“I wasn’t supposed to hear it at all, right?”
His eyes flip open again. They’re a dark brown color that the Shipleys all share. “I’m sorry. That was a mistake. If I could go back in time and find a better way, I would. You were such an angry teenager, and I struggled with it.”
“I know.”
“I understand now that you probably thought I loved your brother more. He was easier for me to understand, though. I had no idea what you were going through—that it was my fault you were so angry.”
My throat is closing up now. “Water under the bridge,” I croak.
“Secrets burn you,” he whispers. “I didn’t understand that when I was young. Don’t make the same mistake, if you can help it.”
“I’m trying,” I say, fighting off tears. “I swear.”
He swallows hard. “Good.”
“I have a boyfriend. You met him,” I blurt out. “Roderick. Maybe that seems weird to you, but it doesn’t to me.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’m sure I can get used to the idea. Thank you for telling me.”
I gulp back tears. “You’re welcome.”
“Hey, my wallet is in that drawer.” He nods toward the table beside the bed. “There’s a picture in there. Pull it out for me.”
Grateful for something to do, I open the drawer and fish out my dad’s ancient leather wallet. Inside there are slots for two photos. One is a picture of Kyle, circa first grade. And the other one is a photo I’ve never seen before. I’m maybe one year old. My dad is holding me, and I’ve got my small hand on his face. And he’s smiling so widely at me. The way a man smiles at his little boy.
“It wasn’t always difficult,” he says. “Let’s both try to remember that.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice breaking.
“You take that one,” he says. “I have the same photo on my bureau at home. Show it to your boyfriend, so he knows what a cute baby you were.”
I slip the picture out of the plastic sleeve. My relationship with Dad is heavy. But the photo is light in the palm of my hand.
When I finally come out of Dad’s hospital room, I find Roderick and Father Peters on adjacent waiting room chairs, their heads bent together in deep discussion.
“Hey,” I croak. “What are you two scheming about?”
“Tacos and enchiladas!” Father Peters says. “We’re trying to figure out which one is easier to serve to two hundred people.” He jumps to his feet. “How is your father?”
“He’s all right for a guy with severe lacerations and no spleen.”
“Ah. I’ll visit him in a moment. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” I take a deep breath. “Better, actually.”
“Good.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m going to ask you a question, but I don’t expect an answer right away.”
“Okay?” That sounds ominous.
“Do you want me to find your biological father? Your mother told me about him this morning. I’ve never met the man, but I’m sure I could track him down. If that ever becomes important to you, just say the word.”
“I don’t think so,” I say abruptly. “But thanks.”
He gives me a quick hug. “You call me if you need anything. My door is always open to you. Both of you,” he says, including Roderick. And then he strides out of the waiting room.
“Whoa,” Roddy says, rising to his feet. “Would you ever want to meet your sperm donor?”
I’ve wondered about him, for sure. But the man got a parishioner pregnant and then made himself scarce. “Parents are difficult. I think I already have all the parents I can handle.”
“Aw. They sure are.” Roderick wraps his arms around me and gives me my second hug in as many minutes. “Are you ready to go out for noodles with me?”
“More than ready,” I admit. And I give him a tight hug back.
Roderick
Let it be said that Audrey makes terrific fried chicken. It’s crispy and juicy and even a little spicy. I’m in heaven as I sit elbow to elbow with my man, eating this terrific food.
And I’m pleased to report that during the blessing, Kieran did hold hands with me under the table. I never thought this day would come. But here we are.
Kieran was a little quiet on the ride to Tuxbury. He hates attention. And tonight is the first time he’s seen all his extended family at once. But now he’s communing with his dinner and spreading butter on a piece of cornbread that I made for tonight’s feast.
There have been several not-so-subtle glances toward this end of the table, but—lucky for Kieran—it’s not us they’re looking at. In a bizarre twist of events, we’re not tonight’s biggest story. Not even close.
Grandpa Shipley invited a guest for dinner. A woman. Her name is Lydia. She’s seventy-nine years old, and she’s eating her fried chicken daintily with a knife and fork.
The Shipleys are mesmerized. Every one of them.
“So, Lydia,” Ruth says sweetly. “You’re new in town?”
“I was new in town when FDR was president,” she says. “But my family traveled extensively. My father was in the army.”
“We met in high school!” Grandpa says, reaching for another piece of my cornbread. “I thought I might ask her to marry me, but she moved away again. If she hadn’t, you all might be different people.”
Lydia sets down her fork and turns to him. “That is a creepy thing to say to your lovely family. And you don’t even know if I would have said yes.”
Grandpa blinks. “I’m sorry, Miss Lydia. You’re right. I shouldn’t presume.”
Every Shipley jaw hits the floor.
He doesn’t notice, though. He uses his knife to swipe a pat of butter, which he applies in a thick layer to the cornbread. “Roderick, this is fabulous stuff. You can come back any time.”
“Thank you, sir. Good to know.”
“Do you make this for my grandson?” he asks, giving me a pointed look.
“Well, I make lots of things. But I don’t think I’ve made the cornbread at home.”
“Hrmf,” he says through a bite. “Well, you should. It’s delicious. And that boy works hard.”
“Indeed,” I agree, although I feel as if I’ve been cast in the role of a fifties housewife, somehow.
“He doesn’t know how to cook,” Grandpa continues.
“Actually—” I start to argue.
“If he did know how to cook, I’d’ve been invited for dinner already at your new house in Colebury.”
My jaw snaps shut.
Kieran gives me an amused glance. “You know, Grandpa, we were just thinking you should come over for dinner sometime. Weren’t we?” He nudges my knee under the table.
“Oh, definitely,” I say, nudging his back.
“Do you drink?” Grandpa asks me next. This is starting to sound like a job interview.
“Occasionally,” I admit.
“Do you play poker?”