“Sugar cream pie?” he asked. “You’ll shoot my sugar sky high.”
“You’re having trouble with your sugar?” Bryony asked. Nobody had mentioned it to her.
Alma pinched his thigh. “Now you stop. We’re about the only two around here who don’t have our fingers pricked every day.” She inclined her head toward the pie. “Are you going to share some with me?”
“I guess so, if you’ll stop with the pinching,” Bryony’s father said.
Alma laughed and brushed the back of her hand across his shoulder. “Don’t be a baby, Albert.” She looked at Bryony and said, “I’ll go get plates. Will you have a piece with us, dear?”
“I’m good,” Bryony said.
Alma was her father’s girlfriend, there was no doubt now. Her pinches were love bites, to be sure. And her father’s complaints were about needing to be heard, not about defending himself. If anything, the subtext of his comments were along the lines of begging Alma to keep touching him.
While Alma collected the plates, Bryony and her father reviewed the long list of his oft repeated complaints. The cost of living there, the food, the other residents, the staff, the cable TV, the lack of privacy, and the presence of the big friendly mutt who everyone but her father adored. Halfway through his tirade, he yawned, and Bryony realized he was becoming bored with his own bad mood.
Alma returned with plates, napkins, forks, and a pie cutter.
Bryony sliced into the pie, placing a perfect piece on each of the two plates, while Alma recounted the delightful events of the past week, extolling the many virtues of life at RestHaven.
How Bryony’s father had managed to snag the attention of this easy-to-please elder defied logic. Hopefully, a more appealing man would not come along. Her father would never admit it, but if Alma defected, he would be devastated. Bryony was sure.
“Oh, honey,” Alma said after the first bite. “I’ve never tasted anything so heavenly, and I have tasted many a pie. Where did you learn to bake?”
“She taught herself,” her father said.
Did she hear pride in his voice? Bryony mumbled, “Thanks,” caught off guard by the rush of emotion evoked by her father’s show of appreciation.
When they both finished their last bites, neither leaving crumbs, Alma gathered the plates, utensils, and napkins before scurrying off with a promise to return with coffee.
“The woman reminds me of a tree rat,” her father said. “Always moving. Doing this. Doing that.”
“You like her,” Bryony said.
“Yes,” her father said. “And I find her exhausting.”
“Daddy,” Bryony said, moving to sit beside him on the loveseat. “You said something a while back, and I wanted to ask you about it. You said Mom was selfish. What did you mean?”
He jerked toward her. “I never said that.”
Bryony took a breath and waited.
“Selfish is a harsh word,” he said. He turned away to stare out the window across the hall. “Your mother wasn’t selfish. But once you kids were born, I hit the back burner and stayed there until the day she died.” His eyes grew hazy. “I miss her. But I’ve been missing her for a long time.”
This admission on his part broke the family rule. Nobody in Bryony’s family ever talked about their feelings without blaming the person in front of them. Again, a surge of emotion filled her chest, but she didn’t want to interrupt him by drawing attention to herself. As much as Bryony cherished the gift of his honesty, he gave the gift to himself, too. She wanted him to experience the full impact of what he was doing, what he was saying.
“We used to dance every Saturday night,” he said, turning back to look toward Bryony. “Before you kids came along.”
“I didn’t know,” she said, hoping he could not hear the catch in her voice.
“She was a real hoofer. She danced with a troupe to entertain GIs when she was in high school.” His eyes were softer than she had ever seen before.
“I remember,” Bryony said. “There were pictures.”
“Here we are!” Alma announced. She closed the distance between them, setting a round tray on the coffee table. “I brought the whole pot,” she said. “And a cup for you, Bryony. Would you like some?”
“I need to go.” Bryony stood, clutching her purse.
“Thanks for the pie,” her father said.
Alma slapped his thigh. “Now that was the nicest I’ve seen you be to her.”
Bryony’s father grinned and shook his head.
Bryony saw nothing, heard nothing, as she made her way back to her car, her mind absorbed by the shift in her father’s behavior, the perspective he shared.
Perhaps her mother was not the saint she had imagined. Maybe once her mother found security in marriage, she abandoned the man she married, the man she was supposed to love, honor, and cherish until death. If her own mother could turn a marriage sour, how favorable were Bryony’s chances of making a relationship work?
Thinking about Cal burdened her now. She might pull off a date or two, but she had no idea about how to be in a healthy relationship.
Her phone buzzed with an unknown caller, and she answered anyway because she needed distraction, or connection, and even a robocall might do.
“Bryony?” The female voice was familiar, but Bryony couldn’t place it with a name or face right away.
“Yes?” Bryony answered.
“This is Charity, Charity Henderson.” She need not have said her first name twice, or even included her last name. There were no other people named Charity in Bryony’s life. Bryony’s inner guard rose to attention.
“Yes?” Bryony asked. Why was she calling?
