Slade’s stomach wound up tighter than a slugger protecting home plate. “No.”
“It’s time to make your peace.” Takata handed him the flowers and an unlit cigar. “These are for them.”
Daisies. His mother loved daisies. Slade rolled the cigar between his fingers. His gut unwound a smidgen.
“You’re not alone in this world. You have a great many friends. A nontraditional family, if you will.” Takata put a hand on Slade’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push. “Your parents are here. And they’ve missed you.”
Guilt, loneliness, and love propelled him to his feet. He made his way slowly down the hill to his parents’ resting place.
There was no bench by their graves. There were just headstones.
Slade took the flowers out of their wrapping and set them in the too-long-empty vase attached to the side of his mother’s headstone.
Jean Marie Jennings. Beloved wife and mother.
Slade laid the cigar at the base of his father’s headstone.
Daniel Corbett Jennings. Beloved husband and father.
Nothing original on their grave markers. Nothing profound. No testament to how much they loved the Harmony River or the outdoors or...their son.
Slade knelt in the grass at their feet, feeling awkward and alone. But maybe not as alone as he had been.
Takata watched from the hill.
“It’s been a while,” Slade murmured, feeling like the inconsiderate son who hadn’t called home regularly, even for birthdays and holidays. “I really messed up.”
* * *
BRAD ALEXANDER CLIMBED the stairs to Christine’s office with powerful steps that shook the entire farmhouse. “What’s wrong with your phone?”
Christine looked up from the column of figures she’d unsuccessfully added three times.
Her dad stood at the head of the stairs, dusty, dirty, and obviously angry, as if he’d been busy and summoned out of the vineyards by an inconsiderate boss.
“Hey, Dad.” She tucked the budget into a folder and introduced him to Ryan, who wisely mumbled something about taking sugar readings in the vineyard and escaped the office.
“You haven’t answered me.” Her father put his hands on his hips.
Christine had anticipated this conversation for a long time, possibly for years. She knew the only tactic to keep her dad from blowing up hinged on her remaining calm. Hard to do when she hadn’t gone against her father’s wishes since she was a spoiled, rebellious teenager.
She phrased her answer in nonconfrontational tones. “My phone is fine.”
“Then why haven’t you called me?” The volume of his demand was loud enough to shake Christine’s resolve. Instead, it seemed to shake the dormer windows.
“Have a seat, Dad.” Christine gestured to the folding chair on the other side of her desk. When he didn’t move, she added, “Please sit down.”
He reluctantly complied.
Christine met her father’s gaze squarely, despite the nervous tic her leg seemed to have developed beneath her desk. “I haven’t returned your calls or answered your messages because I’m not leaving.”