Chapter Thirteen
DAVIS
Staring at the plant sprawled atop my kitchen counter like an uninvited houseguest, I scrubbed a hand down my face and offered up a prayer for strength and patience. I had known what would be waiting for me on my front porch even before I pulled into my driveway. The same way I had known the exact words Vivian had inscribed onto the bereavement card staked into the dark potted soil.
Like all the other bleeding heart plants that had taken over my yard, this one, with its fernlike branches and namesake blooms, would be just one more reminder of the wife I’d lost and the family I’d gained. For better or for worse.
Remarkably, I’d been so consumed by a certain ostentatious woman and her love of Choco Cherry Deluxe ice cream that I’d allowed myself to forget about the scheduled phone call. But no surprise, Vivian had not forgotten.
On the tail end of a cleansing breath, I did what needed to be done and pressed the phone to my ear. The line rang only once.
“Hello, Davis,” a syrupy voice crooned through the receiver. “I trust you received our gift?”
“Hi, Vivian. Yes, I did. Thank you. Please give my regards to Charles as well.”
“I’ll do that.” A soft tinkling sound I couldn’t quite place filled the gap of silence. “I told Mr. Hewitt down at the nursery to select the most vibrant shade he could order in time. I didn’t get a chance to see it in person as the charity has kept me so busy lately, but I hope it’s a nice one.”
I eyed the shrub again. It looked no different than the others she’d sent me in years past. “It’s quite nice, yes.” Because what else could I possibly say that I hadn’t said a dozen times before? I wasn’t a green thumb. My mother’s obsession with fertilizing, pruning, and watering was the only reason anything lived in my yard.
“Good.”
The faint, stairstep melody sounded again in the background, and this time, my stomach clenched as Vivian’s exact location formed in my mind. A wind chime. The one I’d purchased to hang outside Stephanie’s hospice room at the Lockwood Estate.
“How are you doing today, Vivian?”
“The charity is doing quite well. There’s been a ton of new applications to filter through this year, and—”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I asked about you. How are you doing today, Viv?” The woman might have a personality that drove me half-insane most of the time, but Vivian Lockwood had lost a daughter in the very same moment that I had lost a wife.
Hers was a pain I was acquainted with only from afar.
“I’m . . .” A rare falter in her polished delivery pinched at my empathy. “I’m doing what I know to do.” The truest of statements. A perfectionist from dawn until dusk, Vivian’s tireless approach to life left little room for rest or reflection. Yet I was hardly one to judge. One quiet day a year certainly didn’t qualify me as an expert on the subject.
Still, I attempted the impossible. “I know you are. And everything you’ve accomplished through Stephanie’s charity is nothing short of admirable. But you know what she’d ask if she were still with us.” The same question she asked every single day of those last two years on the transplant list.
Vivian’s reply was a shaky inhale.
So I spoke the memorialized words instead. “She’d ask, ‘What memory did you make today?’”
Silence.
I cleared the tightness from my throat. “I thought about that question as I visited the library and fixed some broken shelving. I thought about it when I made barnyard noises during a reading for a group of children. And I thought about it when I ate ice cream on a park bench. I often forget to pull out of work mode and dad mode . . .” And angry mode. “But today I made some life memories. For Stephanie.” I touched the drooping bloom of the plant. A hanging heart.
“Well.” She sighed. “It certainly sounds like you had a productive day.” The cool edge to her tone was back.
“Not productive. Memorable. Which is what she’d want for you, too.”
“She’d also want me to spend the summer with my only grandson. That logic works both ways, Davis.”
Though I exhaled, tension filled me at the sudden change in her tone. “Let’s not have that discussion today, okay?”
“And when would you prefer to have it?” Her question was crisp and clipped. Whatever softness had slipped through the cracks of her veiled pretense had now vanished. “You’ve put me off for weeks now. What am I supposed to think?”
“This isn’t a power play. I’m not keeping him from you. I’m simply making the decision that’s best for Brandon right now. He needs to stay home this summer.”
“That’s nonsense. How could a visit with his grandparents not be what’s best for him?”
I gripped the back of my dining room chair, my knuckles turning white as I heard the distinct sound of high heels clacking against hardwood. It wasn’t hard to guess exactly where she was going—who she was going to.
“Davis? Is that you?”
Charles Lockwood, the man who once clapped me on the back and handed me five freshly printed one-hundred-dollar bills to take his daughter out to dinner and a movie.
“Good afternoon, Charles.”
I could almost see him, leaning back in his leather chair, looking out at his eighteen-hole golf course in Napa Valley, a decanter of Scotch on his desk, and a half-filled tumbler in his hand. “Listen, whatever Vivian is concerned about, I’m sure we can find a compromise.”
“I’m afraid there’s no compromise to be made. Brandon spent spring break with you and a large portion of last winter break at your condo in Vail. I realize this isn’t what you both want, but Brandon’s not able to visit you in California this summer. I’m sorry for whatever frustration or disappointment this decision may cause you, but for his sake, I’d like you to let this visit go.”
I could hear the huffy undertones of Viv’s voice in the background, her outrage at my disagreeable manner. Rarely—if ever—did she hear the word no.
“Davis,” Charles continued, “I’m sure you can sympathize with my situation here.” Situation meaning: his wife. “We’ve organized several events for Brandon to attend with us this summer, and Vivian has a . . .” Another murmuring in the background. “A private art teacher who has agreed to tutor him. The expense will be ours, of course.” A slight chuckle. “You and I both know that Brandon never leaves our home unhappy.”
And there it was, spelled out.
The wealth. The privileges. The entitlement.
Which was exactly why we no longer lived next door to them.
But I didn’t have to be psychic to know that if I let him go to California this summer, his bad attitude would escalate when he returned. Just like it had after spring break. No. Brandon didn’t need private art showings and tutors this summer. He needed to deal with his anger before I allowed their influence over him again. Whatever seeds of discontentment they’d planted in him last March were being harvested now.
“My decision to keep Brandon home this summer is mine to make, Charles. Not yours or Vivian’s. I’m his father.”
“And we are his maternal grandparents. Now, I know you don’t want this to turn ugly, Davis. Three weeks out of the summer is a small request. Let’s be done with the back-and-forth of all this. Why don’t I have my secretary reach out to you first thing Monday morning, and you two can work out the details and dates, huh?”
“No.” The word pulsed through my teeth. “There are no dates to work out—”
“I’m sorry, but I need to catch this other call. We’ll be in touch soon.”
The line went dead.
I slammed the phone onto the granite and fought back the urge to do the same to Vivian’s signature plant. No matter what they sent me, or how many voice mails they left, I wasn’t going to give in to them. Those days were over. Brandon wasn’t a pawn to be tossed around.
He was my son.