“Dad?” Carlie whispered, and he blinked his eyes open. It took him a second to focus before he smiled a little. “How are you?”
“Still kickin’,” he replied though he coughed a little and his tongue seemed thick.
“You gave us both a scare.”
He chuckled and coughed again. “Keeps you on your toes.”
“Sure does.” She grabbed his hand and held it tightly between her own. His grip was weak, but he was still the man who, singing in a deep baritone as he arrived home from work each evening, would scoop her up in his arms and swing her in the air. He’d smell of smoke and the outdoors and he would force her to sing along with him while her mother clucked her tongue and told them they were both mindless.
“Don’t suppose you brought me a beer?”
“Not this time.”
“Smokes?” he asked hopefully.
“The doctor would kill me, and I thought you gave those up years ago.”
“Smokeless ain’t the same,” he said. “But I’ll take chew if ya got it.”
“Like I always carry around a can of tobacco,” she said with a smile.
“You should’ve today,” he managed to get out.
“Don’t talk,” she said, still holding his hand. “You go back to sleep and we’ll stay with you awhile.”
“Sorry I’m such lousy company.”
Her throat clogged. “You’re good company, Dad. You always have been.”
He squeezed her fingers before closing his eyes again and Carlie fought the hot sting of tears. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered and though he didn’t open his eyes again, she felt him try to squeeze her hand a second time.
They waited until he’d drifted off, then Carlie decided it was time she spoke to the doctor. Her parents had led her to believe that her father had suffered a “mild stroke,” which was stronger than the smaller ones he’d experienced. The doctors hoped that after a little recovery, some intensive physical therapy, new medication and a change in diet, he’d be able to resume most of his usual activities. But seeing her father looking so weak, as if he’d just walked a thousand miles, she knew better. And it scared the living daylights out of her.
* * *
BEN SAT AT the computer, the one luxury he’d afforded himself, and worked with the rough drawings Nadine had given him. At first she’d wanted to rebuild the cabin as it was, but Hayden and Ben, agreeing for the first time in years, had suggested that she’d need something a little more modern, with two bathrooms instead of one and a couple of bedrooms rather than a single. She could still keep the loft, but she’d have an expanded kitchen and a fireplace that served as a room divider so that it could be seen from both the kitchen/nook area as well as the living room.
“Looks like I’m outnumbered,” she’d responded, with a slight trace of irritation in her voice.
“It’s just more practical,” Ben had explained.
“But I liked it the way it was.”
“So did I.” Hayden had wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and kissed her on the neck. “This will be essentially the same floor plan, but a little more modern.”
“You can even have a laundry room,” Ben had quipped.
“And a sewing room with enough space for your machine, a desk and—”
“Okay, okay, already! I’m convinced,” she’d said with a smile. “Just as long as I get to design the room layout.”
So here he was, struggling with her rough sketch, adjusting the size of rooms and placement of walls for duct work, support beams, plumbing, electrical wiring and taking into consideration the slope of the land, watershed and a million other things that would be required before the county would approve her plans.
By noon he was stiff from sitting, so he drove into town to the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge. The establishment hadn’t changed much in the years that he’d been away. The booths were still covered in a time-smoothed Naugahyde.
“Ben Powell!” Tracy Niday, dressed in a gingham dress and brown apron, slid a plastic menu onto the table in front of him. “I heard you were back in town.”
“You heard right.”