And I was about to blow it all to smithereens.
7
A LITTLE REPARTEE
LANEY
“Dad, it’s Laney. Again. Please call me back. I’m done with this month’s bookkeeping, and we really need to talk about those plans I sent you. I just don’t know how the shop is going to remain solvent otherwise, and?—”
I stopped talking with a heavy sigh. Why was I even bothering? Dad didn’t seem to check his voicemail much these days, as evidenced by the three messages he’d ignored since I’d returned from Vegas last week. I had, however, received several texts featuring weather reports and golf updates.
“Just call me back, all right? Love you.”
I ended the call. Predictably, the screen lit up almost immediately with an incoming text.
Dad
Hey, Laneybug. Out on the course right now, but I’ll call you later. Four under par today!
I stared until the screen went dark, as if that might somehow elicit the involvement I imagined instead. Things like:
Dad
Hiya hon. Don’t worry, I’m parking the car. Calling you back now.
Dad
I’m sorry I missed you again, but my lawyer is sending over full power of attorney now. I trust you.
Dad
Heya kiddo. I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. I’ll go back to being the father you remember starting now.
Of course, none of these texts appeared. Nothing at all, just like yesterday, and the day before that, and pretty much every day for the past year. I wasn’t sure how it happened, but somehow, in losing one parent, I’d lost them both.
“Got it,” I muttered.
I set the phone on my desk and went back to staring at the ledger for Meráki to try to figure out where in God’s name I was going to make cuts this month. I had one more hour before I had to leave for Megan’s rehearsal dinner, and I wasn’t going to get stuck doing this over the wedding weekend.
Then again, maybe it was time to face the truth. Megan was right. Meráki was failing. It wasn’t a quick death, but a slow bleed. Mom had been smart enough to have enough savings to staunch the trickle of debt for at least another year while I figured out what to do. But without her energy and the creative solutions she seemed to summon from thin air, the reality was that Seattleites no longer enjoyed locally sourced fashion enough to keep Meráki in business.
Megan had asked me more than once why I needed to sacrifice my own goals for this business. It was my mom’s passion, not mine.
How could I explain thatwasthe point?
My mother was gone. Her warmth, her smile, her no-nonsense counsel. Dad had never been a paragon of emotional communication, so while he had been the provider of the family, she had been its heart. She’d encouraged me through grad school. Supported me through heartbreaks. Given me the knowledge that at least in one small corner of the world, I was always enough tosomeone.
So what if sustainably sourced leatherworks and chunky knitwear weren’tmypassions? It was all I had left of her. I couldn’t let her go.
Unfortunately, it was looking more and more like that wasn’t going to be my decision. I’d done everything I could to save the place, including things like reducing staff down to one (me) and finally cutting back “unnecessary” things like medical benefits (even with a heart that performed the occasional tap-dancing routine). Now, to avoid bankruptcy, I was either going to have to leverage more assets to keep the shop afloat or sell it altogether—and both decisions required Dad’s signature. Or at least some basic communication.
As if summoned by just the thought of my heart, another call lit up my phone. One I’d been avoiding for a while.
“Just rip it off, you coward,” I told myself before answering the call. “Hi, this is Laney.”
“Hi, Laney, this is Dr. Palmer from the UW Heart Institute.”
I sat up straight in my desk chair. “Dr. Palmer, hello. I—usually it’s your PA who calls.”
