“Dad?” he asked softly.
Harry Booker hung his head. “I’ve got the cancer.”
Silence.
Cam opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He bent over, hands on his knees for a few seconds, then caught his breath and straightened.
“Lung cancer,” his father continued. “I already started radiation to shrink the fucker, and then we’ve got surgery. Our hope is they get it all and that I can survive with one lung.”
“Jesus, Dad.” Maybe Cam shouldn’t be surprised. Hell, how many of his friends had been touched by cancer in some way? But he was shocked. This was his dad. The big guy who never backed down. He was a giant in Cam’s eyes, and weakness wasn’t part of that picture.
“I’m not afraid of dying, son.” His dad’s eyes were misty, the faded blue shiny with a touch of glass. “I’m afraid of not finishing all the stuff I have left to do. I’m afraid I don’t have enough tomorrows.” He paused. “No, that’s wrong. I’m mad as hell about that, but like your mom says, being mad doesn’t make anything better. So I best get control of the anger or use it to fight, and I plan on fighting.” His voice trembled now. “I want to see all my kids settled and happy. I want to watch my grandkids play hockey and football. I want to see them dance and play piano.” Harry winked. “Maybe if I’m really lucky, I can get your mother out to Pottahawk Island once more and see if she’s willing to swim naked with me.”
“That is something I don’t need to know about, Dad.” Cam smiled, trying to lighten things, even though his brain whirled and his gut was so tight, he thought he was going to lose his breakfast.
“No,” Harry said slowly. “I suppose not.” He sighed heavily. “I told your brother last night, and your Mom is with your sister now. I don’t want your pity. What I want…” He gestured to the trees around him. “Is for this place to flourish. For my boys and my girl to be here.”
“We’ll get it done, Dad.” Cam stepped forward and grabbed up his dad into a bear hug. They didn’t say anything but clung to each other with a ferocity only a father and son could manage. Eventually, he let go, and his father stepped back. When he spoke, his voice was gruff.
“Now, I don’t want any long faces at dinner. Your mother has shed enough tears, and Lord knows I’ve never been strong enough when the waterworks start. I’ll see you and your girls later.” He turned back to the water. “I’m just going to sit here a bit.”
Cam called the dog, who’d run down to the water’s edge when he wasn’t looking. He climbed into the truck and, less than a minute later, pulled into his brother’s driveway. Nash and Honey didn’t work Sundays, and he spied his brother on the dock, the little guy on his shoulders as they stared out over the water.
Cam hopped from his truck and strode toward them. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, or if he wanted to say anything at all. He just knew he needed to be here, if only for a moment to calm the turmoil inside.
His boots thudded across the dock, their echo dull and flat. Nash turned around, Gabe’s chubby hands buried in his hair.
“You’ve talked to Dad,” his brother said.
Cam nodded. “Yeah.”
He stopped a few inches from his brother, and the two of them stared out across the water. The breeze had picked up, and the warmth from the sun seemed to diminish within seconds. Cam shuddered and shook his head.
“It’s not good,” he muttered.
“No.” Nash glanced his way. “But Dad’s a tough bastard, and it’s going to take a lot more than a tumor to bring him down.”
“We need to come up with plans for down the road.”
&nbs
p; “Yeah. We’ll start there. It will keep us all busy.”
Cam held his brother’s gaze a heartbeat longer and then slowly nodded. The quiet surrounded them, long fingers of silence that soothed the ache and tempered the dark thoughts.
For now, it was enough.
20
Tuesday was crazy busy at Bella & Hooch. The boutique was decorated for Halloween, which meant it looked as if Harry Potter had exploded everywhere. Poppy was a huge fan of the children’s books, and she’d even dressed the part, sailing into work wearing a Gryffindor outfit, along with the sorting hat. Her long auburn hair trailed down her back in a riot of waves, and her pert British accent only added to the charm. The accent was fake; the charm, however, wasn’t.
How else could Poppy have convinced Blue to dress up in a costume? She’d never been a fan of Halloween, and yet here she was, hair scraped up into a high ponytail, wearing purple and gold and more jewels than you could shake a stick at, handing out wishes from her basket because she was a genie.
“You know, normally I don’t trust a person who doesn’t like candy corn or orange, or black cats.” Poppy glanced over her round glasses and winked from behind a huge display of spiders caught in a net of decorations.
“Candy corn will wreck your teeth. Orange isn’t my color. And I love cats. I have a cat.”
“Your cat is gray.”