“I’ve no doubt.” Downing my glass I rinse it in the sink while I explain, “Wildlife can’t take them. The vet said it’s not her expertise, and nobody is paying her tab so I’m sure she’ll free them sooner over later.” Grabbing a hand-towel I dry off and lean against their clean counter. “But I’m the one who carried their wounded momma in and I feel responsible. With my schedule and my home, it’s not feasible to help them grow up, feed them, watch them. Then I remembered that fountain we used to play in, chase each other around. Climb.”
Grandma asks, voice sharp, “You climbed it?”
“Nancy, that was a long time ago. They all survived.”
She looks out, sizing up how far a fall that could have been. Her expression softens, lines smoothing out. “It wouldn’t hold six ducks, but it could be a nice playground until they get big enough to set free.”
Grandpa stares out the window, too. “We’d keep them inside most of the time. Have to get some kind of container.”
“That’s easy,” she whispers, egging him on.
“Don’t know what a duck eats, but we could find out.”
“The right nutrition, a little love…”
His eyes narrow, sunlight beaming in from outside making them pale as ice. “Hmmm.”
Grandma looks at me and makes a hopeful face, staying quiet. You can lead someone to an idea but it won’t stick if they don’t choose it themselves.
He walks to the refrigerator, his frown deep. “Give me some time to think. Wyatt, will you be staying for lunch?”
Exhaling regret, I explain, “Have to work.”
He turns around, task forgotten. Looking at my uniform, pride and nostalgia lights up his face. “I remember seeing my dad in his Navy uniform. He’d wear it on Veteran’s Day. Memorial Day. Sometimes D-Day, too. You proud you wear that?”
My hands fall to rest on the heavy belt. “Guys give me a hard time at the station for shining my badge before every shift.”
He chuckles, “Do they?” imagining it.
“I just had this cleaned, so I’m wearing it in. Usually I wear civilian clothes and change there.” I glance to Grandma to see if she can tell I wore it for them. To impress them. To feel good about myself and how I’m carrying on the family name. Grandma Nance has a way of seeing through men’s motives, having raised strong sons. Her eyes are sparkling with something, though I’m not sure exactly what she’s thinking.
Smart to keep it to herself.
I walk to give her a big hug. “Love you, Grandma.”
She whispers in my ear, “I love you, too, Wyatt!”
Grandpa walks me out, but she stays back. At the door he whispers, “Bring the ducklings. Shhh.”
I grin, “You sure?”
“Have nothing better to do,” he shrugs. We hug each other and I feel him chuckling as he whispers, “Don’t tell her yet. I’m going to make her beg me.”
Walking out I say, “Someday you’re going to have to tell me your secret.”
He frowns, “To what?”
Strolling to my Jeep I call back, “Staying happily married for that long.”
“It’s no secret, Wyatt. It’s simple.”
I pause, turn around. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
Taking up the doorway, sunlight on his face, Grandpa Michael takes a deep breath, relishing the ability to pass down what he’s learned. “It’s respect. Never go to bed angry. Never call each other names. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Have fun with each other. Laughter beats shouting for fixing problems. Give in when it’s not dire. Stand your ground when you need to, but talk it out. Communication is key. Remember that sex is also communication — it’s not a one-man-show.”
I chuckle, “That last one I know. All of that, not so simple, Grandpa. Or easy.”
“It is when you remember how lucky you are that you married an angel,” he smiles and disappears, leaving me staring at a closed door and thinking there’s a story behind it I may never know.
CHAPTER 23
LATER THAT AFTERNOON
DIANA
M y phone rings and I pull it out of the white blazer I’m wearing over a floral dress, my white flats gently limping along tiles that lead to our community room. A smile spreads as I see Wyatt’s name shining back at me, but I don’t answer.
I’m not allowed personal calls while on the job. I can’t take a break now — they’re waiting for me. I’ve set up a dance lesson today.
May and Alice sit just inside the high-ceilinged, sunlit room, large windows bringing the beauty from outside, in. May is comfortably on her two cushions, the long wood bench reaching past her to the far end of this front wall. Our more mobile residents are waiting in the center of the room, ready to get on with it. Alice will join them, as she’s ten years younger than May, and loves to dance.
May used to, so I’ve been told a dozen times, but now she can’t. It doesn’t keep her back from being present to watch, though, while others in wheelchairs have opted not to be here. Mrs. Cocker enjoys the action even if she can’t partake.
Throwing her and her best friend a quick smile, I greet everyone, “Sorry I’m late. There was trouble with the order I made for our Summer party. I got the runaround but it’s handled.”
Hurrying to our music system, I press a few buttons and select my Elvis playlist, jam-packed with oldies but goodies.
Kinda like this room right now.
I cross to the new teacher. “You must be Eleanor. I’m so happy you could make it. My apologies for being late.”
Self-conscious and wanting to do a good job, the sixty-year-old wrings her hands. “I would have started the music, but I didn’t want to break anything.”
On a smile I reassure her, “I understand. You did nothing wrong. Would you like me to change the playlist, or will this do? They like this era. Pretty much any song you listen to, it makes you happy.”
Eleanor nods, “I wake up to the 50s. It’s my alarm.”
“I might
