one, since he didn’t believe his father had ever experienced that emotion—and these feelings could be more pronounced in an Alzheimer’s patient.
“Walt Evans from across the street will stop by after lunch. He said he was hoping to have a cup of tea and a game of cribbage.”
“I hope he doesn’t mind me beating the pants off him.”
“I’m sure he won’t.” Their lifelong neighbor and the father of one of Paul’s oldest and best friends in the world knew as well as anyone that Geoff had always been a sore loser. Now if he lost, he was likely to toss the board across the room, pegs and all, and fling the deck of cards in its wake. Luckily for all concerned, Walt had been one of the few people who had managed to forge a genuine friendship with Geoff over the years. No surprise there. Jack’s father was always as cool as a cucumber, and Paul’s father was as approachable as a porcupine.
For now, Paul was comfortable leaving his father on his own in the house, knowing he didn’t yet have a tendency to wander. The disease would progress, though, and that day would come. Paul would deal with it when it did, but for now he could go about his day, confident that his father would still be here when he returned.
At first glance, Geoff was the same man he had always been—tall in stature, almost as tall as his son, hair not gray but silver, with the fit body and angular facial features of a man in his sixties. Of course, he was in his sixties. It was his mind that had decided to age prematurely.
It was the eyes that betrayed him. Sitting as he was now, ensconced in his recliner, remote in hand, staring vacantly at the dark TV screen...this was the man his father had become, and the speed with which the change had come about had been shocking.
Paul knew he should feel compassion for this man who was his father, but all he felt was resentment. For his entire career, Geoff had been a compassionate physician with an exemplary bedside manner. At home, he had ruled his family with a sharp tongue and an iron fist. Paul had looked forward to the day when he could flaunt his own medical successes in his father’s face and call him out on the years of verbal abuse. The Alzheimer’s had robbed him of the chance. It would have been one thing to have a mental sparring match with his father while he was sharp-witted and mean. Now, sadly, the old man was just mean, and having that conversation would be pointless.
For the millionth time in the past few weeks, Paul contemplated his fate and for the first time decided the fates had been fair after all. Riverton’s clinic needed a new doctor, his father needed someone to look after him and Annie was a single woman. None of these things would be easy, he knew that. He already missed practicing medicine at a big hospital. He’d had no idea how to relate to his father when he was in his right mind, let alone like this.
As for Annie, Paul had no idea how he would stop himself from acting like a fool. He knew one thing for sure, though—his shift didn’t start for two hours and Annie had invited him to drop by for coffee, so that’s exactly what he was going to do.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Paul was behind the wheel of his car and heading out of town along River Road. The drive from town to the country brought back a lot of memories, most of them bittersweet.
As kids, he and Jack and Eric had ridden their bikes out here during summer holidays. That had been before they knew about Finnegan Farm or the oldest Finnegan girl, who’d been destined to earn the love of not one but two good men. In those days, they’d been more interested in doing what boys do best when there was no adult supervision—competing to see who could ride the farthest without touching the handlebars, who could spit the farthest when they were munching on sunflower seeds and who could string together the longest series of swear words. Fortunately for the women of the world, boys eventually grew into men.
Jack had been the first to get his driver’s license, and that summer had been a blur of illicit parties. By then, Jack was dating a girl named Belinda and Eric was dating Annie, leaving Paul on the sidelines. The girls he ended up being paired with were friends of either Annie’s or Belinda’s. Sometimes there was the occasional girl he’d mustered the courage to ask out himself. None of them had turned into girlfriends, though. He’d been preoccupied with Annie and his futile hope that she would realize he was a far better catch than Eric.
She hadn’t, of course. But that was then and this was now. He knew better than to think she could miraculously stop grieving the loss of her husband and realize Paul was the second love of her life. But now that she was single and he was home, he intended to rekindle their long-time friendship. After seeing her so upset at the clinic yesterday, he could tell she was struggling a little—maybe more than a little. He would be there for her. His might even be the shoulder she leaned on when the going got rough.
Just ahead he spotted the white gazebo on the riverbank. Situated on the narrow strip of public land that ran between River Road and the Mississippi, it had been built by Annie’s grandfather. There was a small parking area where anyone passing by could stop and enjoy the view. The landmark would always be known to locals as Finnegan’s gazebo. To Paul, it would always be the place where Eric had proposed to Annie, and where Annie had said yes.
Paul signaled, slowed and swung into the driveway then drove up the sloping, fence-lined gravel drive that separated two paddocks, one of which had a series of jumps set up in it. At the house, he parked in the roundabout next to a large white van and in front of a painted wooden sign, both embellished with the Finnegan Farm Bed & Breakfast name and logo.
The two-and-a-half-story farmhouse had been built at least a hundred years ago. As a teenager, Paul had spent a fair bit of time here. After Eric had married Annie and moved in, he hadn’t set foot in the place.
The clapboard exterior was still a crisp white and the trim was barn-red, just as he remembered. The wraparound screened porch was furnished with wicker and painted wood furniture. The white lace curtains in the windows, the old yellow dog sleeping on the welcome mat at the front door—it was as if time had stood still. Even the wheelchair ramp adjacent to the front steps had been there for as long as Paul had been coming here. Everyone in Riverton knew about Thomas Finnegan’s acts of heroism during Desert Storm and about the lives he had saved while almost giving up his own. Soon after he’d come home to his family in a wheelchair, his wife had abandoned him and his daughters. Annie, the oldest of the three, had taken on the role of caregiver and Paul knew she continued to fulfill it. The big question for Paul had always been...who took care of Annie?
* * *
ANNIE LOVED WEEKEND mornings. Every Saturday, her sisters gathered around the big kitchen island for coffee and muffins and sisterly conversation. The three of them had always been close, but after Eric died, she had valued these get-togethers more than ever. This morning she was anticipating another visitor, a little too eagerly, perhaps. She was sliding a pan of lemon-cranberry muffins into the oven when she heard the knock at the front door.
Paul! She hastily set the timer and made her way to the door. She opened it and felt her breath catch in her throat.
“Paul.”
“Good morning, Annie. I hope I’m not too early. When you invited me, I might have forgotten to mention that my shift at the clinic starts at ten o’clock.”
“Not a problem, and it’s definitely not too early. Come in, please.”
He stepped inside, seemed to hesitate before he opened his arms. She stepped into the awkward hug and instantly felt the same zing of awareness she’d had yesterday. CJ’s insistence that this was a date rushed through her mind.
