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I glanced down at the table where he pointed—I’d begun piecing together green edge pieces, part of the grass, and had wedged a bright orange and pink in with them. “Oh, yeah.” I shifted the piece away and looked down, searching for a green one to take its place. “I guess I have a little on my mind.”
“Penny’s running you ragged at work?”
“Would she run me any other way?”
He chuckled, moving his own pieces around, his section of the puzzle coming together a lot faster than mine. “No, I don’t suppose she would. We don’t get too many shrinking violets in our family. My Bette taught the girls to speak up.”
I flashed him a quick smile I was sure he didn’t buy, but we fell back into silence, the room filled only with the sounds of sliding puzzle pieces on the lacquered wood of the table.
“Been about a year since everything happened in California, hasn’t it?”
Hairs rose on the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I said. “About a year.” Cait and Penny kept pushing me to talk to a therapist. If Aunt Bette were there, she would have had me talking months earlier, but Harold just waited. It surprised me when he changed topics.
“I ever tell you how scared your dad was before Caitlin was born?” He didn’t look up, just spoke while moving the pieces around. “Never seen a man so worked up. You know your grandpa, well, he wasn’t that great a father. The times were different, but your dad...” He smiled, a wistful expression, his eyes crinkling at the edges with memory. “Well, he worried a lot, wanted to make sure he could do right by your mama and you kids. I think maybe you get that from him—wanting to make things easy for other people.”
“I don’t remember him being a worrier,” I said, mirroring Harold, moving my pieces around like this was a conversation we always had.
“Course you don’t. Sometimes we don’t see things in people they don’t want us to see, and he was good at keeping it hidden.”
I nodded. “What made you think of that?”
Harold lifted the water glass to his lips and then met my eyes, his gaze unrelenting for a moment. I was fourteen again and waiting for the punishment to come, knowing I’d messed up. Looking away wasn’t an option. “ ’Cause you got the protective and worryin’ parts down but never had time to learn the hiding part from him—you’re not good at it. So, you gonna tell me what’s really bothering you, or are we gonna keep dancing?”
We held the gaze for another moment, and my stomach churned. “You sayin’ I’m not a good dancer, Uncle Harold?”
His laugh bounced off the walls and shook his thin frame. “I’m sure you don’t embarrass yourself, if I taught you anything.”
“Haven’t done much dancing lately.” The chorus to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” threatened to take up residence in my head. I took a swig from my beer, returning to the puzzle. The picture was of a lake, a boat floating in the middle and sunlight dappling the surface. “The kid’s birthday was about a week ago,” I finally said, not looking up. “It’s... been on my mind.”
“That makes sense.” He moved a few pieces into place and reached across the table. I thought he was going to take a piece he wanted, but he rested his hand on mine instead. “I’ve been around a lot of years. There’s no shame in missing someone, missing something you thought would last.”
I swallowed. “I know.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with bein’ sad. Maybe you should talk to one of those counselors. I did after your aunt died. It was kinda good to talk about things.”
“I know I should.”
“But.” His eyes met mine again, thin white eyebrows lifting. “At a certain point, you got to start dancing again.”
The silence hung heavy, and I didn’t know how to respond or what to say, because he was right.
“I can teach you some moves,” he said with a wink. “My dance card is pretty full over at the senior center. I’m one of the few fellas left, and I can still cut a rug.”
I laughed, the tension breaking like it always did.
“How’s that friend of yours who called when you were up here that time?”
“She’s good.”
“She’s a girlfriend?”
I shook my head. “Not a girlfriend.”
“One of those women from the phone program? Grinders or Tindlers or something? The swipers?”
I choked on my beer at the idea of my sweet uncle Harold reading about hookup apps.God, I hope he was only reading. “No, no swiping involved. We work together.”
“Ah,” he said, fitting the last piece in the middle of a section of blue sky.
