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A strong hand was on her shoulder as Andy gripped it hard. For a guy north of sixty, he was still strong. It was probably all the mucking out of stalls he did. “You know, it’s going to be alright.”
“How?”
“I think things always get better when you got your kin with you in on it. You just need to tell him.”
Sam shook her head and gathered up her purse and other accoutrements. “Easier said than done.”
* * *
The smell of meatballs, thick with garlic and oregano, hit her nose the minute she walked into the old farmhouse. Technically, her dad had fully inherited the house when she’d been nine, and it had been his to redecorate if he’d wanted. But no. It was still decked out in the gingham and flannel that her grandparents had loved, still had a doily over the ancient horsehair sofa, and still had a scuffed up, standing piano in the corner of the living room. It was a time capsule, a testament to life in Kentucky decades upon decades ago.
If they lost the farm and the land, the house would go with it.
The last thing she could see was her father settling in an apartment near some of the big medical complexes out by the university. After hand-carved bannisters and chair molding, how could he go to a soulless manila wall and cheap laminate counters? How could he leave the last place Grammy and Grandpa had been? The garden in back where her mother’s ashes had been spread?
Neither of them could leave that.
Tossing her purse onto the floor, she steadied her shoulders and put on her biggest smile. It didn’t matter how distressing the figures had been or what Andy’s level-headed advice was. She had returned home after college to keep an eye on her dad and decided to run the farm when he couldn’t beyond that. She’d promised to be the shoulder her father could cry on, to be the person who would keep him safe. Maybe it was a reversal of the parent-child dynamic but she bore it determinedly because he was all she had.
So tonight, she would just enjoy him and the mouth
-watering hints of oregano and paprika tickling her nose.
“So, it’s Gerry Cutter’s famous spaghetti.”
Her dad, goofy as always, wore a chef’s hat, some big poofy white thing that served as an ode to Chef Boyardee. Standing tall, he added a pinch of Texas Pete to the mixture. Sam knew that, if she weren’t there, he’d have added at least a tablespoon. He loved everything so hot it would make you sweat the second it moved over the tongue.
There was no shortage of TUMS in their house.
“Indeed,” he said, grinning back at her and continuing to stir the sauce and meatballs mixture. “I was feeling so good after my hike that I wanted to make you a taste of Italy.”
“The closest to Italy you’ve ever been is that restaurant on Versailles Drive.”
“It’s a good place!”
“It’s clearly using Prego,” she said, tasting the sauce her dad whipped up, “and so are you. It doesn’t even have the chunky tomatoes or onions.”
“Look, I am giving you a taste of Italy. It’s a spicy meatball,” her dad continued, grinning, in a terrible accent that sounded more like Mario the plumber than anyone who’d ever been near Sicily.
“Yes, congrats on your mastery of pouring in hot sauce,” she mocked, sticking out her tongue. “You did a good job, though. Just enough zing.”
“But not so much zing you’re hugging porcelain,” he finished.
She rolled her eyes. His cornball humor had always made her gasp and groan in front of her friends in high school, but she’d somehow missed the bad puns, silly jokes, and overall goofiness in college. It was nice to see it again, especially when his hip pain had rendered him so dour lately.
“I get it. But really, Dad, you didn’t have to cook.”
“Oh, I know what this is,” he said, turning back to the boiling noodles.
“You do?”
“Yup, sure do,” her dad said. “I saw the doctor on Monday. He said that I was doing okay. In fact, he said I had great powers of recovery. It’s been almost five months and I’m feeling like I’m fifty again. It’s great.”
“Still, you don’t need to make me dinner,” she hedged, knowing partly how silly her concerns were.
Her dad did hike the hills of their property once a day, and he rode one of their old mares now on the trails. The doc had forbidden any serious jumping or barrel racing for at least another year, but her dad was always one to push boundaries. Sam didn’t want him to feel he had to be serving her, too. What kind of caretaker would she be if she let him? Of course, a voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like Andy, chided her:
You can’t be Superwoman, can’t keep saving him.
