A Boy To Remember. Cynthia Thomason
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he’d be perfect for you!”
* * *
ALEX COULDN’T FIND any words to respond. She was grateful the road was nearly deserted or she might have wiped out, taking a farm truck with her. Her hands gripped the steering wheel and she focused her gaze on the ribbon of blacktop. Just drive, Alex, she said to herself. Don’t say anything that could get you in trouble.
After a mile or so, Lizzie said, “Mom, did you hear me? I said you and Daniel would be so good together. And I think he might be interested in you.”
Alex exhaled a deep breath. “Yes, I heard you.”
“Well, doesn’t it make you feel better that I’m not interested in him for myself? Good grief, Mom, he has gray hairs! And since you married Daddy, you obviously like gray-haired men.”
Alex felt her temper, the one she rarely showed, flare inside. Her cheeks felt hot. She could almost sense a rise in her blood pressure from the pounding in her head. “I didn’t choose your father for the color of his hair, Lizzie. That was very unkind of you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m only trying to be helpful.”
“Well, you’re not being helpful at all. I don’t need my daughter to arrange dates for me or to interfere in my social life.”
“No offense, Mom, but what social life?”
Alex gave her daughter a sharp look. “It’s only been five months. What did you think? That I’d start looking for dates the first chance I got?”
“No, of course not, but this wonderful man, Daniel, has just about fallen into your lap. Would it have hurt you to go out for some stupid ice cream?”
“I’m not going to discuss this with you any more, Lizzie. This whole conversation is inappropriate.” And uncomfortable. And frightening. “I’m your mother, for heaven’s sake!”
“And I love you, so I want you to know that I don’t expect you to live like a nun. You’re still young.”
Alex’s shoulders relaxed and she loosened her hands on the steering wheel. In a calm voice, she said, “How I choose to live my life is my business, Lizzie. Right about now, life in a convent doesn’t look so bad.”
Lizzie giggled, erasing the remaining tension from the car. “Have you looked at Daniel, Mom? I mean really looked? He’s your age. He’s single. He’s successful. And he’s gorgeous. Any woman would be happy to share a hot fudge sundae with him!”
“Enough, Lizzie!” Alex caught a quick glimpse of her daughter, who was smacking her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m only having fun, Mom, and I want the same for you. Haven’t we been sad long enough? Loosen up, maybe give Daniel a try.”
Oh, my poor, sweet, blissfully ignorant daughter. If only Lizzie knew that her virtuous mother had already given Daniel a try, and that it was coming back to haunt her in the worst possible way.
AT SIXTY-FOUR, Martin Foster knew he could retire. He’d been healing hearts for decades. He’d saved many lives and lost very few. He paused to consider the vow he’d made when he’d first become a doctor. That the ones he’d lost would always remain in his memory.
Yes, he could retire, maintain his lifestyle, help his daughters if they needed him and continue the care his Maggie so desperately needed. But he liked being a doctor. He was good at it, so he decided to practice for two more years and retire when he was sixty-six.
He worked five days a week and rested on the weekends. He loved his Saturdays. He could play golf in the summer, take his grandson, Wesley, to a ball game or do what he was doing this particular Saturday morning, sitting on his back patio with the newspaper and a cup of coffee. Ah, bliss...
Until a knock at his front door disturbed his solitude. Rosie had taken the day off. Alex and Lizzie were out shopping, and Maggie’s nurse never left her bedside. So that meant there was no one to see who it was but him.
He folded the newspaper with a gentle curse and went to the door. He opened it to a petite woman he couldn’t remember ever seeing before. She had a soft cotton rope in her hand. On the other end of the rope was none other than Mutt. Behind the woman, parked in his circular drive, was a rusty red pickup truck at least half as old as he was.
“Ah, hello,” Martin said, his attention switching from the woman to the dog.
“Hello. I won’t take up much of your time,” the woman said. Her voice was stronger than he would have expected from a lady no taller than five feet three inches. Maybe her attire should have clued him in to an inner strength. Her blue jeans were loose-fitting and practical. The sleeveless plaid shirt tucked into the jeans was frayed at the shoulders. One of those trendy outfitter labels over the pocket indicated she might have once paid a pretty penny for her clothes, but nature and a washing machine had taken their toll.
“No problem,” he said. “I believe you have my daughter’s dog.”
“Good. I was hoping he came from this direction. I don’t have a lot of time to track down a stray dog’s owners.”
“I assure you, he’s not a stray,” Martin said.
Since Mutt was pulling on the rope, trying to get to Martin, the lady removed the makeshift collar from around his neck. Mutt immediately lifted his front paws to Martin’s Dockers and nuzzled a large furry head into Martin’s chest.
“This fella still has a lot to learn about manners,” Martin teased. “But I’d say he’s glad to be home.”
“He has a lot to learn about boundaries, too,” the woman said. “Or at least his owners do.”
“I beg your pardon?” Was the woman indicating that Mutt had somehow run off and was wandering the roads? He’d never done that before. At least Jude had never complained that he had. Good grief, the canine had at least fifteen acres to satisfy his desire to sniff.
“He came onto my property, right into my backyard. I had my parrot in the screened room, and Bully started up such a ruckus, I thought a gorilla was trying to get to him.”
Anticipating where this was going, Martin reached for his wallet. Perhaps the parrot had had a stroke and Martin would have to pay a vet bill. Or, if he was lucky, he’d only have to reimburse this woman for a torn screen. “Were there any damages?”
“I don’t want your money,” the woman said, scowling at his wallet. “I want you to control your animal.”
Martin slipped the wallet back into his pocket. “Understandable. I apologize for any inconvenience. It’s not like Mutt to run off.”
The woman almost smiled but stopped herself in time. “That’s his name? Mutt?”
“That’s what my daughter called him when she rescued him. It stuck.”
“He’s not, you know.”
“Not what?”
“A mutt.”
“Yes. I’ve heard he’s some sort of mountain dog, and believe me when I tell you I’ve never known him to attack birds at sea level.”
“He’s a Bernese,” she said. “A valuable animal, which is another reason to watch him more closely. Dognapping is a serious problem, you know.”
He didn’t. “I’ll do that, or at least have my daughter pay more attention.” Martin snapped his fingers to bring Mutt all the way into the house, and put out his hand. “My name is Martin Foster. I don’t think we’ve met before.” He would have remembered that haphazardly cut auburn hair with streaks of gray that didn’t age her in the least, but were somehow appealing as a framework for her blue eyes and animated face.