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“So, do you know of any good ones?” He’s watching me carefully, the fringe of long, dark lashes making his irises pop.
I think I know what he’s asking, but I could be wrong. I’ve misunderstood Tyler before. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I want someone available to me when my dogs need them. Within reason, of course, but I want someone who’s going to answer their phone when I call, give advice when I need it, and come out when they need to. Someone I can trust to do what’s right by my dogs, always.”
Tyler calling me at all hours of the day and night?
Something tells me he’d be calling me a lot. Possibly more than Harry. With Harry, it’s because he’s young and inept. With Tyler, it’s because he appreciates a professional opinion.
It’d be a healthy income, I’ll admit, having two teams—one of them an Iditarod champion. Except Harry would lose his mind if he found out.
But then I’d be spending more time with Tyler, and he’s already managed to creep into my thoughts too much when he’s not in my life at all.
Yukon tugs at his leash, reminding me that we’re standing on the side of the road and my father is on his way to the hospital. I have priorities, and Tyler is not one of them.
“You should give Don Childs a call. He’s in Wasilla, near the old Sears. Just off the highway. Let him know I sent you.”
Tyler’s shoulders slump. It’s not the answer he wanted.
But it’s the only one I can give him.
“Thanks again for helping.” I rush out of there without another look back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Grab me one of those, too, would ya, Marie?” my dad calls out around a bite of mashed potatoes.
I reach for the fridge handle to fish out a second bottle of Coors Light.
“Don’t you dare,” my mother hisses, her palm pressed against the door.
The moment she turns around, I flash Dad a sheepish smile and mouth, Sorry.
“I think I liked the hospital more.” He shoots a sullen look toward my mother’s back. “My nurses were a lot nicer.”
“That’s because you listened to them,” Mom answers crisply, filling a tall glass with water from the Brita. She sets it and a glass ramekin in front of him at the dinner table.
He glowers at the litany of prescribed pills in the little dish, as if deciding how much of a fuss he’s going to make. For a man so well-informed about the benefits of modern medicine, he’s never been good at taking a doctor’s advice.
With a heavy sigh, she pleads, “Come on now, Sidney. Don’t be difficult tonight. Please.”
It’s been two weeks since my father’s fall in Hatcher Pass, and everyone’s tired. He spent six days in the hospital. According to the doctor, as far as “bad breaks” go, it was a “good” one, and his leg should heal nicely with time. But it still required pins and a cast to just below his knee, and eventually, physical therapy.
He’s been home for more than a week, and the days have worn on both my parents—my father, because of discomfort and limitations; my mother, for playing nursemaid to a frustrated old man, twenty-four hours a day.
Liz has found an excuse almost every day for why she can’t make the thirty-five-minute drive over to help—Tillie’s ballet, Nicole’s art classes, Jim’s workload—and Vicki comes when she can, but with a fussy five-month-old baby attached to her, her help is divided and short-lived.
So it’s mainly been my mother, and me whenever I’m not working. “Remember when I suggested we skip Sunday dinner this week?” Liz spears Mom with a knowing look as she drops a spoonful of stemmed broccoli onto Tillie’s plate.
My niece’s mouth opens, disgust etched into her face.
“Do not start. Not one word of complaint, or no dessert. Both of you,” Liz snaps, dumping a helping in front of Nicole, too, who looks equally displeased. “Would you pass the salt, hun?”
On the far end of the table, Jim eats his dinner, tuning out everything and everyone around him, including his wife.
Don’t strain yourself, Jim. I reach across the table and hand it to her.
“But if you didn’t come, then I wouldn’t get to see my two favorite people, would I?” Dad steals a glance to make sure my mother isn’t watching and then, with a wink at his grandchildren, tosses a chunk of beef to Yukon’s waiting maw.
The girls erupt in laughter, and their giggles help douse the growing tension in the kitchen just as Vicki and Oliver emerge from the living room.
“Perfect timing.” Mom takes her own seat.
“Yeah, we’ll see how long it lasts.” Vicki sinks into her chair across from me, checking the buttons on her shirt as if to make sure she didn’t stroll in with a breast hanging out.
Molly has been a tough baby—first with colic, and lately with a string of recurring ear infections that will require ear tube surgery in a few weeks. I’ve never seen my little sister so tired before. She’s normally the one with fresh highlights and a well-chosen outfit. Now, her blond ponytail is frayed and sloppy, her oversized plaid shirt one of her husband’s.
