Page 58 of Learning at 40

“And this,” I snap, waving at the front porch. “It’s only a damn house. We’re talking about your marriage.”

“Actually, we are not discussing my marriage. It’s none of your business.” Now it’s her tone that sets me off.

“It is my business when people think you’re sniffing up my ass for money.”

“Excuse me?” Her mouth falls open again, and her eyelids rapidly flutter. She can’t accentuate those words any stronger. We stare daggers at one another for thirty seconds before she says, “Get out.”

“We need to discuss this,” I demand, holding out a hand to stop her from slamming the door in my face.

“No, we don’t. We don’t discuss your marriage or your boys.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My forehead furrows as if seeing this argument already heading off course. When River doesn’t reply, I continue. “You think I’m a shit dad, don’t you? Just say it. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Nope. Your kids, remember? You’ll worry about them.” I’m not certain how this has turned around on me and my fatherhood ability, but I’m spiraling out of control, swirling as the pit-falling sensation consumes me.

“Just tell me the truth. Tell me where my watch is.” I have no idea where that came from, but it’s worth fifteen-hundred dollars. She could use the money for the fence removal or something in the house or anything if she’s the gold digger those women say she is. This land alone is worth three million dollars. I would know. I look into the property value all the time and cringe to think we lost such an investment. We lost it all because my father fucking stole from someone, and now River is stealing from me.

“I don’t have your watch. I gave it to the boys to return to you.”

“You gave my watch to seven-year-olds?” I huff. “Not likely.” I sound like a child myself as I blow on my lips like some damn cartoon character. I’m losing control of my emotions, this conversation, and my grip on reality.

“Just tell me the truth,” I yell, and River stares at me.

“His name was Dennis Quincy. He owned Quincy Grocer, and he died of an inoperable brain tumor.”

“Quincy Grocer? Like the entire company?” Sweat beads across my forehead. I recognize the name Quincy Grocer all too well. They own hundreds of mega-grocery stores throughout Michigan and parts of the Midwest, think Target in scale, and my father was their accountant until he embezzled from them.

“He has three grown children who are complete assholes like you’re being, but he wasn’t an idyllic father either. He’d done his damage, and at the end of his advanced life, he wanted redemption. He needed kindness and compassion, and I gave that to him. I didn’t judge him or accuse him of things, and I certainly didn’t steal from him. He left me this house in his will as a gift, a dying wish, in gratitude for being his nurse through the last year of his life. I’m not saying I deserve a house for being a decent human being, but I’m damn well working to keep it. And you’re on private property, so get off.” Her tone brooks no further argument. There’s no negotiation or compromise. I cast the accusations.

“River, I—” She holds up her hand to stop me.

“And not that it’s any of your business, but he wasn’t my husband. He was a lonely old man who befriended me. And before you take your thoughts one step into the gutter, I did not fuck him for this house. I was doing my job, which I lost because of dicks like you.” She’s practically screaming at me at this point. “If you have further arguments with my property rights, you can contact my lawyer.”

With that, she karate chops my elbow, forcing me to bend my arm, thus freeing the door from my hand, and she slams it in my face.

+ + +

“Holy fuck,” Mason says to me as I wander up to his room above the garage. “Her husband was the man your father stole all that money from?” As if things could get worse in the past twenty-four hours, the knife in my chest cuts deeper. The surprise on Mason’s face does not compare to the shame I feel.

“She says he wasn’t her husband. He was . . . a patient.” I don’t even think it’s legal for patients to will items to nursing staff, but it happens, and it typically lands in court when it does.

“Do you believe her?” Mason asks, and I stare back at him. My first instinct says, of course, I believe her. Why would she lie to me? But in the back of my head is a phrase about liars and cheaters and people who steal things, and I just don’t know what to think.

“I don’t know,” I say out loud.

“Do your boys have your watch?”

I’d been so stunned by the turn of the argument I hadn’t gone to them. I shake my head in response.

“What would she have to gain by not telling you?” Mason asks, and I’m wondering the same thing. Why hadn’t she told me about this patient—his condition, his position in the company, and their marital status? It didn’t make sense.

“Unless she knew who I was,” I say without answering Mason directly. “Unless she knew I was the son of the SOB who stole from Quincy.”

Mason narrows his eyes. “And how would that benefit her? Getting revenge on you for your father’s crime twenty-seven years ago? For a man she only met a few years ago? It doesn’t make sense.”

“How do you know it was only a few years ago?”

Mason shrugs. “How long can a man live with an inoperable brain tumor?”