“No,” I say, smiling politely. “No one in town.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
“It’s fine. I’m still a little jet-lagged anyway. I may go out later in the week.”
“Well, you should take your father out with you. He could use it.”
“You think so?”
“That man works too hard,” Tara says sagely. She’s always been of the same opinion.
I have too.
“I’m not surprised,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall.
“Should do him good to have you around,” Tara continues, smiling as she pats my arm. “He’s been tired more often than not, recently. Hasn’t smiled as much.”
“Well, I’ll try to fix that.”
Tara nods and hefts her hamper a little higher. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll leave some snacks in the kitchen.”
I laugh. It’s like being a kid again with Tara making me food for study sessions with friends.
“Thank you,” I call after her.
When she leaves, I turn to look at another photo on the wall. It’s my father with me on his shoulders, laughing as water sprays around us. We had gone to a theme park for the first time and I was ecstatic, though definitely sunburned.
I want to make my father slow down while I’m home. He isn’t old, but he’s older. I worry about him. When I was at college, it was hard to think about him and wonder if he was doing well. If he took care of himself.
We’ve always only had each other. I can barely remember my mother. She died when I was young, and all I have are flashes of a smile and a memory of a face vaguely like mine. It’s not much.
I continue down the hallway, toward the study. My father practically raised me here when he wasn’t in his office. I have good memories of hanging around, reading some of the books from the library-like shelves that stretched ceiling to floor.
It was a good childhood. My father gave me everything I needed, as often as he could. He made sure I had a good education and a comfortable room. He took me places when he could, when it was safe.
Still, more often than not, I ate dinner alone. Mafia business doesn’t wait and it tends to happen at all hours of the day, though more likely in the evenings. I spent a lot of time alone at night as a kid.
It meant I didn’t have the luxury of being afraid of the dark.
I take a book from the shelf—an old volume of poetry that was my mother’s—and wander with it to the corner of the room. There’s an old leather chair there, soft with age, a light blanket thrown over the back.
It’s where I used to sit while my father worked. I curl up there now, book in hand, and begin to read about flowers and knights and love.
I barely register the passage of time too absorbed in my book. A voice startles me out of my reading so suddenly that I almost jump out of my chair.
“I’m leaving,” Tara says. She smiles apologetically at my shock.
I blink, looking around the room. “What time is it?”
“Late. Here,” she says, passing me a small tray. There’s water, juice, and a sandwich. “You’re both the same.”
“I guess so.” I slide the tray onto the table next to me. “Thanks, Tara. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I eat and drink slowly as I go back to my book, getting lost in it again until a new sound catches my attention: the front door opening.
Dad.
I stand quickly, leaving the book on the chair and walking out to greet him.
