“That’s very interesting, far, because you just expressed a whole lot of opinions about my life and who I am and so on and so forth.”
His father eased himself onto the edge of the bed and shoved aside the IV stand. “Don’t argue with an old man in his hospital bed.”
Tristan helped him lift his legs onto the bed, then covered them with the lacy blanket Mama had brought from home. “What old man? I just see my next deckhand,” he teased.
Victor lay back with a long sigh. Tristan adjusted the pillows under his head and stood up to go.
“Wait.” He closed his hand around Tristan’s wrist. “I know what it is to disappoint a father. I did that when I left the dairy farm to go to sea. I never returned.”
Tristan stilled. He’d never heard the details of this story, just the general outlines.
“My father was harsh. He didn’t talk. When I met your mother, there were so many words, so many feelings. I thought, this is life. I can’t go back. My father never asked me to come back. He had five other sons and the farm was fine. But I knew I’d disappointed him. I felt it. It’s a terrible feeling. So I repeat, Tristan. You have not disappointed me. Maybe I’ve disappointed you because I didn’t say this earlier. We men, we can’t be afraid to speak.”
“Disappointed me? Of course you haven’t—I’ve never thought—” The idea that the mighty Viking could let anyone down, especially Tristan, blew his mind.
His father threw up a hand, eyes gleaming. “Don’t argue with the old man in the hospital bed. I need to sleep now. You go check on your mother.”
Practically reeling, Tristan stepped back from his bedside. That was more words than his father had spoken, all at one time, than he could remember. He probably should have recorded it; Toni would never believe him.
Instead, he went right to his go-to these days. He texted Lulu.
Twenty-Eight
Whenever a text from Tristan dinged on Lulu’s phone, her heart jumped. Sometimes his texts were light and flirty, and sometimes they were more serious.
Had a convo with my dad today. Pretty intense. He brought a few things to my attention and made me think. He says I beat myself up too much and I’m not letting myself be everything I should be—or something like that.
She’d thought a long time before replying. Maybe you beat yourself up because you’re a good person. But you don’t need to. Because you’re a good person.
He sent back an exploding head emoji. She rejoined with an emoji of someone meditating.
Been doing plenty of that here in the hospital. There’s a courtyard. He attached a photo of the courtyard that also showed part of one of his arms. It looked so good, that arm. White sleeves rolled up, light golden hairs, corded muscles under tanned skin. Her mouth watered and she missed him in a starkly physical way. Wanting to smell his scent, touch his solid body.
She sent back a similar photo of her own arm and the snowy backdrop of her front deck. Lots of time for reflection here too. When I’m not shoveling.
Reflecting on what?
What wasn’t she reflecting on? The last five years. Her mother. The escape from the cruise ship. Her future. She was thirty now. That was generally regarded to be an important milestone in life. But for her, it was even more than that. She was thirty and alone in the world.
Which sounded absurdly dramatic, honestly. Of course she wasn’t alone. She even had a cat now. Or rather, the cat seemed to regard her as relevant somehow to its life. His life, according to the vet. The cat allowed her to feed him and give him shelter occasionally, but most of his life took place in the woods where he wreaked who knew what havoc.
How I just became a 30yo cat lady, she answered Tristan.
Meow. That’s hot. He included some kitten ears with that text.
Come and get it, she wanted to say. Get your ass back to Lost Harbor before a change in the weather sends me on my way.
But she would never say that, because she, more than anyone, knew how important it was to be where he was, doing what he was doing.
They talked about some pretty serious stuff in their texts.
When I get back to LH, I’m going to try the brain support group again, he told her one night.
You tried before?
Sort of. I was afraid of people thinking I was weak or something. Seeing my father like this, it feels different now. I respect him even more, you know? He’s working so hard to get better.
Good for him. And you. (Thumbs up emojis and cheering emojis.)
Sometimes, when he had time at the hospital, they spoke on the phone, long, rambling conversations that covered everything from why Lulu loved dancing so much—it transported her into a world of joy—to why they both loved old-school Queen music. They shared childhood stories, laughed, flirted.
One snowy night in early December, he texted her, I want to take you to dinner. Will you go to dinner with me?
Curled in the armchair next to the woodstove, she laughed out loud. Long-distance virtual dinner?
Sort of. Tomorrow at the Lighthouse Brewery at 8. Ask for Alastair when you get there. Tell him I sent you. Gotta go. Tomorrow! Don’t forget.
Ooh, that sounded intriguing. A long-distance date. How exactly would that work? It wasn’t exactly the same as being with Tristan, kissing him, touching him. But she was touched that he was thinking of ways to stay connected despite nearly thirteen-thousand kilometers of distance.
The next night, she drove the Toyota truck she’d bought from Pedro Davila to the Lighthouse Brewery, which she’d never been to before. It was located in a homestead farmhouse near a lighthouse perched on a bluff overlooking the bay. Remote, romantic, buffeted by the wind, it suited her mood to a tee.
Inside, hurricane oil lamps gave the brewery a cozy atmosphere. In the summer, outdoor picnic tables and a large yurt provided extra space, but in the off-season, all the guests were served in the farmhouse itself.
But there were no other guests. She was the only one.
“Hullo?” she called into the inviting space.
A moment later, a tall man in a heather-gray sweater and an apron strolled out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.
“You’re Lulu?” he said with a kind smile. “Alastair Dougal.”
She recognized that accent with a thrill of familiarity. “Lovely to meet a fellow UK exile. You’re Scottish?”
“I am. I’m the chef here. I’ve been whipping up a feast for you, on orders from Tristan Del Rey. He also hinted that you might be interested in how I wound up in this little dot on the shoreline.”
“I’m so interested!”
“Then have yourself a seat and I’ll tell you the tale over a bit of home-brewed ginger ale. Tristan mentioned you prefer that to alcohol.”
Tristan’s thoughtfulness seemed to have no limits.
Alastair showed her to a table that held a vase of fresh daisies. She noticed a note tucked between two stems. Thanks for being the daisy next to the seaweed, it read. With a laugh, she sat down, and Alastair poured them both a glass of sparkling brew.
They had a long, heartfelt chat about his story, and how it felt to be so far from your native land, and how he’d come to realize that he belonged here, with his fiancée Ruthie Malone.
“It had been many years since I felt I had a home. Then along came Ruthie and there I was. Home.”