Читать книгу Mom In The Middle - Mae Nunn - Страница 10

On Monday afternoon, Guy stood on the porch steps of the Reagans’ modest brick home.

“I’m coming! Hold your horses,” a male voice called from behind the front door.

Guy shifted the box of bulky plumbing supplies to his left arm and stuffed his right hand into the front pocket of his store apron to deposit his keys. He glanced toward the driveway where he’d parked the Hearth and Home truck. He’d planned to bring the purchase by after church the previous day but his phone calls had gone unanswered. Since he’d concluded Abby and her father must be spending all their time at the hospital, he was surprised to get a response when he’d punched the doorbell three times in quick succession.

The door creaked open an inch but no face appeared. Guy squinted to see inside the dark house.

“Down here, drugstore cowboy,” the aggravated voice grumbled an obvious reference to the fancy boots.

Guy glanced down, his gaze locking with dark eyes beneath an overhang of bushy gray brows.

Abby’s father.

Guy estimated the man to be in his late seventies, but the long, thin body sunken into the inexpensive low-slung wheelchair could have made him look older than his years. Guy extended his hand.

“Guy Hardy, sir. Hearth and Home Super Center.”

“Pete Reagan. Friends call me Shorty, mostly because I’m not.” His eyes raked Guy up and down. “Guess you can, too.”

The old fellow kept the handshake brief.

Needing an excuse to be standing on the man’s porch, Guy nodded toward the box he carried. “I brought the supplies your wife and daughter left at the store on Saturday. Thought you might need them.”

“Women.” Shorty shook his head. “You can’t live with ’em, can’t trade ’em for catfish bait.” A rusty hinge complained as he pushed the door wider and maneuvered his chair to the left. After moving a few feet he stopped, leaned to one side and pulled a thin wallet from his hip pocket.

“How much?”

Guy watched as bony hands counted out several bills.

“That’s covered, sir. I’m just making the delivery.”

The bushy brows drew together. “Then how much for the delivery?”

“There’s no charge, Mr. Reagan.”

Shorty folded together a couple of one-dollar bills and thrust out the offering. “Then take this for your trouble. I insist.”

Guy suppressed a smile as he accepted the modest tip. “Why, thank you, sir. May I carry this inside for you? The parts shift pretty easily so this box might be hard to manage.”

“Well, since you’ve decided I’m an invalid, and you’ve already got my money, you might as well haul them all the way back to the laundry room yourself.”

Guy winced. He hadn’t meant for the comment to come across as an insult, especially since he was normally so conscientious. Life with a houseful of women had taught him to choose his words carefully. That was even more important with customers.

“Lord, keep me mindful of my words,” he muttered.

“Say what?” Shorty snapped.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Well, stop talkin’ to yourself and come on.” He spun the chair, offering a good look at the back of his mostly bald head fringed with wisps of silver.

“And for pity’s sake try to keep up, Roy Rogers,” he grumbled over his shoulder as he set his chair in motion.

Thinking Abby’s sweet disposition deserved high marks after growing up with a stern mother and grouchy dad, Guy hefted the carton and stepped across the threshold. He hurried to follow the man who was quickly disappearing down the long hallway. When Shorty stopped abruptly at the door of what appeared to be a utility room, Guy slipped inside the small, musty-smelling space. A washer-and-dryer pair were positioned to the left, and to his right a deep utility sink was installed in the countertop. Open cabinet doors beneath the sink exposed a bucket that caught the puddle created by a dripping faucet.

“Just sit it down there,” Shorty gestured toward the floor. “Maybe Abby and I can get around to it tomorrow after we visit Sarah.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how is Mrs. Reagan?”

“Doc put a pin in her hip yesterday morning.”

“Oh, I thought that wasn’t going to be necessary.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” he explained. “Surgeon says it’ll get her back on her feet sooner.”

“Is she in much pain?”

“She’s holding up. Won’t complain. Never does. But it’s driving her crazy that she’s not here to tell me what to do.” A trace of a smile glimmered for the first time. His gray eyes lit with mischief and Guy caught the resemblance between Dillon and his grandpa. Hadn’t Abby said her parents had rarely been separated in forty-some-odd years of marriage? The old guy was probably missing his wife like crazy. No wonder he was out of sorts.

Guy deposited the box filled with brass pipes and silicon gaskets for replacing the trap and waste elbow of a sink, and then glanced toward the plumbing repair efforts.

“Okay if I take a look?” Guy asked permission.

“Knock yourself out.”

He squatted to get a better view of the work in progress. Actually, not much work had been done at all. Beyond dismantling the old pipes and stuffing a bucket under the open drain, nothing more had been accomplished.

“You do much plumbing, sir?”

“Back in the day. My legs are mostly useless now so it’s impossible to get up and down like I once did. My baby girl helps me.”

“Abby?” Guy couldn’t quite envision the head covered with soft golden curls studying the workings of a rusted drain.

“Don’t sound so surprised. She’s pretty handy with a wrench as long as her old man is giving the instructions.”

As intriguing as the image of Abby Cramer wielding a tool was, Guy realized home repairs were just one more area where she probably had to take charge for her parents.

“I have a little experience with plumbing. How about if I finish this up for you?”

Shorty opened his mouth to speak, most likely to object. But then he snapped it shut and glanced at the clock on the laundry-room wall.

“Won’t your boss be expecting you back at the store?”

“No, sir. The company encourages employees to assist customers anytime we can, and I happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Shorty squinted, seemed reluctant to accept the offer.

“You gonna charge me by the hour?”

“There wouldn’t be any cost involved, sir, as long as you don’t mind helping me out with some pointers,” Guy added. “It’s been a while since I tackled anything this complicated.”

“Complicated? Ha!” The old man snorted. “This is so easy a Girl Scout could handle it.” He scooted his chair close to the carton of parts, leaned forward and began poking through the hardware.

Guy felt a smile curve his lips as he enjoyed the sight of Shorty Reagan checking the inventory of the box against the list scrawled on a white index card.

“Well, don’t just stand there grinnin’ like some cowpoke on payday while those fancy boots of yours gouge Sarah’s linoleum,” Shorty snapped. “Grab that adjustable pipe wrench and let’s get to work.”

As Abby pulled to a stop against the curb in front of her family home, she glanced toward the Hearth and Home truck that blocked her driveway. She wrestled Dillon from his car seat, both of their stomachs grumbling the loud need for dinner. She’d make grilled-cheese sandwiches for herself and her dad while Dillon mauled a bowl of beanie weenie, and then they’d all load back up and head for another evening at the hospital. It had only been a couple of days and already she was drained from the long hours of work and worry. Her parents’ life together had been a continuous string of crises and they were taking this latest one in stride.

But Abby knew how hard it was on them to be apart. Their love for one another and their faith in God had gotten them through three miscarriages, her father’s battle with multiple sclerosis, financial disaster, the tragic loss of their son-in-law, and now this. Six weeks of in-patient rehab stretched in front of them, then only God knew how long before they could return to a normal life.

Not that life would ever be normal again without Phillip, the best friend of her childhood, her husband for less than a year and the father of a son he would never know.

With Dillon on her hip, Abby trudged up the porch steps and jostled her key against the dead bolt. The door opened easily, not locked, not even closed securely. She frowned, knowing her mother would not approve of such carelessness.

“Dad?” she called.

Instead of the usual squeaking of rubber wheels on the oak planks, she was greeted by the rumble of masculine voices from the end of the hall. Actually, it wasn’t a greeting at all. Her father hadn’t even acknowledged her. If not for the conversational sound of the men, she’d fear something was terribly wrong.

“Daddy?” she called for him again as she walked the dark hallway.

His wheelchair sat in the laundry room doorway.

Empty.

She gasped and tightened her arm around Dillon, who yelped his discontent.

“In here, baby girl.”

Then she spotted him. Seated cross-legged on the floor was her seventy-six-year-old father. Beside him stretched a pair of legs in blue jeans, with an orange H&H apron draped over the waistband. The man wore a white polo shirt stretched tight across his abdomen. She could see very little of his arms and nothing of his head since the top quarter of his body was crammed beneath her mother’s utility sink.

But there was no mistaking the identity of the Hearth and Home employee. The fancy cowboy boots gave Guy Hardy away.

“Daddy, what are you doing on the floor?”

“Giving this man a badly needed lesson in drain replacement.”

“Hi, Abby,” Guy’s muffled voice greeted her from inside the cabinet. “Was that Dillon I heard?”

“Weet, weet!” Dillon responded to his name and kicked his feet to be released.

“Hey, Guy,” she returned the greeting. The first relief she’d felt for days surged through her heart at the sight of her father enjoying himself over a simple plumbing repair. God had sent the perfect distraction. “I see you’ve met the other man in my life.”

“And this one is every bit as charming as Dillon,”

Guy answered.

Her dad grunted and glowered up at her from his spot on the floor.

“Weet, weet!” Dillon squirmed, wanting to join the men.

“Hey, little buddy,” Guy acknowledged her son, who obviously recognized the voice.

“We’re just about finished here,” her father said. Despite the deep creases around his eyes, she sensed his skeptical approval for their company. “Give us fifteen minutes and then I’ll get cleaned up to go see your mother.”

“You go ahead, sir. A couple more turns of this wrench and we’re done.”

Her dad nodded and began the difficult task of climbing back into his chair. Abby choked down the desire to offer help as he struggled to hoist himself up into the seat. He was determined to be independent despite the primary progressive stage of the disease that he’d lived with for as long as she could recall. The inflammation in his spinal cord had made walking impossible for several years but he insisted on being self-sufficient in every other way.

Respect for her father’s wishes and worry for his weakened upper body churned her emotions. Fearing the chair would topple from his efforts, she decided to help whether he wanted it or not. She squatted and released Dillon. He chuckled with delight, no doubt over escaping his mama’s grasp, and toddled toward his papa.

“Here, let me give you a hand with that, sir.”

She looked up to see Guy, already on his feet, offering the assistance she was positive her father would reject. Guy had braced the wheels against the cabinet and was gently supporting her father so he could settle comfortably into the leather seat of his chair.

“Thanks.” Her dad huffed out a breath, sounding relieved. “Getting down is always a sight easier than the climb back up. I coulda made it by myself, though. Always do.” Abby heard the gruffness and wondered if Guy had any idea it was there to mask the gratitude so hard for her father to show.

The two men exchanged respectful nods. Dillon stood at their side, watching, holding his arms outward, literally drooling to be in the middle of the awkward maleness.

“Papa! Weet, weet!”

The moment pulsed with something that distinctly excluded her.

A sort of male bonding. Her insides twisted into a tight knot.

That was exactly what seemed to be going on, and something about this emotional picture was all wrong. Phillip should have been the man helping her father, ruffling the hair on Dillon’s head, hoisting him up into his papa’s lap for a ride into the kitchen.

But Phillip had left her. Voluntarily. Now he was gone. Permanently.

How could the loving God she’d heard so much about also be so cruel?

“I know your family has things to do and I apologize that I’m still underfoot.” Guy watched her dad and Dillon cruise the hallway and then turned to her. “I’ll just clean up here and be on my way.”

“Thank you,” she softly spoke the words, knowing he deserved them, determined to deny the constant stabs of resentment that had taken hold of her heart at the news of Phillip’s death.

“It’s kind of you to spend time with my dad. He’s a tad irascible with Mama in the hospital, and your visit seems to have distracted him for a bit. Once again, you’re a lifesaver.”

He held up his palms deflecting the praise. “Hey, I’m just a regular guy trying to walk the walk the company teaches. When I saw he needed help, I offered to stick around. Any H&H employee would do the same.” He downplayed his kindness.

She let her shoulders slump, relaxing for the first time all day. It was nice to meet a simple man who believed in acts of kindness.

“I’ll mop up back here later,” she gestured to the spatters of grimy water on the utility-room floor. “But right now we have to grab a sandwich and get to the hospital before visiting hours are over.”

“Hey, no problem. I’ll just pick up this mess, put away the tools and show myself to the door.” He squatted and began loading rusted pipes into the cardboard box. “By the way, your dad’s really something.”

“Yeah, I agree.” She nodded and turned to leave the utility room.

“And quite the talker,” he added with a note of amusement in his voice.

Afraid to ask what that meant, she kept moving.

True to his word, Guy Hardy finished up the work, and ten minutes later poked his head into the kitchen to say goodbye. He declined the offer of a sandwich and even insisted on letting himself out as if he’d done it a hundred times.

Abby rose to put her plate in the sink and glanced toward the family room. Through the large picture window she could see the driveway was once again empty. He was probably halfway back to the store that would be open for several more hours.

“Dad, if you’ll wash Dillon’s face, I’ll go freshen up and we’ll still have time to stop at the market for that bunch of flowers you wanted to get Mama.”

As Abby passed the laundry-room door, she glanced inside, expecting to find wet traces of their sink repair. Instead, the white linoleum floor was much cleaner than usual. The mop was thoughtfully replaced, damp end upward, in the hanging utility rack. This regular guy, as he called himself, was nice and a clean freak.

She sighed, knowing there was only one way to handle this. With the bedroom door closed, she asked directory assistance for the new Hearth and Home Super Center. After the cheery greeting, Abby requested the store manager. Following a brief hold, a woman’s voice answered.

“I’m Leah Miller, and it’s my pleasure to serve you.”

“This is Abby Cramer and I left some things there on Saturday after my mother’s accident.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Cramer,” the voice was filled with concern. “If there’s any way we can be of help to your family, you just let us know.”

“Well, thank you for the kind offer, but I was really calling for another reason. I’d like to compliment one of your employees. He delivered everything today and then stuck around to help my father with a plumbing repair.”

“That’s the kind of story we like to hear about our personnel. Can you give me the employee’s name, please?”

“He’s the same person who took us to the hospital. His name is Guy. Guy Hardy. Do you think you could put a note in his file so it will look good on his work record?”

“Ma’am, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” the woman sounded amused. “Guy doesn’t have an employee file. Not in Austin, anyway.”

“I don’t understand.” Abby squinted at herself in the mirror above her dresser.

“Guy’s the boss,” Leah said simply.

“But I thought you were the manager.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s true. I’m the manager, but Guy Hardy is the owner.”

Abby watched her own reaction in the mirror as her jaw sagged with the realization.

There was nothing at all regular about this Guy.