“I did say that, yes.”
“So you can’t change your mind! It’s not fair.”
“No. When someone doesn’t stick to their end of the bargain about something, it’s not fair.”
“Whadda you mean?”
She gazed at him for a long, long moment, giving him a look that spoke volumes. Only one other time had she looked at him like this.
Then suddenly, he clued in. His shoulders slumped, the light in his eyes dimmed.
“I will keep my promise, since you’re playing baseball,” Lucy said, then raised her tone an octave and infused hope into her next words. “But there’s going to be a delay. I know of a way you can get your truck by summer’s end if you don’t mess up. On anything.”
Her meaning was quite clear and he understood.
Jason frowned, tentatively asked, “How?”
“You’ll go to work. For me.”
“Huh?”
“Starting on Thursday, you’ll be delivering meals that I prepare to the Sunrise Trail Creek Seniors Home each Tuesday and Thursday. I’ve already cleared everything with the staff, and I’ll be making food donations to the home on those days.” Lucy continued in a light tone, but she’d thought this out well in advance and was quite succinct with her plan. “I want you to stay there for a couple of hours, serve the meals to the elderly and then clean up.”
Jason made a face. “I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of old people.”
She raised her brows, put her hands on her hips. “The way I see it, you don’t have a choice, Jason.”
“Can’t I do something else?” She saw the flicker in his eyes as his mind worked. “How about if I apply to be a busboy at Woolly Burgers?”
Lucy smiled, nodded with genuine enthusiasm. “That’s a fantastic idea. You can do that along with the meals at Sunrise.” She inhaled, pleased. “Between the Sunrise, baseball and Woolly’s, you’ll be so busy this summer, you won’t have time for anything else, now will you?”
She let the question hang, hovering between them as if suspended on an invisible thread.
Jason’s mouth pursed. “Okay,” he mumbled, then climbed the stairs to the bedroom he shared with his younger brother.
Lucy stayed in the kitchen a long while, hoping her son would be able to prove himself. She remembered her little boy and how he used to be, and she knew he had it in him to do the right thing. He just had to believe in himself.
Last evening had ended on a note of promise, but Lucy’s morning began on a chord of disappointment.
She received a call on her cell just after breakfast.
She pushed the talk button. “Hello?”
Shirley Greenbaum was on the other end. “Lucy, I’m so sorry but we’re going to have to postpone.”
Lucy’s heartbeat slowed to molasses.
Postpone. No income.
Shirley went on, “Our daughter developed a complication with her pregnancy and we’re flying to Los Angeles immediately.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious, Mrs. Greenbaum.”
“The doctors are monitoring her. She had a similar situation with our last grandson. So we’re optimistic. It’s still scary, though.”
After discussing a possible restart date, Lucy disconnected the phone.
Since it wasn’t technically a breach of contract, Lucy had no recourse. The Greenbaums still wanted her to work for them, only she wouldn’t be making any money for a couple of weeks until they returned.
With her mind running on overload, half numb with Shirley’s untimely news, Lucy neatened up the slips of paper on the kitchen counter. A gas receipt for $37.85 to fill her tank. The Little League paperwork. Hospital release.
Looking at the restaurant slip for last night’s dinner—$48.95 on three burgers, drinks and desserts, plus tip—Lucy had a surge of regret for splurging.
If things didn’t turn around, she would have to get a real job with a steady income. Something she hadn’t done since before the boys were born.
But a weekly paycheck was desperately needed. And soon.
Eleven
Spin’s eyesight gave her fits and she ripped out a strong curse beneath her breath. She wore her rhinestone, horn-rim glasses, the filigreed chain around her neck.
Squinting so she could see better, she dabbed some oil paint on the tiny section numbered 45. Or was that 46? For the love of mud. Da Vinci must have had the patience of a saint.
It had taken Spin the better portion of a year to get this far on The Last Supper, only able to work on the paint-by-number scene for small increments before her vision blurred from the strain. But she was making progress. She hoped to finish it before she died.
The Sunrise Trail Creek assisted care home was located by a stretch of the Wood River and appointed modestly in neutral colors—bland walls in the foyer, the floor covered in speckled linoleum. Out back, there was a pond where the residents could feed the geese. Every now and then, Spin liked to watch them, but it saddened her at the same time. They could fly away, go wherever they wanted, and she was stuck here. Dying a little each day.
Her purpose in life was gone. Over.
Back in the old days, she was quite the catch, a real dish. But as time wore on and age faded her beauty to a map of wrinkles and a widow’s peak that turned white-gray, she felt her value ebb.
She used to be a live pistol. Could cut a joke with the best of them, and had attention lavished on her. After Wally died, life in Red Duck without her beloved husband had taken a solitary path. By choice, she hadn’t remarried. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn’t be alone now. But the saying went that women outlived the men they loved, and if the inhabitants in Sunrise were any indication, that was true.
There were more women than men in the facility. And the men who hadn’t lost their hearing altogether, weren’t drooling or wetting themselves sitting in wheelchairs, paid her notice that she didn’t care
