“Okay, then. Let’s get you in this car, shall we?”
“Watch my leg, Charlotte. You almost hit it on the door.”
“Sorry.” I flash my best Stepford-daughter smile. “I’ll be more careful.”
He huffs, irritated, but shoots me a look that saysWho are you and what have you done with the surly version?
I manage to get him into the car with fewer grunts and complaints than last time, smiling so hard my cheeks are going numb.
“Have you noticed any improvement since starting the exercises?” I ask, easing into small talk as I pull away from the curb, remembering the indicator, even though the street’s empty.
“It’s all hogwash,” he grouches. “A money grab. Doctors and therapists in cahoots.”
“Physio’s key to healing,” I remind him. “If you want full mobility back, you need to do it.”
“Hmph.”
Okay, cool. New subject.“I was thinking… I don’t know much about how you grew up. What was that like? Bayside must’ve been so different back then.”
“Why are you asking me this?” Suspicion curls around each word like barbed wire.
“I’m interested.”
He hmphs again, eyes fixed on the road ahead likehe’s monitoring my every turn. Then finally, he answers. “It was hard. Back then, most of this was farmland. Your grandpa Webber worked on one. My mother was a seamstress. We lived in a little box house—one bathroom, one fan. Summer heat was brutal. We’d fight for a spot in front of the air. Mo was scrawny, so I’d hog my share and his.” He lets out a laugh, catching me by surprise. It’s deep and hearty, making the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“We ate beans and rice three times a week. And when it rained, we bailed the water out the back room.”
“Money was tight.”
“Yes, indeed. But I never thought of us as poor. That was just life. Still, your grandfather wanted better for us, like most parents. He worked himself to the bone to make sure Mo and I got an education. Couldn’t afford a farm of his own, but he used to say, ‘Ownership is freedom.’ That stuck with me.”
“That’s why you bought Docks?”
“Mm-hmm. Didn’t set out to own a bar, but it was a good deal. Something solid. Something that’d be mine. That would take care of your mother and you.”
“Grandpa Webber would be proud you made it happen.”
He pauses, like that landed somewhere unexpected. “Probably would be,” he says. “But he never would’ve told me.”
“Why not?” I ask, pulled in now. Not just making nice. Invested.
“You kids think strict parents are mean. Need ‘attaboys’ and participation trophies. Everything all sugarcoated. I grew up with a firm hand. With the belt.”
My stomach twists. “Grandpa Webber beat you?”
“Life was hard,” he says simply, “and Pops believed a man had to be harder.”
“That’s awful.”
“I don’t see it that way. It pushed me. I looked up to him. Worked the fields by his side every summer. Wanted to be just like him—strong, disciplined, a good provider.”
“What about Uncle Mo?”
He exhales through his nose. “Mo was different. Always had his head in the clouds. Too sensitive. He’d be writing those poems in his notebook while I was hauling sacks of feed. My father thought he could beat it out of him.”
Maurice looks down at his hands for a second, then lifts his eyes back to the road. His voice becomes rougher, quieter. “I used to cover for him. If he forgot the feed, I’d say it was me. I took the licks. I could handle it. Mo… couldn’t.”
That falls heavy. Maybe Uncle Mo was the gentle one because my father gave him the space to be.
