“I understand, Mom, but right now it can’t be helped. So we do what we have to do to get past this, right?” He could have been talking to himself. “Isn’t that what you always told us?”
Grace sighed deeply. “I’m sorry to take it out on you. I’m just so frustrated. I’ve never had a broken bone, never been dependent on anyone to do a damned thing for me, and yet, here I sit. Even need someone to get my tea for me.”
“I know it’s tough on you. I do understand.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “But we’re all here to help you, and none of us mind fetching your tea.”
“Am I going to be stuck up here on the second floor until this cast is off?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“You want to go downstairs, outside, to Cuppachino for coffee in the morning, you let me know. I’ll make sure you get to wherever you want to be, Mom.”
“You’re a good boy, Ford.” She reached out to take his hand. “There are no words to tell you how happy I am that you are here right now.”
“I’m happy to be here,” he said, surprising himself when he realized how much he meant it.
“Here’s your tea, Mom.” Lucy came into the room carrying a tray with a carafe, a cup, and a plate piled high with scones and croissants. “Franca baked these this morning. She thought you might want a snack.”
Lucy set the tray on a small side table on the left side of the wheelchair, within reach of her mother’s good hand.
“Oh, for the love of Pete,” Grace muttered. “Who does she think is going to eat all of that?”
“I’m sure she was thinking you’d be sharing with your son. Your favorite son.” Ford reached for a scone. “Oh, boy. Chocolate.”
“You’re just like you were when you were a kid.” Grace smiled for the first time that morning.
Ford pulled over a side chair and straddled it.
“Careful,” Grace warned. “That chair’s an antique. Queen Anne. Been in—”
“—the family for years. Same as it was when I was a kid.” He grinned at her, took a bite of the scone, and she laughed.
“I may have to marry Franca,” he said before taking another bite. “We should keep her in the family.”
“Every family should have a great pastry chef,” Lucy agreed. “However, Franca’s already married.”
“A technicality.” He finished the scone and reached for one of the napkins on the tray.
“You got crumbs on the floor,” Lucy pointed out.
“We have housekeeping service here, right?” he asked, only half kidding.
Under his mother’s glare, he got up and picked up the crumbs and dumped them into a nearby trash can.
“Mom, can I get you anything else?” Lucy asked.
“No, dear. Now go on to your meeting or you’ll be late. Not the best first impression for a potential client.”
Lucy started for the door. “If you’re sure …”
“Luce, I’m here. I can handle it,” Ford reminded her. After his sister closed the door behind her, he asked Grace, “Want to read my latest article for the Gazette?”
“You have next week’s article finished already?” Grace set her cup down on the wheelchair’s tray, the crumbs already forgotten.
“I do. Complete with photos.”
“Yes, of course I want to see it.”
“It’s in my room.” He got up and headed for the door. “Back in a minute.”
It actually took him seven, but he’d have thought it was an hour judging by his mother’s impatience.
“What took you so long?” She held out her left hand and he gave her the pages he’d printed out.
He started to say something, but she shushed him. She’d already started to read.
When she finished, she looked up over the frame of her glasses.
“This is a better first draft than the last one.”
“First draft?” Ford frowned. “That’s, like, the twentieth draft.”
“Then permit me to help you out with number twenty-one.”
He might have been more annoyed than he was if not for the fact he could tell, for at least that little slice of time, his mother seemed to forget she was in a wheelchair and had no use of her right hand.
“I can’t write a thing with my left hand, so you’re going to have to make the revisions as I read them to you. Now scoot that chair closer so you can see.” She swung the wheelchair tray to the left so he could lean on it to write.
For the next hour, Grace revised and Ford wrote. At first, it was an exercise to be tolerated, but before long, he found himself asking, “Why write it that way?” and “Why’d you take out that part?” and “Why’d you change that word?” and “Why’d you move this photo to this spot?”
“Why, why, why,” Grace said at one point. “You didn’t ask this many ‘whys’ as a three-year-old.”
But he could tell she was pleased by his interest, so he sat with her until they’d completed the piece.
“Well, that’s quite a repair job, Mom.”
“I hope you’re not insulted, dear.”
“Not really. I guess this is the sort of stuff I should know if I’m going to be doing this for another week or so.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how much longer she thought she might be laid up, but he knew better than to ask. She’d assume—correctly—that he was wanting out of the assignment.
Then again, with his reporting duties no longer necessary, he’d lose his excuse to spend time with Carly.
He wasn’t quite ready to examine that thought too closely.
“I’ll call Lucy back upstairs so she can sit with you while I go down to the office and type this up.” Ford stood and returned the chair to its place next to the table under the window.
“No need, dear. I think I’ll take a catnap.” She closed her eyes and rested her head.
“I don’t think you should sleep in the chair,” he told her. “What if you fall out? I think you should sleep on your own bed.”
“And I think you should mind your own business,” she replied, but he could tell by the way the corners of her mouth turned up slightly that she wasn’t offended. “I’ll be fine. Don’t bother Lucy. She has work to do. And so,” she added without opening her eyes, “do you.”
He stood in the doorway. “Do you want me to—”
“The only thing I want you to do is rewrite that article.”
“Right.”
Ford closed the door behind him softly and went one flight down to his mother’s office. He turned on the laptop, pulled up the file, and began to make the changes Grace had suggested.
Suggested, he mused. Probably not the right word for the way his mother had sliced and diced through his article.
By the time he finished and read the article over one last time, he had to admit that it was, in fact, better than it had been originally. He made a mental note of the changes Grace had made and her reasons for doing so, so he’d remember next time. It was late afternoon by the time he finished, and he debated whether to call Carly and drop off a copy right then, when he knew she’d be at the carriage house, or to wait for a few hours so he could stop by the place she rented on Hudson Street.
Hudson Street, definitely.
That would give him time to spend an hour or so on the Bay, something he hadn’t done in several days, and he was itching for not only the solitude but the exercise. He turned off the laptop, left the article on the desk, and headed out to the boathouse.
Carly arrived home to find boxes stacked on her side porch from the door clear down to the driveway. It took her twenty minutes to get it all inside, then another thirty to unpack everything, and yet another to wash and dry the dishes, flatware, pots, pans, and kitchen utensils. She washed the inside of the cupboards and the utility drawers, wishing the air-conditioning repairs had been completed, but once she’d found places for everything, she felt her life taking a turn toward normalcy. Normal, to Carly, who’d lived alone for so long, wasn’t bunking in someone else’s guest room indefinitely, even if that someone was your BFF.