadn’t said a word. “You know, it’s summer and Emmett doesn’t like coming back here. But I’m hoping he makes it this year. Big party planned for July. Reunion, you know.”

Emmett thought about the invitation he’d left on his office desk before coming home. He planned to be off Gulliver by the time the reunion came along. Off the island and back in Cincinnati where the only thing people knew about him was that he was good at restoring old houses.

“Dad, do you still read these tabloids?” He picked a few issues from the floor, dated last summer.

“I never read that trash. Mary Margaret, she likes those celebrity stories. Likes to stay on top of Hollywood,” he said, his voice lilting into a laugh. “Hey, do you think that’s what’s holding her up? You think she’s reading the magazine in the store because she’s tired of me ribbing her about it? We’ll have to tell Emmett that when he gets here.”

Emmett gave up. He couldn’t say those words—Mom is dead—one more time. He couldn’t. Mary Margaret Deal was very much alive in this house. Emmett shook his head. Even if he could say it, Gibson very obviously couldn’t believe his wife was gone. Maybe that was why his father was having such a hard time letting go, because he could still feel her here.

No, Gibson’s inability to let go had nothing to do with the magazines stacked around the house or the sewing room that probably still had whatever project on the sewing table Mom had been working on before she died years before. He couldn’t let go because that was part of who he was. Determined. Particular. Obstinately convinced he was right until the last leg of whatever crusade he was on crumbled.

He’d been the last man standing in the quest to save the old school all those years ago. The first to defend Emmett when the rest of the town went on the attack.

The doctor said Gibson was living in a world that was more comfortable for him; Mary Margaret always made things comfortable. Maybe it was okay for Emmett to just let this one illusion stand.

“Could be, she always liked the pictures best,” he said as he pulled one full trash bag from the can and replaced it with another. He started filling that one up, too. “Did you know they’re talking about rehabbing the old school? Well, maybe. They were actually talking about tearing it down, but I volunteered to have a look.”

He kept talking about the school, about the Reds and Indians. About anything he could think of as Gibson stared out the window. Emmett cleared the kitchen table of junk and filled another bag with trash, hating the sound of his voice but more afraid of the silence if he stopped talking. Mentally he tacked another week on to his plans to stay on the island. It would take at least that long to get the junk cleared out so the real work could begin. He’d need more supplies, which meant another ferry ride to the mainland. Might as well unpack the truck and reload it for the landfill. Once most of the junk was cleared away he would call the cleaning crew to start working on the inside of the house.

Emmett tied up a third bag of trash and started on a fourth, this time pulling crusty pots from the stovetop and putting them into the bag. He would do all of this and he wouldn’t complain, not once.

“Hey.” Gibson turned away from the window. “Emmett, I didn’t hear you come in, boy. You’re early.”

“It’s almost noon.”

Gibson grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge. “I didn’t figure you’d get here much before five, what with traffic and coming up from Cincy. I didn’t get to the store before you got here, so we’ll have to eat at Gulliver’s Diner tonight. They still do that prime rib you like.”

Why was it suddenly easier to breathe? His father was back. “Sure, Dad, that sounds great. And we’ll stop by the grocery to get a few essentials after.”

“It’s good to have you home, boy.” Gibson looked around with sadness in his eyes. Where there was confusion before, now Emmett was certain Gibson saw what he did: a cluttered, messy house in need of repair. No ghosts. No memories that seem more real than the present. “I don’t want to leave this place.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Mary Margaret and I had a lot of good memories here.”

“I remember.” Emmett swallowed. This was the man he remembered. A little thinner and more vulnerable than he had ever seen him, but this was the Gibson he remembered.

This was his dad.

“I don’t, sometimes. Sometimes, all I know are the memories.” Gibson squeezed his hands together, looking around the room as if he might find the one thing that would keep him here.

“That’s why you’re coming to Cincinnati, so the doctors can help you.”

Gibson sighed. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this, boy. It isn’t fair.”

Emmett agreed. Losing his mother had been hard. Watching his father fade away...he didn’t know how he could deal with that, too. “Who said life was fair, right?”

“Emmett.” Gibson shook his head. “Life is what you make of it.”

Up until a month before Emmett had thought he’d been making a pretty good life. Since they’d met with his father’s doctors, he wasn’t so sure the choices he’d made were anything but selfish.

He didn’t know if the trustees would call about the school, but if they did he would answer. Why he’d ever offered to do an estimate on the building he couldn’t explain. Just that there had been a look in Jaime’s eyes, a determination to the set of her shoulders and her fisted hands, that he’d had to encourage. He owed her at least that much.