“What was your dad like?” he asks.
“He was a good man,” I say, a bit awkward. “Levelheaded—he would’ve had me hospitalized if I screamed in the middle of a conversation. He didn’t take us to do typical kid things—everything had a purpose. Walks were spent analyzing the cars in people’s driveways and what a loan would look like long term for each one.” I laugh softly at the memories. Ed was great to us, and I loved him dearly, but he couldn’t be more opposite to this man sitting next to me. My mom loved two very different men in her lifetime. “He was good to Mom. Loved us. Taught us well. There weren’t any surprise ice cream sandwiches or trips to toy stores or anything, but he was a good dad. Showed up where we needed him to be.”
Briefly, the void my dad left in my life when he passed reopens, and I miss him so badly it hurts. Nobody ever would have accused him of having a big personality, but his presence was calming. He kept a house full of girls grounded.
All Cap says is “Good.”
In the comfortable silence that follows, I watch the inner tubes swirl around the pool from the pressure of the jets until my stomach growls.
“You hungry?”
Cap doesn’t answer; he’s fast asleep. His button-up shirt is splayed open, belly protruding with Penny resting on top of it. A rise then fall with his labored breaths.
My father, a man I never knew existed, is lying next to me with oxygen, medicallysuggestedmarijuana, and a fake foot. It just doesn’t seem real.
Today wasn’t the right time to tell Nash about Bennie, but I know I have to. More than because my mother is forcing me to, it’s the right thing to do. Me meeting Cap proves that. As different as he is, I’m happy to know him. I don’t want to take that from Bennie. Or Nash. He might not have been ready to bea dad before, but his reaction today lets me know he’d want to know. He deserves to. My reasons may have felt right back then, but they don’t anymore.
Everyone will be here next week, and with a little luck, we’ll find the gold in the next few days. Then I’ll tell him. He can decide if he wants to meet her, or I can keep them separate and Bennie will never have to know. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe it will be easy.
And maybe I’m delusional.
The next growl of my stomach takes me inside to rummage through Nash’s very well-stocked fridge, gathering ingredients to make a sandwich.
I should call Jonathan, but I can’t. Even though he has a perfectly reasonable excuse not to be here—he’s working and has plans—Cap pointing out he’s not here annoyed me.
Instead of calling, I text him.Hey. No news here.
He responds instantly with:Does that mean you’re coming home?
I stare at the phone. It’s a normal question given the circumstance, but it’s as if he’s waiting for me to fail.Not yet.I bite my lip, adding:If you didn’t have work and the trip planned, would you have come with me?
One of us has to keep our wits about us.
He’s not trying to be mean, but it stings just the same.
Setting my phone down, I look around Nash’s house. It’s cozy. Him. A little cluttered but still organized. The more I take in the details, the more aware I become of how alone I am. That awareness takes a swift turn to the compulsive urge to snoop. It’s so strong and sudden, I am bewitched. I need to open every drawer and closet. Catalog every new artifact of who he is. Find out if he pays his bills on time or learned to match his socks.
It’s sick how badly I want to do it, which lets me know I can’t. At least not to the extent I want. The urgency makes my bloodrush so fast I’m lightheaded. Out the sliding glass doors, Cap’s still asleep on a lawn chair. Nobody will ever know.
I can’t not do this. I have to look.
And Bennie would tell me to. Maybe she would call it practice for gold finding. Maybe Nash has something hidden that, in fact, has something to do with the gold.
I’ll choose one spot. One nook or drawer. Just one peek.
I assess the kitchen and living room; I don’t care what kind of cutlery he uses or the secrets that live in here. I peek in the bathroom and guest room as a front. I know even before I lay eyes on Nash’s bedroom that it’s the only place I want to touch.
His bed is covered with a simple beige comforter, and the rich wood of the headboard matches the dresser on the opposite wall. Against one of the navy-blue walls, a full-length mirror leans.
It’s tidy. It smells good. The fact that the man I married was happy living out of hotels with his laundry in trash bags like a hobo ended up creating this beautiful space is almost offensive. He never wanted this with me. Never had any desire to leave that cramped apartment unless it was to go to another city.
When my eyes catch on the matching nightstands, I nearly fall over. Bracketing the bed is a pair of Regency period tables that take my breath away.
Zebrawood tops.
Single drawers.
Three-quarter brass galleries with heart-shaped motifs.
