The question hung in the air like a fine mist. Was he being unreasonable?Wasit better for Lilah to have her mother stay with them? It made him crazy uncomfortable, but maybe he was being unfair to Lilah. How would she feel if he wouldn’t allow Sophie in the house?
“When are you coming?” he said flatly.
“A week from Monday. I’m going to fly into JFK and rent a car.”
“It’s not school vacation.”
“It’ll just be a long weekend so she won’t miss much.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. How she’d inserted herself, just like that.
“Glenn.” She softened her voice. “I know it’s a little awkward but it’s only a few days and it would be nice to stay at the house with Lilah. Can’t we do that?”
He shut his eyes briefly. Then opened them. But he was still having this conversation. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay then!” she said as if he’d given a wholehearted yes. “See you next Monday. I get in late so don’t bother waiting dinner but if you could you pick up some salad stuff that would be great.”
“Wait. I didn’t say—”
But she rang off, leaving him shaking. Who the hell did she think she was dropping in to play Mom after all this time? Wanting to take Lilah out of state.And the thing that filled him with a panic he could hardly name—what if she didn’t bring her back? He couldn’t even go down that road.
It was full on dark now, the meeting room a blazing rectangle of light, jammed with people and their passions. He didn’t have the stomach for it anymore. The housing project or anythingelse. He should find Cassie and apologize for leaving so abruptly, but he couldn’t manage it.
Sophie was coming. It felt like a freight train headed right at him.
Chapter Seven
The home care service had assured Cassie that Mrs. Macuja was just what she needed. Patient, kind and willing to do some housekeeping. The elderly woman she’d been caring for had passed, and she was available full time, even live-in if Cassie wanted.
“Let’s start with three days a week,” Cassie said. “Provided it’s a good fit.” She’d checked Mrs. Macuja’s references, which were excellent, had a lovely conversation with her over coffee and scheduled a visit to the house. That would be the real test. If her father threw a fit, it wouldn’t work.
But on Tuesday when Mrs. Macuja showed up at the door, neatly dressed in gray slacks and sensible shoes, Cassie blinked in surprise. “Mrs. Macuja, I thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“You say Tuesday, right?”
“Tuesday?” Had Mrs. Macuja gotten it wrong? Hadshe? Cassie’s stomach did a slow slide. Mrs. Macuja was right. The appointment was for today. She’d forgotten all about it.
“Yes, yes. Of course today is Tuesday,” Cassie said, ushering her in. She’d been planning this visit for a week.How had she completely spaced?She’d put it on both calendars, she’d even prepped her dad, who hadn’t been enthusiastic but hadn’t said no either. A finger of dread wormed its way into her gut. Yes, she was waiting for Andrew to call, but how did you forget something this important?
Mrs. Macuja took in the entry. Years ago there’d been a vase with dried flowers in the corner and a small table with a bowl where her mother kept fresh oranges. The table was still there, but these days her dad stowed his mud shoes underneath. Cassie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Hair a mess, still hadn’t showered after her run. What a way to greet someone. She had another worrisome thought: what if Glenn came to see about the bees? She’d told him just to stop by, although that was five days ago and he still hadn’t shown. Maybe she’d scared him off with all the talk of dementia. She usually didn’t share that kind of thing with people she didn’t know well but he seemed trustworthy and it had just slipped out.
She gave up on her hair and showed Mrs. Macuja into the kitchen. She was a small, pleasant-looking woman, a widow with three grown daughters and a number of grandchildren. “Just so you know,” she’d told Cassie during the interview, “I not afraid to change diapers. Babies or old ones.”
“Oh, he’s not at that point yet,” Cassie had assured her but just thinking about it brought on a feeling of dismay. Dementia was so unpredictable, the slide so erratic. One day her father seemed fairly lucid, the next he didn’t know what month it was.
Her dad was at the kitchen table, studying the newspaper. He had trouble making sense of the articles now, but he labored over them every morning anyway. Breakfast leftovers were still scattered about, even though he’d finished an hour ago. When she first arrived, Cassie had scooped up his dirty dishes right away but that upset him. Now she left him alone in the morning, even though the mess made her twitch. Better for him to be unruffled.
“Dad, this is Mrs. Macuja. She’s going to help around the house. This is my father, Mr. Linden.”
Her dad looked up from his paper. “Who?”
“How do you do?” Mrs. Macuja crossed the kitchen briskly, holding out a hand.
Cassie’s dad took it grudgingly. “What’s all this about?”
“I need some help with the housework,” Cassie said. “Bathrooms, floors, everything’s getting away from me.” Shelly had suggested going about it this way, couching it as cleaning help. “He’ll never do it if you say he needs looking after,” Shelly said. “Trust me.”
He rustled the newspaper unhappily. “I told you, I can do all that. Been doing it for years just fine.”
