Carried Away

Frankly, it’s less a question and more an accusation. I gave him the address and he drove straight here without needing direction or GPS.

“Google map.”

The sly passing glance he gives me earns him an involuntary eye-roll.

Whatever, Scrooge.

Dad’s outside gathering wood for the fireplaces when we pull up to the main house, a big twenty-room, white Victorian with glossy navy-blue shutters. It serves as reception and the family residence, hosts weddings and banquets. A smile lights up his face when he sees the SUV approach.

We park out front and Turner gets out of the Expedition “Gene,” he says, tipping his head at my father.

“Jake,” Dad says, not missing a beat.

Gene? Jake? Wtf?

Dad’s attention shifts to me. “Carebear! How’s the head?”

Reaching up, I brush my fingers over the unicorn next to my temple. Yeah, it’s still there. “I’ll live. Hi, daddy.”

Slipping out of the Expedition, I walk into my father’s open arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Turner watching us. Our eyes meet and he ducks his head. Opening the back door, he takes my suitcases out.

“How are you?” I ask, glancing up at my father.

“Good, now that you’re home.”

Turner brushes past us and deposits my stuff on the porch, and I level my so-called good Samaritan with an accusing squint. “Jake?”

And get another glare-lite for this. It’s like his calling card at this point; he’s never without it.

“You two know each other?” I ask my father, my attention bouncing back and forth between him and the man I’m developing unchristian-like feelings for.

“Carrie! You had us worried sick,” my grandmother calls out.

She appears at the top of the stairs, looking exactly as she did the last time I saw her two years ago, when they came to visit. She’s wearing her standard issue red turtleneck with a fair isle sweater over it, jeans, and her hair is the same shellacked white helmet. To complete the outfit, a skinny cigarette is tucked between two fingers in one hand and Elvis, her Main Coon, is tucked under the opposite arm. Seeing me, he hisses. Freaking hell spawn.

“Sorry, Nan.”

“Hi Martha,” I hear Scrooge call out.

“Hi Jake,” my grandmother chirps back. “Did you take care of my baby girl?”

“Promised I would,” he tells her.

I feel like the dumb girl in this story. Apparently everyone is in the loop but me. And if it’s one thing that ticks me off, it’s being out of the loop. “What is going on here?”

“Jake lives here, sweetie,” Dad proudly announces, tucking me closer. Then his attention pivots back to Jake. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Thought it be a nice surprise.”

Yeah, I bet he did. The glare I give him should’ve cooked his flesh to medium-well. Doesn’t seem to make much difference, however. Completely unbothered, he turns on his heels and heads for the cottages without another word while I watch him go.

“He lives here?” I repeat, my voice loaded with genuine disappointment.

“Moved in last summer.”

I suspect there’s more to this story, but I need a shower and wifi, stat.

“Can I stay in the Austen?”

All the cottages are named after Zelda’s favorite authors. Why my father never changed them is beyond me. If my husband walked out on me, I’d do my best to erase him from my life.

“Yep. It’s the only cottage available,” Dad says, smiling down at me.

There are more creases around his eyes, more grey peppers his dark brown hair, and yet he’s still as handsome as ever.

My father could easily pass for a movie star. Better looking than Cary Grant, someone wrote in his yearbook. Although Dad is definitely more Jimmy Stewart than Cary Grant. He’s a simple guy, my dad. There’s nothing flashy about him. He doesn’t need much to be happy and never aspired to anything more. Which is weird because Zelda was never happy with anything. What draws people in is his utter sincerity, his humility, his kindness. He’s completely comfortable with who he is. Probably why Zelda had to have him. She feeds on other people’s kindness.

“Which one is he staying in?” I ask as I watch Turner’s back disappear around the corner. “Wait, let me guess––the Poe?”

“The Hemingway.”

Dammit. That’s the one next to mine.

“What are your plans, now that you’re back?”

The dreaded parental third-degree. I knew it was coming. Nan made dinner, her signature meatloaf, and I’m shoveling down the third slice when it starts. I look across the kitchen table with my fork suspended in mid-air. My father’s expression is carefully neutral…for now.

Behind him, hanging on the wall, a new painting keeps stealing my attention. It’s a winter landscape, austere and minimalistic but stunning in its simplicity. My eyes keep wanting to rest there.

“Nice painting.”

“You should tell Jake. It’s one of his,” Dad casually informs me.

The surprise it written on my face. Wow, I’m batting a big fat goose egg with that guy. He’s not a bad painter, he’s an amazing one. “Eh, hard pass.”