“Well, good night.” Luke dipped his head in a half-hearted farewell before hopping in the driver’s seat.
Colt followed their taillights until they disappeared from sight before dragging his gaze to the front door. Rationally, he knew the delay was outside his control. But somehow, he still felt responsible. Or rather,irresponsible.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, Colt trudged up the porch steps. As he pushed through the front door, he was bombarded by the loud blare of the TV. Frank didn’t even notice as he strode past the den, heading straight for his room to change. Forgoing a hot shower, he stripped out of his wet clothes and into basketball shorts and a soft cotton T-shirt.
Slipping into the kitchen for a quick bite to eat, he tore the wrapper off a protein bar and tossed it in the trash. A takeout container rested on a mound of coffee grounds and a rotting banana peel. Out of curiosity, he glanced at the receipt taped to the top—1 barbecue chicken salad. No dressing. No bacon. No cheese.
He grimaced. How unpalatable. In his opinion, one of the worst side effects of any illness was the bland food.
Suddenly inspired, Colt ducked into the pantry. Shoving aside a large sack of Samuel Ball’s Snow White Flour, he grabbed the box of baklava he’d hidden there earlier in anticipation of the Armenian feast.
After tearing open the package, he arranged several of the honey-soaked treats on a plate before nestling it on a wooden serving tray. Next, he set about grinding fresh coffee beans, being careful to mix in decaf to moderate the caffeine.
Using Frank’s antique grinder, Colt adjusted the setting to produce a silky-fine powder. After scooping the ground coffee and a teaspoon of sugar into thejazva—an Armenian coffeepot with a copper bottom and narrow pouring spout—Colt added water and set it on the stove.
As the mixture warmed over low heat, Colt grabbed two small demitasse cups and plopped a couple of cardamom seeds in the bottom of each one. Then, for the next few minutes, he kept a watchful eye on the coffee concoction, removing it from the heat for a few seconds whenever it came close to the boiling point.
He’d observed both Frank and Cassie go through the steps of making Armenian coffee several times, but never realized how therapeutic the process could be. Something about the balance of technical accuracy and intuition soothed his troubled thoughts.
Gripping the long wooden handle, Colt shut off the burner and slowly poured the syrupy liquid into the cups, savoring the rich, spicy aroma as the steam curled toward him in delicate wisps.
Lastly, he scooped the thick foam evenly between the two servings. Placing the tiny cups beside the baklava, he hoisted the tray, praying Frank would accept his peace offering.
From his position in the recliner, Frank eyed Colt suspiciously as he entered the den. His expression remained stoic, but Colt caught the subtle flicker of interest as Frank sniffed the air, recognizing the familiar aroma.
Colt slid the tray onto the coffee table, then straightened, squaring his shoulders. “Frank, I realize I screwed up tonight. I gave you my word, and then I didn’t follow through. For that, I’m sorry.”
His pulse throbbing in his ears, Colt waited for Frank’s response.
And waited.
He shifted his feet, squirming under the weight of the old man’s scrutinizing gaze.
Finally, Frank muttered, “I already brushed my teeth.”
Releasing the breath he’d been holding, Colt grinned. “Then it’s time to be a rebel. What do you say?”
A brief flicker of hesitation flashed across Frank’s withered features. Then, to Colt’s surprise, he cracked a faint smile. “Don’t tell the womenfolk.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” After passing him one of the tiny cups and the plate of baklava, Colt settled into the plush corner of the couch, stealing a glimpse of Frank in his peripheral vision.
He noticed his hunched shoulders relax, and the subtle curl to his lips as he sampled his first sip, offering unspoken approval with the micro expression.
As they watched the show in companionable silence, Colt’s thoughts drifted to his father, recalling all the evenings they’d spent laughing over the antics of Andy Griffith and his comical deputy, Barney.
At the end of every show, Colt, Luke, and their father would discuss the episode’s moral lesson. As a child, he hadn’t always appreciated his dad’s steady source of wisdom and guidance. But now, more than anything, Colt wanted to ask him for advice.
Mainly, on how he could keep the promise he’d made him….
Andpursue Penny Heart.
* * *
“Hi, Chip! I’m home.” Penny’s singsong voice cut through the silence of her apartment.
Chip slipped from his warming rock beneath the heat lamp and scooted across the carpet to greet her.
“Did you miss me?” She dumped her purse and the plastic bag containing her wet clothing on the kitchen counter.
