flexed on the wheel. But he kept going. What would he
say to Fiona now? I’m trying? Not good enough.
The big old house where he’d grown up was in the
Rose City neighborhood in Portland. He went there
first, not wanting to hurt his parents unnecessarily. He
parked at the curb in front, and he’d no sooner gotten
out than he saw his mother flying down the porch steps.
“John! You came!” Her face was awash with tears by
the time she reached him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
He returned her hug, feeling a little awkward, and
more than a little remorseful. So much for convincing
himself that his folks were busy people only mildly
concerned by his new eccentricity. It would appear he’d
been breaking his mother’s heart.
Patting her back, he said, “Liz is a steamroller.”
Dashing at her tears, she stepped back. “That’s
news to you?”
“No. I just didn’t expect her to turn her energy onto
me. Don’t they keep her busy enough at the Oregonian? ”
“Did you see her series about chop shops? There’s
talk of a Pulitzer prize.”
“Really?” John took his bag out of the back and
slammed the door. “I did see it. She’s good.”
She was drying her tears, thank God. The worst was
past.
They walked up the driveway. “Are you worried
about her being able to keep the lodge running?” his
mother asked.
“No,” John was able to say truthfully. “Pity the guests.
She’ll dig their life stories out of them, and they’ll find
themselves on the front page when she gets back.”
Connie Fallon laughed. “Probably. Oh, I’m so glad
to see you! You look wonderful, John.”
His fingers wanted to go to his scar. How had it gotten
to be a habit, touching it every time he thought about it?
And why hadn’t he noticed he was doing it? This time,
he resisted by curling his hand at his side. “Thanks.”
“In hopes you’d come today, I put a pot roast on. And
of course I baked an apple pie. I wanted dinner to be
your favorites.”
Hell. It wouldn’t have killed him to get down here a
couple of times this past year. No matter what, he would
do better, John vowed.
Forcing a smile, he said, “Thanks, Mom. That
sounds great. Uh…where’s Dad?”
“Work.” She made a face. “Always work. The Hendersons had a burst pipe and their bathroom flooded. He should be done soon. I’ll call to let him know you’re here.”
“No, don’t do that. It’s good to have time with
just you.”
She teared up again. “Daddy’ll be home by five.”
How long since she’d called his father that for his
benefit? How long since she’d thought of him as John’s
daddy? Damn, he thought again; he’d hurt her far worse
than he’d had any idea.
They had coffee in the kitchen, looking out at the
backyard with her carefully pruned roses and the brick
patio he had helped his dad lay when he’d been maybe
twelve or thirteen. Bricks had weathered and chipped,
and moss and some creeper his mother had turned loose
now nibbled at the mortar and softened the edges.
He told her about innkeeping and the more unusual
guests he’d had, and bragged about his cooking.
Sparkling, delighted, his mother exclaimed, “I’ll
let you demonstrate while you’re home.” Her face
dimmed. “Oh. I didn’t think. You might not be planning to stay with us.”
He was lost. He could no more tell his mother he
didn’t want to stay than he could have gone out and shot
a doe for recreation.
“Liz gave me the key to her place so I could water
plants.” Did she have any? “But I was planning to stay
here, if it’s okay with you.”
His mother gave him a smile so radiant, it made his
chest ache. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more than
to have you here. For however long you want to stay.”
His eyes burned. “I don’t deserve you, Mom.”
She half-stood so she could kiss his cheek. “Of
course you do! Never, never doubt it. You were a good
boy, and you’re a good man, John Fallon.”