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Smiling, she bustled about the kitchen, probably fixing some hot chocolate—and pulling more bacon out of the freezer for breakfast, too, now that she knew Michael would be there.
“Something wrong, son?” his father asked quietly, calmly savoring his apple pie.
Astute as always.
Michael could have gotten away with this visit if it had been only his mother at home. While she was the best cook, the best friend, the best mother a kid could want, she wasn’t...well, she wasn’t what you’d call clever. Or discerning. And not just because she hadn’t finished high school. She was just a little slow on the uptake, saw the world through the innocent eyes of a child, took everything at face value.
His father was another story. The man was brilliant.
And wasted in this two-bit town.
Mary, finishing in the kitchen, hurried out with a comment about clean sheets for Michael’s bed.
“I was just in Cincinnati,” Michael finally answered his father. “Couldn’t get a flight out until tomorrow.”
“How’s Susan?”
Yep, Dad was as bright as ever. “Good. Fine.” Michael took another forkful of pie. His father waited. “Busy.”
“Too busy to put you up for the night?”
Pushing his empty plate away, Michael glanced over at his dad. “Guess I just wanted a night at home.”
“That’s fine, then.” Sam Kennedy pushed his plate away, too. Michael hadn’t fooled him a bit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“WHAT TIME’S your flight out?” Sam asked over an early breakfast Tuesday morning.
Michael tucked into the bacon and eggs and biscuits and gravy with relish. He’d slept well, was glad he’d come home. “No particular time,” he said between bites. “I thought I might hang around for a couple of hours, catch something early this afternoon.”
“Well, then, you’ll have to come down to the station!” the older man said with a broad smile. “I’ll show you around. We got a new air pump since you were here last.”
“Yes, your father’s the boss now, you know, since Mr. Hanson retired.” Mary brought a bowl of fresh fruit to the table.
“Now, Mary, I’m doing the same work I’ve always done.”
“Well, maybe so, but...”
“Old man Hanson retired?” This was news to Michael. And he was usually filled in on every little change during his weekly calls home. They had to fill him in on the little ones; there usually weren’t any big ones.
“Not really,” Sam said. “There just isn’t enough work for both of us anymore, so Hanson doesn’t come in much.”
“Business has dropped that much?” Michael’s father worked at the local service station, had done so since he’d married Michael’s mother during his senior year of high school.
“What with that new self-serve station out by the highway, and all.” Sam shrugged.
“But you still have the mechanic’s bay, and you’re right here in town.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sam gestured with his fork. “We’re still showing a profit. We’re charging a buck per use for the new air pump,” he continued enthusiastically. “You should see the thing. It’s computerized to check gauge and shut off automatically. You don’t ever have to worry about filling your tires too much or too little.” Sam sounded like they’d just invented a cure for the common cold.
Michael felt the old familiar anger take root. His father could have been a scientist. He damn sure was smart enough to find a cure for the common cold. And here he was, forced to settle for amazement at a stupid air pump that had seen the light of day at normal gas stations at least three years ago.
“Pop, why won’t you let me buy Hanson out, bring the station up to date so you can compete with the place out by the highway?”
With a shake of his head, Sam added to his son’s frustration. “You do enough, boy, sending the money you do. I didn’t raise you to live off you.”
“But—”
