had to take charge for her parents.
“I have a little experience with plumbing. How about if I finish this up for you?”
Shorty opened his mouth to speak, most likely to object. But then he snapped it shut and glanced at the clock on the laundry-room wall.
“Won’t your boss be expecting you back at the store?”
“No, sir. The company encourages employees to assist customers anytime we can, and I happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”
Shorty squinted, seemed reluctant to accept the offer.
“You gonna charge me by the hour?”
“There wouldn’t be any cost involved, sir, as long as you don’t mind helping me out with some pointers,” Guy added. “It’s been a while since I tackled anything this complicated.”
“Complicated? Ha!” The old man snorted. “This is so easy a Girl Scout could handle it.” He scooted his chair close to the carton of parts, leaned forward and began poking through the hardware.
Guy felt a smile curve his lips as he enjoyed the sight of Shorty Reagan checking the inventory of the box against the list scrawled on a white index card.
“Well, don’t just stand there grinnin’ like some cowpoke on payday while those fancy boots of yours gouge Sarah’s linoleum,” Shorty snapped. “Grab that adjustable pipe wrench and let’s get to work.”
As Abby pulled to a stop against the curb in front of her family home, she glanced toward the Hearth and Home truck that blocked her driveway. She wrestled Dillon from his car seat, both of their stomachs grumbling the loud need for dinner. She’d make grilled-cheese sandwiches for herself and her dad while Dillon mauled a bowl of beanie weenie, and then they’d all load back up and head for another evening at the hospital. It had only been a couple of days and already she was drained from the long hours of work and worry. Her parents’ life together had been a continuous string of crises and they were taking this latest one in stride.
But Abby knew how hard it was on them to be apart. Their love for one another and their faith in God had gotten them through three miscarriages, her father’s battle with multiple sclerosis, financial disaster, the tragic loss of their son-in-law, and now this. Six weeks of in-patient rehab stretched in front of them, then only God knew how long before they could return to a normal life.
Not that life would ever be normal again without Phillip, the best friend of her childhood, her husband for less than a year and the father of a son he would never know.
With Dillon on her hip, Abby trudged up the porch steps and jostled her key against the dead bolt. The door opened easily, not locked, not even closed securely. She frowned, knowing her mother would not approve of such carelessness.
“Dad?” she called.
Instead of the usual squeaking of rubber wheels on the oak planks, she was greeted by the rumble of masculine voices from the end of the hall. Actually, it wasn’t a greeting at all. Her father hadn’t even acknowledged her. If not for the conversational sound of the men, she’d fear something was terribly wrong.
“Daddy?” she called for him again as she walked the dark hallway.
His wheelchair sat in the laundry room doorway.
Empty.
She gasped and tightened her arm around Dillon, who yelped his discontent.
“In here, baby girl.”
Then she spotted him. Seated cross-legged on the floor was her seventy-six-year-old father. Beside him stretched a pair of legs in blue jeans, with an orange H&H apron draped over the waistband. The man wore a white polo shirt stretched tight across his abdomen. She could see very little of his arms and nothing of his head since the top quarter of his body was crammed beneath her mother’s utility sink.
But there was no mistaking the identity of the Hearth and Home employee. The fancy cowboy boots gave Guy Hardy away.
“Daddy, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Giving this man a badly needed lesson in drain replacement.”
“Hi, Abby,” Guy’s muffled voice greeted her from inside the cabinet. “Was that Dillon I heard?”
“Weet, weet!” Dillon responded to his name and kicked his feet to be released.
“Hey, Guy,” she returned the greeting. The first relief she’d felt for days surged through her heart at the sight of her father enjoying himself over a simple plumbing repair. God had sent the perfect distraction. “I see you’ve met the other man in my life.”
“And this one is every bit as charming as Dillon,”
Guy answered.
Her dad grunted and glowered up at her from his spot on the floor.
“Weet, weet!” Dillon squirmed, wanting to join the men.
“Hey, little buddy,” Guy acknowledged her son, who obviously recognized the voice.
“We’re just about finished here,” her father said. Despite the deep creases around his eyes, she sensed his skeptical approval for their company. “Give us fifteen minutes and then I’ll get cleaned up to go see your mother.”
“You go ahead, sir. A couple more turns of this wrench and we’re done.”
Her dad nodded and began the difficult task of climbing back into his chair. Abby choked down the desire to offer help as he struggled to hoist himself up into the seat. He was determined to be independent despite the primary progressive stage of the disease that he’d lived with for as long as she could recall. The inflammation in his spinal cord had made walking impossible for several years but he insisted on being self-sufficient in every other way.
Respect for her father’s wishes and worry for his weakened upper body churned her emotions. Fearing the chair would topple from his efforts, she decided to help whether he wanted it or not. She squatted and released Dillon. He chuckled with delight, no doubt over escaping his mama’s grasp, and toddled toward his papa.
“Here, let me give you a hand with that, sir.”
She looked up to see Guy, already on his feet, offering the assistance she was positive her father would reject. Guy had braced the wheels against the cabinet and was gently supporting her father so he could settle comfortably into the leather seat of his chair.
“Thanks.” Her dad huffed out a breath, sounding relieved. “Getting down is always a sight easier than the climb back up. I coulda made it by myself, though. Always do.” Abby heard the gruffness and wondered if Guy had any idea it was there to mask the gratitude so hard for her father to show.
The two men exchanged respectful nods. Dillon stood at their side, watching, holding his arms outward, literally drooling to be in the middle of the awkward maleness.
“Papa! Weet, weet!”
The moment pulsed with something that distinctly excluded her.
A sort of male bonding.
