The Tycoon

22

VERONICA

Sunday morning I rolled over in his king-size bed to find him looking at me.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to point my morning breath away from him, but he came in for a kiss anyway. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.”

There was something going on behind his eyes. “What’s up?” I asked.

“It’s Sunday and I usually go visit Dale on Sundays.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s cool. I’ve got a lot of stuff I need—”

“I’d like you to come with.”

“To meet your father?”

“Dale. To meet Dale.”

There had been changes over the short time we’d been together. Changes I never saw coming. A softness and a willingness to be slightly out of control. But this…this seemed big.

“I’d love to,” I whispered and kissed him.

“I’m nervous,” he said across my lips, and my heart leaped and clutched and I felt something so powerful and tender I could have cried.

“Me, too,” I told him. “Me, too.”

Two hours later we were in the car. The windows were down and the wind was sweet but Clayton seemed impervious to all of it.

I put my hand on his shoulder, petting him a little, hoping it might get him to relax. “It’s gonna be okay,” I said.

“I know.” He gave me a quick smile. “You just need to remember that he doesn’t know who I am. And don’t try to remind him or force the issue. He gets really upset.”

“I won’t.”

“He might say things about you and me. About how I feel about you—”

“Clayton,” I said. “I get it. I’ll take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

He looked at me and then back at the road.

“That’s for the best,” he said.

There was a different nurse on duty when we drove up, and at the sound of the car, he stepped out onto the porch, his hand up in a wave. We got out of the car and Clayton made introductions. The nurse’s name was Steve and he’d just helped Dale with a shower and a shave.

“The old guy is feeling pretty spry today,” Steve said with real affection, and I was so happy that Dale’s caregivers seemed to really like him. “You want to come in?”

“Sure,” Clayton said, and he led me into the small cabin. There was a little TV room to one side, and on the other side was a kitchen with a yellow Formica-and-chrome table. Dale was sitting at the head of it, a coffee mug and a chess set in front of him.

“Clayton!” Dale said. The word was garbled, but the genuine joy was clear as a bell. “You’ve come to play?”

“No,” Clayton said and pulled me forward. “I’ve come to introduce you to Veronica.”

Dale’s smile went wider, and liquid pooled and fell from the corner of his mouth.

“Hold on there, man,” Steve said and cleaned him up a little. “You’re leaking.”

“Sit,” Dale said and held out his hand, which was curled into a shaking fist at the end of his arm. “You’re as pretty as Clayton said you were.”

I shot Clayton a knowing little grin. This was the stuff he’d been talking about in the car. The things Dale might say. Clayton was blushing.

“Thank you,” I said as I sat, and Clayton leaned against the wall beside me.

“Do you play chess?” Dale asked and I shook my head. “Neither does he.” Dale pointed toward Clayton.

“Are you insulting my chess game?” Clayton asked.

“If the shoe…fits,” Dale said, and when I looked up at Clayton I expected to see him smiling, but instead an expression of absolute sorrow covered his face. Complete grief.

I turned back to Dale and put my hand over his fist. “We’re here to tell you that Clayton and I are getting married.”

Dale sat back. “Well…” He looked from me to Clayton and back again. “How about that.” He put his fist over my hand and flipped my palm up so it was a handshake of sorts. His eyes were wet, and I leaned forward with a tissue from the box on the table and cleaned him up a little. “How about that!” he said again and then again. “I have something for you!” He began the process of getting up.

“What is it?” Clayton asked. “I can grab it.”

“No. You can’t,” Dale said, stubbornly trying to stand up and grab his walker. Clayton helped him get his body organized and we all watched as Dale shuffled down the hallway to a small bedroom in the back.

“He does seem better,” Clayton said to Steve, who had occupied himself in the connected kitchen to give us privacy.

“The cannabis oil helps a lot with the shaking,” Steve said. “And the small increased dose of Paxil, I think, has really helped, too. He’s more engaged for longer stretches. There’s less confusion at night.”

Clayton nodded and Steve went back to work.

“You grew up here?” I asked Clayton.