“I’ll bet...”
“Obviously, if he had gotten his girlfriend pregnant, we would have been in his corner. We would have helped him step up and grow up, and be the man he needed to be for his child. Neither he nor the girl were ready for that kind of responsibility. So we did what we thought was right, and we parented.”
“I think you were right, too.”
“All the same, Graham didn’t forgive his mother for a couple of months. He and the girl ended up breaking up. I think my talk with him about some real-life consequences put a damper on things between them. But you know what? We were right. Caroline was right. And sometimes when you’re right, your kid hates you for a little while.”
Melanie smiled faintly. “She doesn’t think I count.”
“She’s wrong.” He shrugged. “Can’t be the first time.”
Melanie chuckled, and Logan felt a wave of relief. He reached over and took her hand before he could think better of it. He gave her a squeeze and was about to pull back when her fingers closed around his.
“Thanks,” she said. “You have a way of making everything seem simpler.”
Logan looked over at her and saw her gaze was turned out the window. Her hand looked good in his—her fingers slim and pale against his tanned skin. It was nice to be someone’s comfort again. It had been a while.
“So where are we headed?” she asked, glancing toward him again.
“Spruce Ridge Retirement Home,” he said.
“Is that new?”
“Seems to be relatively new. I don’t remember it from our day.”
“Are you ready to see your father again after all this time?” she asked.
Logan let go of her hand as he slowed down to make a turn. He wished he could reach out and take her hand again, but she’d pulled hers back and it didn’t feel right now.
“I don’t know...” he admitted. “I learned a lot in raising my son, and I never could make sense of my dad’s choices when it came to me. I would have done anything for Graham. But my father saw me as an embarrassment. My mom tried to find common ground between us, but the harder she tried on my behalf, the more resentful his wife got. It was a weird situation.”
“Yeah...”
“She used to tell me not to blame myself for someone else’s insecure marriage, but when you’re young, it’s hard not to blame yourself for just about everything.”
The address he was looking for was ahead—a flat building that looked distinctly medical. He slowed the vehicle, double-checked the address and then turned into the parking lot. He found a spot and parked, then looked over at Melanie.
“Thanks for being here,” he said.
“I could stay in the truck, if you want,” she said.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “But this is going to be awkward. So maybe you could just agree to forgive me for whatever happens—”
Melanie chuckled. “Harry is Harry. I’m not blaming you for your father’s eccentricities, okay?”
“That’ll have to do,” he agreed.
Spruce Ridge Retirement Home had a central reception area flanked by two wings. Several older people sat outside under shade trees in their wheelchairs, some staff members leading them in what appeared to be watercolor painting. He scanned faces—would he even recognize Harry? He wasn’t sure he would. Age could change a lot in a man. Maybe more pertinently, would his father recognize him?
Logan held the wooden box under one arm and opened the front door, letting Melanie go in ahead of him. The reception area felt dim after the bright summer sunlight outside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He headed over to the reception desk.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m here to visit one of your residents. My father, actually. His name is Harold Eugene Wilde.”
“You’re Harry’s son?” the woman asked, narrowing her gaze.
“One of them,” he agreed. “You’re probably thinking of Junior... Eugene.”
“Yes,” she said. “We know him well. What’s your name? I’ll see if Mr. Wilde is free.”
“I’m Logan McTavish.”
She jotted it down, then picked up a telephone receiver. “Just a moment.”
Logan stepped back while she murmured into the phone, glancing around. This retirement facility looked like a decent place—lots of light, lots of activity and responsive, energetic staff. Junior had done his research on the place, no doubt. As Logan’s gaze moved over a table filled with older people playing cards, he saw a nurse approach an older man and bend down to speak to him. She gestured in Logan’s direction, and the older man raised his head, his piercing gaze locking with Logan’s.
Logan’s breath caught in his chest. That was Harry, all right. Age hadn’t changed him much, after all. His face was the same, but more lined. One eye drooped, as did one side of his mouth, but the mustache was the same—iron gray and bushy. Harry stared at him hard for a moment, then turned back to the nurse and murmured something.
The nurse looked in his direction, and then picked up a phone.
“Mr. Wilde will come outside to speak with you,” the receptionist said. “Just a moment.”
Logan was forty-two years old, yet under his father’s stare, he was still just an eager twelve-year-old asking his dad to help him with his paper route. Please, Dad? I’m going to save up for that Nintendo! And Mom’s going show me how to budget my money... He was the seventeen-year-old asking his dad to help him with college. I can’t do it alone, Dad. I’ve saved all I can, and I’ve got some scholarships, but... He was the eight-year-old, watching his father cuddle his newest infant son—the one he’d named after himself.
Damn it. Logan wanted something from his father, after all. He’d told himself that this was about being a better man, about doing right by his mother, about proving something to Caroline, even if it
