Page 51 of Sullivan

“Damn. How is work?”

“Going well.” I swallowed. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Well, as much as I will love to see your face, that’s a damn shame. You should extend it. Hike around Europe. Visit Ireland. Seize the moment.”

“Well, ah, I might be coming back.”

“Excellent! Work?”

“That is part of it.”

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Have you met a bloke?”

I gripped my phone. “Yes.”

“Dark, mysterious, and a fabulous lover?”

I began to laugh. She had no idea she had described Sully to a tee.

“You’ll have to tell me all about him.”

“I will.” I took a bracing inhale and said it. “He wants me to come back.”

“Then do it.”

“What about⁠—”

She cut me off. “If you say you are worried about me, I will hang up this phone, young lady. I have lived my life. I have a head full of memories and lots of stories to share. I am comfortable here, and I do not want you using me as an excuse. You need memories. Laughter. Love. Now tell me, do you like him?”

“Very much.”

“Is the sex good?”

“Fabulous.”

“Lust or love?”

I paused. “Love.”

“Then grab him and hold on tight.”

“And you’d just wave me off?” I asked, slightly hurt.

“I will miss you terribly. But even I know about technology. Live calls or whatever they’re called. The application things on your phone. You can teach me before you go. And there are airplanes. You can visit.”

“Well, nothing is set in stone.”

“Don’t let life pass you by, Autumn. Not for me. I have no regrets. I don’t want to be one of yours.”

Then she huffed a breath. “Now the idiot is about to bet wrong. I must go. I’ll see you soon, and we’ll talk it all through. Send me a picture of this Scottish man.”

“He’s Irish.”

“Even better. They, at least, are romantics.” She gasped. “Oh, I just saw the commercial for tonight’s show. It’s a good one. Serial killers. Gotta go.”

She hung up, leaving me smiling. After her stroke, they hadn’t been sure she’d recover. But she did. She could speak clearly again. Use her arm. Then she broke her knee falling down the stairs and was unable to live on her own. The assisted living place we found was perfect. She was still independent but no longer had to do housework or cook if she didn’t want to. There was a large group of people her age, and she was often busy—too busy to talk to me at times. I was pleased she’d adapted so well to her new living arrangements and was happy there. She had the occasional worry or moments when her memory wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, and at times, she was easily distracted. But she was still full of fire and light.

And love.