“Bought us a round of beer when he told us about it,” he says with a laugh. “He couldn’t get over it. Passing the business on to you…nothing could have made him happier than that.”
Caleb’s eyes cut to me. We have a whole conversation in the one look—a silent apology on his part, an acknowledgement he doesn’t need to offer one on mine. I don’t blame anybody else for the choices I’ve made. This poorly timed story sure isn’t my brother’s fault.
Bill seems to remember James McBride hadtwosons, and he finally registers me in the group.
“He was proud of you too, of course, Griffin. Building those houses and everything.” He falters over his praise, clearly fuzzy on the details of what I did in Portland. “He’d have been real happy to know you made your way into his business after all.”
Maybe. That’d been the goal. Too late, but the best I can do.
Bill looks as if he’d like to fade into the woodwork, but we still have the full attention of everyone in the living room. The dining room buzzes with low conversations, but in here, the mood is falling like an airplane whose engine has cut out.
“Thanks for sharing that story,” Caleb says, playing gracious host.
Bill glances to me again, but if he’s looking for thanks or absolution, he won’t find it here. I’m not really in the mood to find some show of gratitude for how easily he’d summed up the divide between me, my brother, and my dad.
The room settles into awkward silence, searching for a way back to easy chatter. That won’t come from me, either, even if, as one-third of the hosts tonight, it probably should. Can’t really think of anything cheerful to say at the moment.
“I have a story about Mr. McBride,” Hope says.
Most of the room turns to look at her. She swallows as if the attention makes her uncomfortable, but she flashes that perfect smile. She’s had some experience with handling crowds, after all.
“It was my senior year in high school. I was on my way home from a trip to the mall in Bend and got about halfway between there and home when I…” She looks up at me, bracing me for something, before her eyes flicker over the people around us. “Well, I ran out of gas.”
A titter of laughter works through the room, easing some of the tightness Bill’s story left behind—and probably everything my face did in response to it.
“It was so dumb, but I was sure I had enough to get home. I called my dad’s office, but he was with a patient. I called my mom, but she was at a showing and didn’t answer. It was starting to get dark, and I was sitting there on the side of the highway trying to figure out what the heck I was supposed to do, when a big truck pulled up behind me.”
She has everybody’s attention now, mine most of all.
“For a whole minute, I thought for sure I was in trouble. I locked all my doors and just stared at the rear-view mirror, waiting. The man got out of his truck, walked around to my door, and leaned down to see me. My heart just about stopped. I don’t think I’ve ever been as relieved in my life as I was when I recognized Mr. McBride standing there.”
A collective sigh and low laughter ripples through her rapt audience. The same relief runs through me, and I’d been ninety-five percent sure I knew where her story was headed in the first place. I can picture him standing there in his work coat, salt and pepper beard, dark hair wild at the end of a long day. Probably had his hands stuffed in his pockets so he’d look a little less frightening to her.
“He was so kind to me. Said he had a full gas can in the back of his truck. He poured it into my tank for me and never said a single word about how stupid I’d been to let my tank go empty. When he was done, he followed me the rest of the way into town to the closest gas station to make sure I got there okay.” Hope shrugs slightly, as if this weren’t the sweetest story she could have told right now. “It was a small thing, maybe, but I’ve never forgotten it.”
People nod and smile, confirming to each other how her story fits what they knew of my dad. The mood-airplane lifts again, raised up by Hope. She’d told a story highlighting my dad’s generosity at her own expense, and I suspect she did it to easemydiscomfort. A swell of gratitude has me wanting to pull her to me and hold her close. I’ve been fighting that urge for a while, but right now, I can’t remember why.
“James changed my tire out on Obsidian Road once,” someone pipes up. “I thought I was in for an hour wait for Triple A, and there he was, my guardian angel.”
Conversation re-centers around the uncanny ability my dad had to find people in their cars broken down on the side of the road, the awkwardness of Bill’s story forgotten. Admiration buzzes through me, but when I look down at Hope, the warmth in her eyes knocks my feet so far out from under me, I have no doubt I’ll wind up flat on my back when I come down again.
And her soft smile? Not a trace of pity.
The house is suddenly too hot, too stuffy, too full of memories I don’t feel like sharing. I don’t want to commune with everyone else and sing Kum-ba-ya, but one person managed to bring me a spot of comfort. One bright, shining, unexpected person.
“Do you want to get some fresh air?” I ask her.
“Please.”
We slip out without another word. The frigid evening air pinches at my face and hands, but it’s a relief after the oppressive warmth inside from so many people crowding around. I wave her toward the porch swing on the wide patio. We sit, our thighs lightly touching on the narrow seat. This might have been my plan all along.
She wraps her arms tight around her, rubbing her shoulders. Her thick sweater can’t do much against this cold. My great scheme to get her alone won’t last long in weather that barely touches forty degrees.
“Here.” Reaching around her, I grab a throw blanket draped across the back of the swing, and wrap the fleece around her shoulders like a poncho. “Mom watches the sunrise out here every morning, so there’s usually a blanket or two ready for her.”
Won’t add it had been her habit with Dad. Can’t.
“Thanks.”
