“Hmmm?” Thomas asked distractedly.
“Your father? Did you have as hard a time with him, as you did your mother?”
“No,” Thomas replied with a shake of his head and a swift smile. “If you knew Joseph Carlisle, you’d understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone who meets him likes him. The people who work for him would do anything for him.”
“Really?”
Thomas nodded. “When I was a freshman in high school, a trucker that had worked for Carlisle Transportation for years was in an accident on the road. He was completely paralyzed from the waist down and lost a good portion of mobility in his upper body, as well. When the insurance company was dragging their feet in paying his disability claims, my dad supported him, his wife, and two daughters for almost a year out of his own pocket. My mother had the entire family over regularly. Rick and I are still friends with the daughters—Chelsea and Angie—and their husbands to this day. When Tim Mobly’s disability finally did kick in, and my dad found out how small it was, he supplemented the family’s income. That was twenty some odd years ago.”
He paused, his gaze still on the sunlit water.
“My dad still does it today and probably will continue to, with some contingency in his will, until Tim Mobly and his wife pass away.”
“That’s amazing. Is he so loyal to everyone?”
He nodded. “To the people he cares about. To the people who work for him. A couple years back, when the gas prices were so high that a driver couldn’t make a decent living even if he was on the road twenty hours out of a twenty-four-hour period, my father’s was the only major trucking operation in the country to raise the mileage rates of the truckers in order to give them a fair chance. He r
aised them considerably, and took a huge hit in profit. My dad has one of the best employee retention rates of any company in the country. Even during that rough year, not one driver left him. Not one.”
“With what happened to your biological father and mother, you must feel like you’re in a similar situation to a lot of those people that Joseph Carlisle helped,” Sophie said quietly. “You’re just as loyal to him. Certainly ...”
“What?” he asked sharply, turning toward her when she faded off. His longish bangs had fallen onto his forehead again, casting his eyes in shadow.
“Well, I was just going to say that James Nicasio would certainly have been grateful to him, if he knew from the afterlife what Joseph Carlisle had done . . . how he’d adopted his son . . . taken him into his home . . . raised him as his own. I . . . I believe that we take a piece of our loved ones with us when they pass, make them a part of us. Part of you must feel what your mother’s and father’s gratitude toward Joseph Carlisle would have been. Your admiration for your adopted father was earned, certainly, but knowing how your parents would have felt about his generosity must have had a big impact on you, as well ...”
Sophie paused when she noticed his expression. She opened her mouth but he cut her off before she could speak.
“I better go check on the chicken.” He stood and set the wine-glass down on the table next to the bench. Sophie watched helplessly as he stalked around the bend on the wraparound porch.
They once again ate their meal at the small wooden table she kept on the porch. She tried to draw Thomas out in casual conversation, but although he responded politely, she sensed his distance and preoccupation. When they’d finished their meal, he insisted upon cleaning up the dishes, which she let him do while she made coffee and straightened up the counters. She was thinking of a way to address his reaction to what she’d said on the porch, but didn’t really know how to frame an apology.
“Thanks for cooking. It tasted great,” he said after he’d shut the dishwasher.
“You didn’t eat much.”
He shrugged. “My appetite isn’t great; it’s got nothing to do with your cooking. I think I’ll go for a walk before sunset.”
“Oh . . . okay,” she said, trying to examine his face for signs of his mood without seeming like she was. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”
He ran his hand over his lean, whiskered jaw, hesitating. He suddenly turned toward the door.
“Thomas?”
“Yeah?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.
“For what?”
“For . . . for what’s happening with your family. For everything. You must have loved Rick and Abel very much. And your father ...” Her voice wavered and cracked when she saw that while his eyes were moist, his gaze was wild and fierce.
Sophie instinctively took a step back.
His jaw stiffened at her reaction. He turned and walked out of the house.