Fifteen
Gabe rapped on the open door to his grandfather’s cozy apartment at Rivendell, Knights Bridge’s only assisted-living facility. It was located down a quiet road on a ridge with glimpses of the reservoir in the distance. “Hey, Gramps, sorry I missed your hundred-and-twentieth birthday.”
The old man grinned, rising from his lounger. “Good thing you didn’t go into comedy. You never were funny.”
They embraced, and Gabe could feel how thin and bony his grandfather had become since his last visit. One of Rivendell’s few male residents, John Gabriel Flanagan had been born and raised in Knights Bridge. He’d lived away from home once, when he joined the army at the tail end of World War II and served in Europe for two years. When he returned, he’d married his high school sweetheart, who’d waited for him while working at the cafeteria at the elementary school. He’d gotten a job at a nearby factory, she’d quit her job and they’d raised four children together. Three girls and a boy. Two of Gabe’s aunts still lived in the area but not in Knights Bridge itself. One had moved to Tennessee after high school and had never looked back, but she visited at least once a year. All were married with grown children and grandchildren.
Mickey Flanagan, Gabe’s father, the youngest, liked to call himself the no-account Flanagan. He was the one who could never quite get his act together—the dream-chaser who was still, in his late fifties, ever hopeful of finding his proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He’d graduated from high school at the top of his class and was accepted at every college he’d applied to, settling on UMass-Amherst because it was the most affordable. He hadn’t lasted. He’d dropped out his sophomore year and hit the road, the start of a long history of unfulfilled dreams, restless optimism and disappointments, at least by his standards. To everyone else, Mickey Flanagan was a great guy, the life of the party.
He’d finally returned to Knights Bridge after a few years “seeing the country” and married a nursing student, another local, a woman who shared his optimism and believed in his dreams and had many of her own. They’d settled into life in their small town, raising their sons, making a living, having fun. His father in particular had been ever hopeful a better life—a different life—lay just ahead, if only he kept believing it would happen, never mind taking consistent action, seeing things through and having any kind of realistic plan.
Gabe was in college when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. At her funeral, he’d seen how much she’d meant to his father, despite his chronic dissatisfaction with his life—at least what had looked to Gabe like dissatisfaction. Maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe it had just been his father’s optimistic, restless nature. He never gave up.
His grandfather snapped his fingers in front of Gabe’s face. “Lost in thought? Tune in. I’ve got cookies.” He pointed at a tin of Danish butter cookies. “I keep a stash handy.”
“Sorry, Gramps. Mind wandered. I’ll skip cookies. I can’t stay long, but are you up for a walk? It’s hot—”
“Good. I’m always cold these days. Let me grab my cane. I don’t need you to hold my hand. I can still get around on my own.”
“Okay, good to know.”
They walked down the hall to the sunroom and went out that way through sliding glass doors to a trim lawn and garden bursting with summer flowers. It was hot, but they edged onto a shaded, paved walkway, suitable for canes, walkers and wheelchairs. Gabe noticed his grandfather moved well, if more slowly than just a year ago. “How was California?” he asked.
“Sunny,” Gabe said with a grin.
“You moving out there?”
“I toyed with the idea of relocating there.”
They passed through pine-scented shade. “You could move me out with you. Sun shines all the time. I don’t mind assisted living, but I knew every old lady in this place when we were kids. One more reminds me I wet my pants in first grade and I’m packing up and living in my car.”
Gabe grinned at the old man. “Mark says you have a crush on Daisy Farrell.”
“Wouldn’t do me any good if I did. Daisy was and always will be Tom Farrell’s gal.”
Gabe remembered Tom Farrell, a longtime Knights Bridge fire chief who’d died a couple of years ago. “At least you have friends here.”
“A few old cranks, too, but not many. I’m not as hard on people as I was as a younger man. Getting old isn’t for the faint-hearted, that’s for sure. Thought I’d be in an urn by now.”
Gabe wasn’t surprised by his grandfather’s blunt manner, but he hadn’t had a dose of it in a while. “Instead you’re here talking to me. Imagine that.”
“Yeah. My hotshot grandson.” He slowed his pace, then paused by a patch of daisies. “You’re going to be an uncle. That change things for you?”
“It’s a factor.”
His grandfather peered at him. “A factor? It’s not like you’re buying a used car and its mileage is a ‘factor.’”
“Well, it would be,” Gabe said lightly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Cut me some slack.”
“Ha. You stayed with Felicity MacGregor.” He waved a hand. “Not asking.”
“I sat out by the fire in your old fireplace. Alone.”
His grandfather raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
Gabe grinned. “Mostly alone, but it’s not what you think.” Time to change the subject. “I should stop and see Dad on the way out of town.”
“He’s on his way here. He got wind of a Jane Austen tea party this afternoon and wants to talk me into dressing up as a Regency guy. He doesn’t fit into any of the tights or I swear he’d do it. Say what you will about your father, he’s game for anything.”
“Do you fit into the tights?” Gabe asked, amused.
“It doesn’t matter. I’d never get them off and I’m not asking one of the aides to help me.”
“The sight of you in tights would get all the old ladies excited.”
“The sight of you in tights would.”
Gabe let that comment slide past him. They resumed their walk, the path looping past empty birdfeeders, ready to be filled for winter, back toward the sunroom.
“Your father had a rough time after your mother died,” his grandfather said, his gait steady as he walked next to Gabe. “He’s got his act together these days. Well.” He gave a slight, knowing grin. “As much as he ever will, Mickey being Mickey. He’s got a new woman in his life, but he still misses your mother. They didn’t always bring out the wisest in each other, but they were a pair.”
“That they were,” Gabe said with a rush of affection.
When they returned to his grandfather’s apartment, Mickey Flanagan was just arriving.
“Hey, Pops, I thought I’d find you napping in the sunroom, and you’re out plotting to take over the world with Gabe.” He nodded to his younger son. “Hey, there.”
“I was going to stop by after visiting Gramps.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His father grinned, deep lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair had turned gray but he was as rail thin as ever—no change there. “You never could lie worth a damn. That’s a good thing, by the way.”
Truth had rarely been a casualty in the Flanagan family, but frankness often had been, if only to avoid hurting someone’s feelings. Gabe had overcompensated, perhaps, by being blunt—often more so than he needed to be. Hence, his fight with Felicity that wintry February morning. He’d learned to be more diplomatic since then. Oddly enough, one of his tactics to avoid saying too much was to say nothing at all, with romantic partners in particular. He wouldn’t lie so much as avoid the truth when it was uncomfortable. He’d never had the urge to avoid and dissemble with Felicity, but look what’d happened when he’d blurted what had been on his mind? No brownies and three years of the cold shoulder.
Not that he’d done anything about it.
“Thanks, Dad,” Gabe said. “You’re looking good. Getting close to retiring, aren’t you?”
“I’ll never retire. I love working on cars and will as long as I can. I like working at home. I’ve fixed up the shed out back since you were there last. I’m restoring a couple of classic motorcycles.”
“That’s great,” Gabe said.
His grandfather hung his cane on a hook by his favorite chair and sat down with a sigh. “Wear a helmet, Mickey. Your luck, you’ll ram one of those motorcycles into a stone wall.”
“I didn’t say I’d be riding them.”
“You will be. It’s how you’re wired.”
Gabe didn’t come between them. His father and grandfather had a relationship built on unconditional love but tested by their different takes on life. Both were devoted to family and friends, but for Johnny Flanagan, stability, duty and predictability mattered more than ambition, risk and crazy dreams. “Best to want what you have,” he’d tell Gabe. For Mickey Flanagan, the grass was always greener doing what he wasn’t doing at the moment. He’d settled down some in recent years, but it hadn’t happened overnight.
They visited for a few minutes, but Gabe could see his grandfather was tired. His father leaned over and kissed the old man on the cheek. “I’ll walk Gabe out. You take care, Pop, okay? I’ll see you next week.”
Gabe gave his grandfather a hug, realizing, as he had for the past few years, this visit could be their last. He hoped it wouldn’t be. California suddenly seemed so damn far away when he’d tried telling himself it was just a plane ride, but Boston might as well have been the moon for his father and grandfather.
“You take care,” Gabe said, hearing the catch in his voice.
“Call me anytime, Gabe. Grace Webster knows how to do video calls. Says it’s easy. Skype or FaceTime or some damn thing.”
“We’ll set one up,” Gabe promised.
His grandfather yawned. “I’ll take a short nap. I’ve got to be ready for that tea.”
“Not giving in on the tights?” Mickey asked, grinning.
“I don’t want to give any of the girls a heart attack.”
On that note, Gabe left with his father, neither speaking until they were outside. His father had parked his motorcycle next to Gabe’s car. “Nice,” his father said. He nodded back toward the building. “I visit at least once a week. It was his choice to move in here. He didn’t want to come live with me.”
“It was an option?”
“Yeah. I have a spare bedroom. You’re welcome to it next visit. I’m on my own at the moment. I have a lady friend but we’re not...you know. I don’t live in a fancy town or a fancy neighborhood, but it suits me.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Gabe said, meaning it.
His father squinted at him in the hot sun. “I hear you stayed at the house you and Mark built out on the river. Does it bug you Felicity MacGregor owns it now?”
“It doesn’t bug me, but I’d have bought it.”
“Might have mentioned that to your brother.”
Gabe shrugged, smiling. “Might have.”
“It’s just as well.” His father held up a hand. “I know you, Gabe. I know how you think. I know you better than you give me credit for.”
“Know what I’m thinking now?”
His father sighed. “Do I want to know?”
“Sure. I’m thinking I’d like to give that old motorcycle of yours a spin when you get it restored.”
“It’s a beauty.” His expression turned serious. “You’ll stay in touch, won’t you?”
“Sure, Dad. Always.”
“You’re doing okay?”
Gabe nodded. “Just fine. No worries.”
“You’re doing fine financially. What about the rest of your life?”
“We’ll see,” Gabe said, leaving it there.
His father hesitated. “All right, I won’t go there. It’s your life.” He looked down at his feet—he had on old sport sandals—and then raised his eyes again to Gabe. “The woman I’m seeing is a nice gal, just retired early from the bank. Worked for Felicity’s father.”
“That’s good, Dad. Do I know her?”
“Probably not.” He cleared his throat, started for his motorcycle. “I should get moving. Have a good trip home.”
“Come see me sometime.”
“I just might. Felicity told me I can stop by her place anytime. She appreciates that it was a special place for us. She always was a nice, pretty girl. Mark says you two went out to the swimming hole. Your mother used to worry you boys would split your heads open or drown. I didn’t. I figured the worst that could happen was a few stitches or a broken wrist or toe or something. Nothing life-threatening. Kids need to take a few risks.”
“The attentive dad,” Gabe said with a grin.
“Mark already told me he’s doing things different with his kids than I did with mine. Hell, I hope so, although you two came out all right, no thanks to me. Your mother...” He cleared his throat. “She did her best.”
“She was the best, Dad,” Gabe said. He winked at his father. “You provided Mark and me a certain level of motivation.”
His father laughed. “You could say that. See you, son. Safe travels.”
He put on his helmet and climbed onto his old motorcycle. In a moment, he eased out of his parking space and cruised onto the main road. Gabe sighed. Some saw Mickey Flanagan’s unrealized potential. At that moment, Gabe saw a man in his late fifties who was enjoying his life and work. He couldn’t find it in him to judge his father and the demons he’d fought. A by-product of time, his own success and what it meant—and didn’t mean—or just being back in his hometown?
The Felicity MacGregor effect, maybe.
He’d have thought of her, anyway, but he recognized her Land Rover turning into the parking lot. She came to a stop in the spot his father had just vacated and hopped out, apparently unaware of his presence. She lifted the hem of what appeared to be a pretty, low-cut dress out of a Jane Austen novel. She had her hair pinned up, with corkscrew curls bouncing at her temples.
“Oh, Gabe,” she said, stopping abruptly. “I didn’t see you. I just passed your father. That was him on the motorcycle, wasn’t it?”
“In all his glory. We were visiting my grandfather.”
“I’m here to set up for the afternoon tea.”
Gabe smiled. “That explains the dress.”
“Mmm. Yes.” Spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “It’s not too revealing, is it? It’s about a half size too small, I think.”
“It’s fine. Perfect.”
She tugged at the bodice, hiking it up to cover more of the swell of her breasts. “I have a shawl I can put on when I’m in air-conditioning. Grace Webster hasn’t talked your grandfather into wearing one of the gentlemen’s Regency outfits, has she?”
“Not a chance.”
“You wouldn’t be interested—”
“No.”
She grinned. “Not even the top hat?”
“Is there anything I can do to help you set up?”
She shook her head. “I did most of the work upstream since I had the boot camp yesterday, too. None of the men signed up for the tea, by the way.”
“Imagine that,” Gabe said. “I bet a few will change their minds. Are all the women wearing Regency dresses?”
“I doubt it, but I brought dresses for anyone who wants to wear one. They’re fun. I did my hair the best I could, but I’ve never been good with a curling iron and gels and wax and whatnot.”
“You own a curling iron?”
“Present from my mother. She told me not to read any hints into it.” Felicity motioned to her Rover. “I wouldn’t mind a hand with some of the boxes if you have a minute.”
Gabe carried the largest of the boxes to the sunroom where the tea was being held. Felicity had collected a mix of china teapots, cups and saucers and plates from various people she knew as well as her own collection of dishes featuring Peter Cottontail and other Beatrix Potter critters. “My grandmother gave them to me,” she told Gabe. “She loved Beatrix Potter and got a kick out of sharing our name with Farmer McGregor. Not quite the same spelling and no one in my family’s had a farm in the last hundred years.”
“Details,” Gabe said, smiling. “It’ll be a great party.”
She returned his smile, her left-side corkscrew curls already unwinding.
Grace Webster—Dylan McCaffrey’s grandmother—rose from a rocking chair that faced the lawn and garden where Gabe had walked with his grandfather. In her nineties, Grace was frail but mentally sharp. She set a small pair of binoculars on a side table and started on about various birds she’d just spotted, but she quickly focused on the upcoming tea. As a former English teacher, she had more than a passing familiarity with Jane Austen.
Gabe decided to leave Felicity to her tea, but he didn’t get out of the room before Grace tried to get him into tights. “I’m sure they’d fit you,” she said.
He could just imagine. “Time for me to make my exit.”
Grace’s nonagenarian eyes twinkled. “What? It could be fun. We’re old. We’re not dead.”
“You’d make a good Mr. Darcy,” Felicity added.
“Rich, arrogant, damn good-looking. I could do that. Not doing the tights.” In fact, he wasn’t doing any of it. “Have fun at your tea. Goodbye again, Felicity.”
She curtsied. “Farewell, Mr. Flanagan.”
On his way out, he passed Maggie Sloan, who’d arrived with food. He offered her a hand, but she assured him she had everything under control. “You could look less relieved, Gabe,” she said with a laugh.
“They need a Mr. Darcy.”
“I’ve a surprise for that. Seize the moment, Gabe. Run.”
“I don’t need to be told twice. Good seeing you.”
And he was out of there.