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“I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping to surprise him.”
Tonette’s eyebrows raise just slightly. Long enough for me to see her doubt that a surprise from me would be a pleasant one for my father.
“I see. Well, bad timing, I’m afraid. He’s not in the office at the moment.”
“Can you let me know where he is?”
“He’s gone to an early lunch,” she says doubtfully. “But…”
“Excellent. Just let me know where. I’ll catch up with him.”
“Oh, well.” She looks uncomfortable. “I don’t think that’s the best —”
“Or I could just wait in his office,” I interrupt smoothly, nodding toward the closed door. “I’m sure he’d prefer that to me sitting out here in the lobby for who knows how long.”
There’s no way Tonette would let anyone in my father’s office unsupervised. Even his daughter. But leaving me out here for what could be hours is also not an option.
“He’s gone to the club,” she says reluctantly. “With Joshua Lansbury.”
I nod in recognition. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I know Joshua’s name well. He’s Dad’s right-hand man.
“Perfect,” I enthuse. “I’ll just head down there and meet them!” Tonette starts to object, but I waggle my fingers at her. “So nice to see you, Tonette. Byeee!” I sing, and flee the office before she can say any more.
My nerves start up again as I climb into my car and head in the direction of Oakwood Country Club. I push them down by telling myself that meeting Dad with another person there will make it much easier. He’ll be less likely to start harping on me and my questionable life choices if he has an audience. Having Joshua there will probably mean the focus of conversation will stay on my father, giving me some time to try and figure out what Dad’s real motives were for calling me here in the first place.
The day is sunny and picture-perfect as I pilot my car along the curvy, verdant road that leads to the club. To one side lies a sprawling golf course dotted with carts and players with their caddies. To the other, a man-made pond lined with trees and a neatly manicured walking path toward the clubhouse, which houses the pro shop and the Oakwood Grill. The Grill is where my father will be having lunch with Joshua.
I park my old, rusting car in the large lot, trying not to be embarrassed at how out of place it looks among the Jaguars, Teslas, and BMWs. I take a final survey of my outfit — thankful that for once, I’m wearing something that’s appropriate for the club’s dress code. I smooth down my slacks, then walk with purpose toward the front doors.
Inside, the cool, climate-controlled air caresses me as though I have money to spend. I stride through the front foyer and into the entrance to the restaurant. Addressing the hostess before she can ask me if I have a reservation, I tell her I’m here to meet Richard Wilkins.
“He’s just arrived,” she says in a honeyed voice. “I can have someone take you to him if —”
“That’s not necessary, I’ll find him,” I reply, and brush past her into the dining area.
Scanning the room, I spot Joshua seated at a table in the center, facing a man with gray hair. I force a smile and head toward them.
Joshua spots me as I move closer. His eyes flicker first in surprise, then in recognition. He says something in a low voice, and the man facing him turns in my direction. Slowly, he pushes his chair away from the table and stands.
My brain does a strange double-take, as for a second I’m not sure whether I recognize the man in front of me or not. He looks like photos of my grandfather from late in his life — gaunt, gray pallor, and swimming in a suit that looks like it was cut for a man twice his size.
And that’s when it hits me for the first time: something I realize I had never even considered could actually be true, despite what he told me.
My dad is sick. Really, really sick.
8
RORY
“Aurora,” my father croaks. “You came.”
“I…” My voice dies in my throat. Clearing it nervously, I swallow the sudden tears stinging the back of my throat, and try again. “Hi, Daddy,” I smile.
I’ve been angry at my father for a long time. For leaving my mom. For his absence in my life. For the knowledge that my mother’s illness wouldn’t have left her destitute if she had still been married to Richard Wilkins. If you had asked me two months ago whether I loved him, I would have had to think about it for a while before answering.
But here, now, seeing him like this, it’s like I’m a little girl again. I dealt with the fear of losing my mother every day while she was going through cancer treatments. But somehow, I’ve never thought about what it would be like to lose my father to illness. I think that somewhere deep down, I always thought of him as immortal.
But the shadow of death is etched into the skeletal features of the man standing in front of me.
